Your Memes Are Just A Lie (Matt X Desi Fanfic)

cap 13

Matt's POV

I gasp for air and behind my eyelids I see red as I'm hit with light. My breath was torn and came out shredded. How long did the nightmare last this time? I wince as I feel a sharp pain in my neck when I move it. I can't feel one leg below the knee. How do you even sleep in that position? How did I end up in that position?

I must've fallen asleep after my face-well was out of water. My mind's gone static without any organized thought. This is fucking impossible. I don't know how much longer I can handle this. I don't know if I'll ever be better. It's like I'm suffering from drug withdrawal and it doesn't get better. Desi withdrawal. It nearly makes me smile, but I don't. I can't. I don't smile anymore. Not even sparingly. I just don't. And when I do it's served with a dose of sadness and a large pill of hysterical laughs. Afterwards, I don't even feel like getting up. I feel like I'm sick.

The only reason I even bother opening my eyes anymore is just so that I can attempt to talk to Desi with my one-sided texts and conversations with him. The only reason I'm motivated to do anything is the thought that maybe I could do something to bring Desi back, but as the days, weeks, and nearing month go by without him, the motivation is being drained. Soon, I don't think I'll have any at all. I'll just lie down one day and I won't open my eyes again. Not to get food. Not to do anything. Is it possible to go into comatose from sadness? Is it possible to die? Probably not, Matt, you're such an overdramatic loser.

"This is why no one calls." My voice echoes. Even though I say it out loud and it's from my mouth - I can barely hear it. "This is why when they do you don't answer." No one calls. They used to - I used to answer when Tossa and Dora would call and I answered once when Pastery said he needed to pick some more of Desi's stuff up. A lot of Desi was gone in this house. There was barely anything left of the little boy. Yet, there was still so much that reminded me of him that I felt like I was wading through a river of burning wax.

You're just sadistic. Desi probably didn't deserve you anyways. You knew this would happen. And you always knew you would break his heart. You always do Matt. It's just your job. To hurt the people closest to you.

Everywhere I went I heard voice. My voice. Even as I got up from my bed and moved for the bathroom. They followed me.

He always hated the way your feet were so loud in the mornings. Why didn't you try harder to change? You're a horrible boyfriend. You only realize something was good when it's ripped away from you suddenly. You should've been more grateful before you decided to spend half of your day working and then going out without telling anyone. You should've been more open. You shouldn't have been such a douchey poser, trying to look cool, when everyone knows you're faking it.

I look up at the mirror. Broken sugoi eyes. Dry plaster colored skin. Puffy cheeks. Chapped lips. Shiny, greasy brown hair. A new, brown stubble. Fuck. I need to get rid of that. I haven't shaved for days it looks horrible. Brown stubbles suck. 

I grab a razor and shaving cream and start off. How long HAS it been since I shaved? 1, 2 - who cares. Maybe I'd remember if I could count the days. I look down and Desi's tooth brush is still sitting on the side of the sink. We'd actually argued about those in the store. Who could get the pepe one and who could get the "-oW, SHIt." Just like that I have two cuts on my face in different places. The mirror shows one red spot centered on my right cheek and one flowing stream alongside the side of my mouth. Crap, I'm unfocused.

"Matt, what the hell are you doing you asswhore?" I look at myself, disgusted for a moment at the wreck I've become. Then, I stop, because I'm not looking at myself, just deciding to let the cuts on my face bleed the little amount they'll bleed and I go out of the bathroom to look at the box that stands on the end of my bed. Its cardboard walls were labelled Desi's stuff in my messy handwriting. I'd put the idea together. At this point, I knew that Desi might not want to get together again. It occured to me, and painful as it was, I had to deal with myself. I had to put up with it. I had to respect his decisions. No, meant no. I'm going to try my best. I'll jump as high as I can, but I know that the fall might be long and the impact more than hurtful. And if there is no floor beneath me, I'll land on the ground with every one of my bones broken, but it was better than not having a chance of getting back with Desi.

The box was filled to the brim with notebooks and his favorite romcoms and his favorite sweaters and sketchbooks and photos of him with friends - only one of them I'd put in there featuring me - and pairs of socks, because I knew he would've lost them all by now. Freaking sock goblins. Everything in the box I knew he'd be missing. The only things in the box so far that would remind him of me was the fact that the box was from our house, and the one photo.

If it hurts him, I don't want him to remember me as much as one can possible not remember someone. The only thing I want is to make sure he knows I didn't do anything and that I miss him. I don't want to guilt trip him or cause him pain or twist him into getting back together with me, because I know that if I had a female clone (though I might SAY otherwise) I would never date her. She'd be a hurtful, emotionless, bitch. Just like I'm a hurtful, emotionless, prick for ever even making Desi fall in love with me. I nearly wish I hadn't confessed my love for him or had ever said 'I love you, Desi'. I would have rather just seen him every day and know that I couldn't have him in the way I wanted, than to have done him so much pain.

I hope, he leaves me so that he won't have to take any more of my shit.

I'll deal.

I'll hope.

As long as it makes him happy.

I move along down wooden stairs. If I could I'd never go down these stairs again. That horrible day where everything went wrong started when I'd gone downstairs. I've never had a photographic memory, but for some reason after the.. fight.. memories came out picturesque and flooded me whatever I saw. You could hand me a spoon, and I'd remember that the first time Desi and I slept in the house after we'd bought it we'd had cereal for breakfast. You could hand me a ruler and I'd remember how I'd always have to ask to borrow Desi's ruler in the last year of highschool because I was the kid that never brought one.

"I must've been so fucking annoying." I say to myself. The microwave handle is in my hand and contrasts with the frozen hotpocket in my other hand. It's what I've been having for breakfast ever since that day. Desi always cooked, so I don't touch the stove. I want him to at least keep that part of the stove himself. Besides, I'm not bothered with cooking. I just need something to keep going. I need to finish this.

As the hotpocket sits in the microwave getting burnt, I shove newspaper after newspaper that I never actually read off of the table. One photo of Desi and I falls onto the floor and my eyebrows lift in the middle. My breath is once again shattered in a sigh, and I open up the computer and enter the password in one try.

I'm determined.

I have to.

And I go on iPhoto and I set up an editing application before checking to make sure that the CD is in the computer.

The microwave goes off. The hotpocket burns my hands, and I nearly have the energy to care.

I wonder what time it is? I say, grabbing a cold cup of coffee from the refridgerator. I wonder when I started putting coffee inside of the refridgerator overnight?

The laptop screen tells me the time.

And I'm having breakfast, at 2 o'clock

in the morning.

But I'm determined.

And I'll finish this.

To think.

We broke up

when I was planning

to trigger what was going

to cause

everything to happen.