I slept for a day. Full, throughout without waking at all.
Then I cried for hours. Hours on end, going through box after box of tissues, that still didn't seem to help the overflowing waterfalls streaming from the roots of my eyes, rolling down my cheeks, never drying up. It made the pillow-case damp, and wet, uncomfortable to lie my clammy forehead against.
I was feverish, and sick. Sick of everything, sick in my mind, sick everywhere.
I ate little, enough to stay alive, but just enough satisfy my lack of hunger. Water soothed my dry scratchy throat, dry and hoarse from hours and hours of crying. After eating, I slept more. Sleeping, seemed to be the only way to cure anything.
I had thirteen missed phone calls. Thirteen.
All from the same number. But I ignored them. Every single one.
Because, I didn't care. I did not care. I really didn't care anymore.
Since when have I ever cared about something, or someone? The truth being, not really ever.
Until now.
I really think something has changed in me.
I care.
But I never care. I never care. I never care. I never care. I never care.
And I never will.
But I still cried.
Author's Note:
With the editing, the chapters get longer and stuff. So... Yeah. Sorry for all who are actually reading through this edited mess.
xxx dreamer :)
YOU ARE READING
melancholia ✔︎
Short Storyall i need is a reason to live. a reason to keep living in this hell you call life. because melancholia is just too hard to control all alone.
