Love will be born again

A second view

He woke up with his heart racing in its cage of ribs. He had no memories of the day before. All he knew was that his head was aching and his throat was dry. Try like a desert. He tried to sit up in his bed, but immediately he felt like he was about to throw up. He laid down again and pulled the blanket up towards his chin. Then the truth hit him. He let his gaze wander through the room, only to find the clothing he wore yesterday being thrown all around the room. Something had happened, but he couldn't rememer. The headache was almost tearing him apart. No. He needed to get up and drink some water.

On shaky legs he stood up from the bed. He wanted to curl back into his bed and just sleep. Sleep until he felt better. But no. If he wanted to feel better he had to get up and drink.

He took a step forwards, but stopped when his foot hit something hard and cold. He looked down. A bottle. That once contained alcohol and other "oh-so-healthy" ingredients. What would a bottle do on his floor?

The headache stopped his thinking. He took a few other not so balanced steps and took a steady grab around the doorframe. Just a few meters to the kitchen. He slowly managed to make his way to the sink. He took a glass and drank. The water felt good against his dehydrated lips. One, two three glasses. The coldness if the water cleansed his minds and he felt much more awake.

The truth hit him like a punch in the stomach. The clothes, the bottle. It was the only possible explanation. He had been drinking. Again. But this time he hadn't been alone. No. It hurt where it wouldn't hurt if he had been alone. Someone had punished him. He had a slight idea about who. It had happened a few times already. The anxiety came like a floodwave. Why couldn't he stay away? Why couldn't he say no? "Ha! You're just a useless whore!" That's what he had said.

He couldn't stand it anymore. On shaky legs he got to the bathroom. He sat down on the floor and pulled out a box from underneath the shelf. He picked up a blade from it. It was cold. He hadn't used it for months. Hated it so badly. But now... he wanted it again.

One, two, three cuts were now visible on his wrist. A single tear escaped his eye and fell into the wounds. It burned a little bit, but he could take it.

Hours passed by before he realized what actually had happened. His hands were covered in crimson liquid and tears kept rolling down his cheeks falling into the wounds making it hurt even more. How could he? He had promised to never do this again and now... But if nobody knows...did it even happen then? That's how he'd handle it. Not letting anyone know. Silence was the solution of all the problems.