The office was unusually cold inside today.
Maybe because it was unusually hot outside. England was never typically this hot. Even the clearest, sunniest days of summer were never this dry and heated. It's been hot all bloody week and I can no longer tell if I'm sleeping all day because the heat is making me knackered.. Or because I'm a useless piece of shit.
I'm going to go with the latter.
"I finally did it. Yesterday. I did it." I let out my breath in a huff I didn't realize I was holding in.
I kept my head down, eyes locked on my thumbs that were currently twiddling together in circles... A nervous habit he always pointed out. I never realized how often I did it before, but now that I don't have him to point it out; it seems as if it's the only thing I can focus on when it happens.
God damn it.
I raised my head slightly, just high enough for me to look at Dr. Ridgley underneath the hairs of my fringe. She sat contently - almost irritatingly how content she sat - and remained quiet, patiently waiting for me to continue.
I sighed. "I erm, I left my mum's yesterday. And drove to London."
The only thing I could focus on was how loud my own voice was, no matter how quiet I spoke. Dr. Ridgley was silent and I could feel her eyes on me. So I continued.
"I couldn't sleep. I hadn't slept all night. I just laid there in bed for hours thinking."
Thinking. It was the only thing I could do. It's not like I ever spoke.
Or ate.
Or bathed.
Or moved when it wasn't forced.
I just dwelled in my old - and current - bedroom at my mum's house. I never left the house other than to come see Dr. Ridgley once a week.
When I came home after the holiday, everyone tried to talk to me, get out any bits of information possible. Then, as the days went on and I still hadn't spoken to anyone, they tried to distract me with games, jokes, stories from the papers.
Now, seven months later, no one acts as if I'm there.
Some days I will get a small glance from one of my sisters when I'm dragging my zombie-like, sorry-ass self to the kitchen for a cuppa. And some days, on special occasion, I even get a small smile from my mum when she leaves a sandwich on my bedside table at tea time.
For a 23 year old former pop star who's living at his mum's, given the circumstances, I'd say I'm not doing so bad.
Or maybe I am.
"I got out of bed, put on my shoes and I drove. I don't know how I didn't get in an accident because I don't remember any of the drive.. I just remember showing up there and staring out my windshield for an hour at the building."
My chest was throbbing with how fast my heart was running at the memory. My breaths were nearly coming out of my mouth as long wheezes, I was seconds away from another panic attack.
"Did you go inside?" Her voice was calm, the question came out so smoothly. And just like that, I felt my rapid heartbeats come to a halt and my breathing seize as I comprehended the experience.
Did I go inside? yes. Did I regret going inside? yes. Did I enjoy myself? no. Will I ever go back? I'm not sure.
I quickly nodded my head yes and suddenly felt my mouth go dry. I licked my cracked lips but had made no difference with my dry tongue. "It all looked the same."
My voice was so hoarse but so quiet, I swear she barely heard me.
"It looked just like we left it before we went to America."
The flat looked no different than when I saw it last.
The bed was stripped of the sheets, the fridge had nothing but expired takeaway in it, and that God-awful jumper Harr-he wanted to wear to LA was still on the sofa where I'd thrown it before we left to LA. He was so distraught on the plane, he thought he had forgotten it.
I still felt bad.
But I think what hurt the most was that all our photos were piled into a cardboard box. Every photo book and frame were carelessly thrown into a small 24 x 24 brown box.
I don't know what gave me the courage to look through it, considering how much of a spineless cow I have been lately. But I looked through the photos, and regardless of how much each one made me want to throw up. I continued.
Photos from our early X Factor days, our first Christmas, our first vacation, second Christmas, fifth vacation, Lux's 4th birthday, our world tour, his mum's wedding, his 20th birthday, anniversaries, our trip to California, Paris, Rome, Australia, Spain and Vancouver.
Every candid caption of our five years together was in that little box and the thought that he put it all in there, breaks my heart just like it did that night when I realized he wasn't going to show up to the airport, and I flew home alone.
The most important lesson he ever taught me, was that what doesn't kill you, just makes you wish it had.
And I wish I were dead.
