white magic | camren au

the end (going nowhere)

A/N: Yay, finally posting this here, too!! It's definitely one of my fave fics, I remember that I enjoyed writing it so much! I hope you like it, too.

WARNING: Lauren is suicidal. This chapter contains alcohol abuse. Please be careful.

*

It has been two months. Two months of endless suffering. Two months of sleepless night after sleepless night. Two months of wishing that the tablets help her feel something, anything, just once. Two months of not wanting to get up in the morning. Two months of hoping that she doesn't make it through the day.

Because, at the end of it, she always returns to an empty bed with unmade sheets, anyway. It's the same routine. Every goddamn day. It's been the same routine for two months.

(It feels like it's been years.)

Lauren still only has one thought. One lonely thought. That she doesn't want to, doesn't have a reason to make it through. She doesn't think she's ever going to be able to think anything else again. There is only room for one thought in her brain anymore. She's too damaged to think about anything else. Has been ever since– two months ago.

Reaching for the half-empty bottle of vodka on her nightstand, Lauren attempts getting up from the dirty bed. It doesn't work on the first try. She groans and lies back down next to three bags of chips and five empty bottles of various liquors she doesn't even like – each and every single one see-through, and each and every single one without a label.

The bottle still in hand, Lauren tries to get up again. It works this time. She laughs bitterly at herself for her failed attempts as she stands on her gray carpet.

The first sip of vodka makes her close her eyes and breathe in through her nose quite soundly in relief. "Still doesn't fail to cheer me up," she slurs sarcastically, throws the bottle somewhere on the bed where it makes a horrible sound clinking with the other bottles, and then she leaves her bedroom. "Maybe shouldn't have too much o' that today, though."

Laughing, Lauren remembers she needs to take her medication. Just today. But she's going to.

So she gets dressed – black sweater and a pair of jeans with a lot of holes in it should do – and enters the kitchen. She approaches the ugly table standing in the middle of the room. Takes a look at the small, light boxes. Reaches for them. Then, upon realizing they're empty, and remembering they've been so for days, she huffs. "Fuck you." The insult leaves her mouth as she throws them on the floor. She proceeds to kick them somewhere under the sink. "Whatever. No meds." Not caring is the solution. And Lauren doesn't care. She hasn't cared in two months.

Exactly two months.

*

The flower shop is busy. Lauren sighs and makes a point of rolling her eyes at every single customer. She just needs to get this over with.

Because – seriously – everyone's far too happy for her taste. She wants to not be here anymore.

Someone's getting married soon, someone else is planning a surprise party for their girlfriend, a third someone has just been offered this amazing job and is celebrating on their own.

And Lauren is– is just among them. Trying to fit in. Somehow. The same way she's been trying to for the past two months. Or so she tells herself. The truth is, however, she rarely leaves the house anymore. Ever.

What's the point, anyway? It's not like she has any birthdays or weddings or parties to plan. Or to attend. She doesn't care about her own birthday. She's not sure if she even remembers when it is.