Avenged Sevenfold Shorts

Again (Synacky)

PSA: If you read my old book Grieving, the first half of this is going to be extremely repetitive and I'm sorry. This is literally straight out of the book but the second half of this is all new!

If you're a cryer, maybe grab some tissues?
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Again.

Again, I cringed at the sound of my bedside lamp crashing to the the floor and shattering. I lost control of myself, yet I desperately wanted to stop. I could not refrain from hitting and breaking things as I attempted to shout profanities with what little of a voice I had left from the prior screaming I had done. As if any of this would do me any good.

I heard this was a kind of way to find closure. I felt a new sting. Where is this closure and why haven't I found it yet?

At this point, after these past few days of horror, I didn't dare to flinch at the pain of my bruising and bleeding knuckles, or avoid the shards of glass astray from the wreckage of my tantrum. It would honestly be a waste now. I should be thankful that at least I can hurt at all. This means I can positively assure that I am, in fact, alive, awake, and functioning. I am lucky. It's not hard to confuse nightmare and night anymore, pain clarifies its real.

I assure you, that I did try to stop myself from being so destructive, however I have a problem. Pain correlates with anger. Being sad makes me angry. The repetitive effect makes me get progressively more angry, and the cycle repeats itself.

Cry. Scream. Break. Pain. Scream. Repeat.

As my destructive behavior continued, and I was smashing picture frames, I froze as one of the photographs made my heart stop and my blood run cold. I was almost positive they would have taken this from me. I wouldn't blame them if they did.

In my hands, in this cheap plastic frame, held one of my most prized possessions and greatest memories. My mother took this picture. The image was from my old band Pinkly Smooth's first show. Overdone makeup and masks, hair, clothes, everything. We loved every second of it. He had one arm over my shoulder while the other wielded his microphone. He has such a beautiful voice.

Had.

He had a beautiful voice. Had. This was a moment like the many I would have soon. Moments of world-crushing realization. I'll have to adjust at some point.

I felt my knees buckle and hit the floor, my shaking hands dropping the picture. I let my elbows rest on my thighs and my head fall into my hands, smearing blood onto my face. The contrast of the crimson color on my skin if I could see probably wouldn't even bother me anymore.

Why did this have to happen this way? How could he leave me like this? I saw him three days before it happened, and it happened three days ago. It hasn't even been a week yet. He kissed my forehead and promised to call to make sure he got home okay. I did receive the call, but that was the last thing I heard from him.

I remember his words by themselves were sweet and bubbly, which was typical for him. His voice didn't match his words, cracking in between syllables and sounding thick and hoarse. I wish I had noticed sooner. Thinking about it now breaks my heart, but at the time I just thought he was sick. That's what he told me anyways. Of course he lied, but I like to think otherwise for my own peace of mind. Selfish at the least, but I don't get much of that anymore.

I can't even say his name... As I cried into my palms, my throat started to feel tighter and tighter, causing gasps and sputters to erupt from my throat. Was it guilt? I have to say his name, I have to.

My feeble attempts to push the sound out of my mouth failed. All I could hear was the sound of my breath catching in my throat. I tried again and stopped myself. It wasn't working. It has to work.