*****POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNING: MENTIONS OF SELF-HARM****
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If today I woke up with you right beside me
Like all of this was just some twisted dream
I’d hold you closer than I ever did before
And you’d never slip away
I’m lying on our rooftop, looking up at the night sky and remembering the way we used to lie up here together, just watching the stars in the sky until one or both of us fell asleep. My phone is beside me, her new number already dialed. I haven’t had the courage to press ‘call’ yet. What would I even say? What would she say? Certainly not that she loves me or that she’s coming back. I’d have to wake myself up if she said either of those things because it’d just be a twisted dream.
I often wonder, what if she really was still here? I can pretend all I want, but nothing would compare to if I woke up next to her and all of this was just a twisted dream. I know for sure that I would hold her close and I would never, ever let her go. She wouldn’t slip away from me again if I had her in my arms right now.
Before I can process what I’m doing, my finger presses ‘call’ on the dialed number and I hold the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
It’s her. She was laughing as she answered and I freeze.
“Hello?” She asks again. I’m completely silent, unknowing what to say. The phone calls ends and I set the phone beside me again. I feel slightly content, hearing her voice again, even if it was for ten seconds. I rest my hands behind my head and fall asleep to the peaceful sound of night.
* * * *
Two days had passed and I didn’t want to call her again. I know I should have talked to her, but I just couldn’t. I had too much to say, too much that she wouldn’t want to hear.
Anyway, I walk into the bathroom to wash off my bloody knuckles. I’m drunk again and I may or may not have punched the wood of the drawers of my dresser. I don’t know why I’m washing off my knuckles; usually I just do what I normally do on a daily basis and drink the pain away. But I’m already too drunk and I honestly don’t think it’d work, dare I say it.
I rummage through the drawers in search of a Band-Aid that probably wouldn’t help anything but it’d stop the bleeding, right? Something like that? Luke is usually the one that cleans up my hands when I punch things but he and the boys are out at the store; they stopped by my cave to let me know briefly they’d be leaving before they went out.
In the back of the drawer, underneath an old washcloth I’d left in there, I find my old razor I used to cut my wrists with. I used to think that cutting would make me feel something, now look at me. I don’t want to feel anything, so I drink relentlessly.
I pick up the razor and twirl it between my fingers carelessly. I make the action to cut without actually touching my wrist. I can see the scars, they stay with me forever, what a scar is meant to do.
But with these scars comes another memory of my beautiful girl. I think back to the night she found out about my scars.
“Hey babe.” She grinned as she sat cross-legged next to me on our bed. She pecked my cheek before cuddling into my side, fitting there perfectly, where she was meant to be. I draped my arm around her back and pulled her impossibly closer.
