(pride - kendrick lamar)
It was starting to get worse. That day it was not just their hands shaking, or their minds completely off.
Elizabeth was changing position every second, and every second felt like a minute. She wanted to rip her skin off and escape. Sitting against the bed, lying on the floor, walking around in circles in that tidy room.
Brad was lying in almost a disfigured position on the bed, hitting himself in his stomach repeatedly. His rapid breathing was shaky coming from his dry lips. He couldn't move, or at least he wouldn't. All he wanted was drugs. His medicine. The only thing that would work - according to him.
Thump, thump, thump. He kept on trying his best to numb the pain. He kept groaning, his body shaking uncontrollably. If only he had something - anything - that would cure and ease away the pain. Make him feel numb again. Being like this made him feel insane.
The only thing that was on Brad's mind, was how satisfying it would be to die. Peace, finally. Only God would help him now. If he hadn't been sleeping with different women for money, God would let him die right there, if that was what he wanted. He believed that that was the only reason to why Brad was still alive. Sometimes he wished that he was dead. He even prayed.
But he wouldn't kill himself, because God wouldn't allow that. Wouldn't allow him into heaven. Too many sins.
Brad threw his sweater away, feeling claustrophobic, something he never usually felt. His muscles was tense. He felt like crying, bawling his eyes out, also something he never did or wanted. But now he did. He started to change his position, as often as Elizabeth was. With blurry eyes filled with tears, he started to rip off the sheets. He was shaking. He couldn't take it anymore.
The boy who had been clean in almost three months before he started his addiction again, knew that it was impossible to be again.
He walked slowly towards the open window, leaning out while sticking two fingers down his throat. Nothing came out, he only gagged. It made him feel more stressed out. Brad's hand gripped the ends of his brown wavy hair, rocking back and forth, still with his torso out of the window. Sure - it was nice with fresh air, but in these coincidences he only saw it on the negative side. Never on the bright.
He stood up, approaching the bit off wall in the room that was empty. Silence in his ears, but if he payed attention, he would notice that the music from downstairs was almost impossible not to hear, even feel. He punched the hard, cold wall with his fist. Let go of the pain. Solving the problem with pain, even though drugs would be better.
Brad kept going until blood was on the textured wall. Elizabeth's eyes followed, but she didn't know what was going on. She even stared at him, her vision was unclear. Brad's hand was covered in blood, but he didn't feel anything at that point.
His wrists was getting sloppy. The feeling of nausea was getting him annoyed. He wanted to throw up, but he couldn't.
He stopped, realising how hard it was. His breathing was slow and heavy, eyelids almost half down. His long fingers was tracing the dark red liquid on the wall, as if he was painting. Finger painting.
It made them crazy. Elizabeth truthfully believed that he was just finger painting, and turning her gaze away, she laid down on the floor. Brad was shaking more than ever, as he tried to make a straight line of blood with his finger but failed.
If just they had drugs, if just they didn't begin in the first place.
