Own Me

Chapter Twenty-Six

♔ Chapter Twenty-Six ♔

"You aren't actually thinking about doing this, are you?"

"Your mum wants me to," I insisted, turning away from him. I couldn't bare to look at him. His ghost. Foul and mangled. He'd stand there, at the far end of the room, hiding in the shadows. His clothes ripped, stained with blood. His body bruised and broken. Blood dried along his face, his mouth smiling forlornly the whole time. He looked lost to me, so lost that it broke my heart just to look at him. It was the smile, more than anything else, though. He was smiling like he was happy, but in pain because of it. So I just wouldn't look at him. Not for long, at least.

"My mum is a crazy bitch. You can't just go around killing people, Darby."

"You don't want us to?"

"No, I don't fucking want you to," he heaved. I heard him moving around me. Not really there, I told myself. All in my head. That was what he was, a memory swirling at the tips of my hair, fading in the folds of my mind. A ghost, someone who was gone. Just gone. I had to let him go, I told myself. Of course, that was so much easier said than done. When you become so attached to someone that they become a part of your every day life, that you form such a close bond to them that it becomes almost unimaginable to live without them, that was what Fletcher and I had.

In the beginning, it wasn't like that at all. It was a fake friendship, one built on the desire to be anything but alone. Being with him seemed easier than being by myself, in the cold, on the streets. I knew I was the same to him. A small comfort in a world of hurt and hate. But things developed over time, twisted and changed. In a weird way, we bonded over our mutual suffering. The drink, and the drugs, and the dudes. The sex. Along the paths of our own suffering, we became closer. We became more alike than either of us had originally imagined.

A true friend is something you hardly ever get to see in our fucked up world, but that was what Fletcher was. Each time I fell, he'd be there to pick me back up, comfort me, hold me still. And I'd do the same to him, when I could, if I could. I knew I could never be as good at it as him, though. He acted cold and detached from the world, but all the best people do. They lock themselves away, for fear of rejection or misunderstanding. I was glad to say that, for a brief time in my life, I was his friend. I didn't reject him, or misunderstand him. I just mistreated him. And now, he was imprinted in my head, like a stain on your favourite sweater, a tattoo forever on your skin. A constant reminder of what I'd done to him, standing right in front of me, a kind of punishment. His ghost, haunting me. Just like Tom.

"But he hurt you, Fletcher, he hurt you," I told him. Or, I told myself. I needed the reassurance, especially knowing what I was getting myself into. Actually killing someone, taking away their life. Does anyone deserve that? If anyone did, it was this guy. Bruce Attenborough. He'd fucked up so many people, he had to deserve it. Or maybe I was just telling myself that so it would be easier, ending his life.

"Yeah, Bruce Attenborough hurt me, Darby," he said. His hand landed on my shoulder. My eyes flew down to it. His fingers were nimble and pale, dirt and blood underneath his nails. Probably from where he'd tried to claw him off. I shivered under his touch. "But you hurt me more than he ever could."

"Don't say that," I said, aching all over. Itching. My hands went up and into my hair, tugging at it. Covering my ears. I didn't want to hear his voice, to hear him say the things I couldn't bare to hear. Things I knew deep down were true.

"You hurt me. You walked away from our friendship, and for what? For a few lines of whatever drug was at your disposal."

"It wasn't like that," I tried to explain. Still not looking at him. I could sense him there, standing behind me. His shadow was in the corner of my eye, his smell just barely reaching my nostrils. Or maybe it was the memory of his smell. I couldn't tell the difference anymore, between any of it. What were memories and what was happening right now. What was real or what was a dream, a nightmare in my mind. My whole life didn't even feel real. It felt like nothing, like everything was nothing, and even nothing was nothing.