Dive In (Fuenciado)

A Celebration of An Ending

VIC POV

I know you don't understand the person I've become. Neither have I. Never in a million years would I have ever fled the country. But the sound of my vans crunching on that same broken asphalt every morning became too monotonous. I want to fill that void, that same white noise, that same sound that I can't escape. But Vic, you might ask, that noise isn't silent. In fact, it fills the silence. No, not for me. I'm waiting on an escape.  You know that feeling when you can't get a breath and in that moment you believe you may actually die? That's how I feel all the time. I need something to fix that. I need something to fill the mental part of me before the physical part of me no longer exists.

I walk into my bathroom for the last time, not liking what I see. My face looked a whole new level of dead. My cheeks had sunken in severely and the dark circles under my eyes had become more prominent. My hair looked greasy and not well kept, despite the shower I took earlier in the day. I lifted up my shirt, I didn't bother wearing a sweatshirt today, to reveal my skeleton body, just the way I liked it, but it wasn't enough. Protruding ribs, collarbones, and hipbones that made me look and feel a new level of skinny was offset by a little blob of belly fat right in the middle of my torso. Well, I'll be able to get rid of that in about 2 days time. I was a walking corpse. But, I was a walking corpse with a purpose.

My hand traced the note in my hand over and over again.
I'm sorry I have to do this. I'm sorry I have to leave. Actually, I'm not. We all know I'm sick. We all know I can't get any better. Ma, Pa, Mike, I love you with all my heart, but I have to take care of myself for once. - </3 Vic

Finally, I was able to stumble out of our little house with my duffel bag of clothes taking one last look at our velvet red couch and our olive green walls. Clutching a Polaroid of my family and I from last Christmas, I stepped out onto the asphalt. Funny, though. Even I looked happy in the photo due to my big cheesy grin. But underneath that Christmas sweater I was small and meek, and not just on the inside. 23 and already my life wasn't looking too good. At least, that's what I told myself. But Mike truly looked out for me. Despite being my little brother, he was always the one looking out for me. Sure, I always had to pick him up after school and help him with his homework and little things like that, but he did the dirty work. He listened when I cried, he always tried to make sure I ate, but sometimes you have to do it for yourself. I was tired of leaning on his shoulder and I was tired of him trying to get me to talk to people that weren't him, like my parents. I had to learn on my own. I had to breathe on my own.

"Flight number 2356 from San Diego to Toronto is now boarding," I heard over the loudspeaker, despite the commotion in the airport. I was never one for crowded places. My eyes don't know where to look and my hands don't know what to do. I get uncomfortable. Because that woman holding her baby sitting at the seats across from me has been looking at me the entire time. But it's not the usual kind of look I get. She's sad, but she's not sad for me, she's just a sad person. I can tell. Nowadays, I'm good at reading people, especially if they're sad. Because that's me. I'm sad. But usually they're sad for me, not with me. I guess maybe we're all sad in some way. But I've got a plane to catch.

I smiled softly at the mother as I got up to board my flight. She smiles back, but despite our unspoken words, we both know behind our smiles we lack the empathy that should come along with them. As soon as I go past security and board the plane, I put my headphones in to block the outside world. I know I sound like a teenager, but I've come to hate every fucking thing on this planet except music. Despite new trends coming while others are put to rest, it stays constant and reminds me that I can feel something other than the hate in my heart put there on my own accord. I know I choose to hate things, but it's easier than trying to love them and that's what a lot of people don't understand. But Toronto is supposed to fix that. I've always dreamed of one day living there and meeting someone and making a life for myself. It won't fix my broken inside and outside, but I want to know what it's like to be loved by someone who chooses to love me, not someone who loves me because they have to like my parents or Mike. Hopefully they'll understand. And if they don't, that's okay too. They're not the same type of sad as I am.

This is so short, I'm sorry, but I'm just establishing a basis for this story so I can get my ideas rolling - kayle :))