My New Muse (Mild Wattpad Version) (Completed) [SLOWLY BEING EDITED]

14. Water Well

Last night was one of the most emotionally tumultuous nights of my life.

Do you want to spend the rest of your life alone?

No.

Then tell him.

I can't.

"I can't," I say out loud as I lay on my back on my bed, staring up at the ceiling above me.

Truth be told, I'm stuck. I can't move forward from my past, from the pain that I've experienced; I can't let it go.

But can you let David go?

I try to shut off that annoying voice inside of my head, because the thought of life without David right now is... painful.

Attachment. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid.

I don't want my life without him to feel painful, I want it to feel free.

But I don't.

I feel entangled with him. I want to be near him, feel him, see him, just know that he's there.

Have you ever been in the process of falling in love with someone, where you aren't quite there yet, but you can feel yourself plunging into something so unknown, but it's so... blissful?

Well, it's the opposite for me.

I'm not in love with David yet, but I'm sure that pretty soon I will be. I'm free-falling like a dense, metal bucket with no rope or string thrown into a water well. The water at the bottom of the well represents is the love that I, the bucket too dense to float, will sink into and be filled with one day. That's what love feels like; it floods you, it consumes you.

I haven't hit the water yet, but as I plummet through the dark, cold air, I know that it is coming.

It terrifies me, because the farther I go, the more and more I realise that I cannot defy gravity; I cannot go back. It feels as if I'm being dragged down towards that damning pool of love against my will.

This isn't bliss; it's torture.

***

I can't sleep.

The pain in my pelvis is back in full force, and I'm beginning to think that this is due to more than just bad eating habits.

"Fuck," I groan to myself as I roll over, clutching the left side of my pelvis in pain. Of course, that does nothing.

I decide to get up and do something else; I'll go to the doctor tomorrow.

I circle my room, walking around it five times, until something catches my eye. Underneath the dresser, pushed to the back, covered in dust, is a tiny, black album, with a spine which was once bright crimson, but is now a dull red from the dust which has taken up residence on the cotton material.

This is the album with photos from my old life. I put pictures of people I love in this album, but once they all died, I stopped using it.

I'm obviously a professional masochist, truly learned in the art of inflicting pain upon oneself, because before I can make a well thought out decision as to what I should do about this little discovery, I am dragging the dusty album from under my dresser and sitting on my bed, flipping it open.

The first picture is a picture of myself and my mother. This starts up a dull ache in my chest. She was the world to me; she made me believe in myself, and there wasn't a day that I lived in that woman's presence that I didn't feel loved.

Having your mother die in a house fire when you're fifteen hurts like a bitch, especially if she's even half the mother that mine was. It was just so, abrupt, so unexpected, so... tragic.