Mid-Life Crisis (WIP)

Cucumbers

           My phone died. I make a beeline for the charger as the last little blinks of radiation finally close its eyes. 

"Dammit," I muttered, wishing I'd have screamed. My floppy fish-of-a-neck flailed until my eyes detached its stare at the brick in my hands, man that eye-roll made my sockets ache. Me, the once-euphoric teen, stuffed the damn thing off into my land of books with a scoff that could knock down towers. Panic was written on my face in bubble letters, contrasted upon a blistering bundle of pimples and fumes. I felt revolting, the highest tier of flattering. 

        I swear if my mind could do air quotes I'd do it on the word "life". All that life was at this point was comical fluff, the pink and blue candy floss that seemed appealing at first, then you realize how much of a sugar high you'll get after consuming a whole bucket. I sure wish it was a sugar high and not a rush of sumo-adrenaline. I was shaking, pushed myself up off my single bed that felt ten times smaller than I was. My leg began to bounce simultaneously, making my head bob down to my knees. I couldn't stop shaking, the stimulation of my mind broke out like a zoo in my cranium. 

He didn't text back. 

       How many times have I had that exact thought? The outcome was becoming repetitious. No text back equalled no right for me to be alive. It's been three whole days feeling like a psychopath and breathing like a dog, pretty soon I'll need a respirator to take in my biohazardous breathing. But all I can do is stare at my feet move like they would on a treadmill. No one ever called me out of the tomb my room becomes on weekends, but hell now would be a good time. I struggle with my breathing and then I struggle to breathe as my lifeline blinks red and green flashing colours. I reach out for my phone and throw it back down to watch it suffer. I mutter, "I hate you," a million times, half to myself, half to Him, the ones I didn't say: to the world. My instincts banish, I lay like a rock against the wall, take up the drawing I made of Him from the shelf and hum myself some Lana Del Rey love song that didn't relate to me at all just to steady my shaking fingers. 

       "C'mon Chloe you're not working a damn Etch-A-Sketch," I scorn, then chuckle at my wasted wit, wishing at least the crowd of shadows shared my smile. I gave a sigh, one that made my lungs retreat from the strain I currently put them under, damn they hurt. The warping film of colour started turning Him into rainbow vomit forcing me to keep my eyes closed to keep my head from popping off. My smile disappeared almost as quickly as He came into focus again, this time on the back of my eyelids. One hand extended to the trash bin, Him in my fingers over something he honestly was, Trash. I let my hand release the artwork I used to cry over into the garbage. Under the handsome smart-ass smile He bore and the blackening scarf He wore, was His name replaced with "Dick-bag". Now I questioned why Him still not texting me back ticked me off. I didn't feel renewed, just more of like recycled garbage tucking itself under the filthy sheets. Man, I should've made a bonfire... He's staring at me among the garbage looking like a piece of treasure. My safe haven, my room, became unsafe as the wall began to waver the more I sank into the mattress. I instantly felt dumbfounded and hungry for food. My stomach felt like a galactic crater with nothing but... hey space!
       "Hm, fuck it." I went for food and had a mental breakdown.

         It wasn't about Him, or it was but the joy of making a butter pickle sandwich was soiled for the lack of delicious pickled goods. I crumbled to the floor. Thank God my mom was in the bathroom as I pouted with an empty jar of pickle juice in my arms, my teeth nibbling on cheese just in case they decided to gnaw my arm off. Honestly from anyone else's viewpoint, it looked like a silent film, maybe I'd start trotting to the garden to give the jar a burial. The second time I'd thank God for not letting my mom witness this. Cucumbers, they're just cucumbers that sat for years in an old man's cave soaking in vinegar and pig rinds, why did it hurt me so damn much? The fact that pickles were actually cucumbers in disguise made even a small human like me question, and stress the hell out of it. I got up, chucked the pickle juice in the sink to watch it get chugged up by the pipes, cheering them on as they gurgled the juice down. I surely couldn't chug pickle juice like that.

        "Hey, how's that sandwich going Clo?" I leaped five feet into the air. Mom dammit, I silently cursed her for sneaking up on me. I shrugged, pointing at the mess of buttered bread and cheese, it could make a damn good grilled cheese though.

        "Aha... Yeah, grilled cheese! Do you want some?" My phoney commitment to my plan was spoiled, knowing that preparing another sandwich would sure give me a brain aneurysm. With a sigh, she mosied on down to the couch and switched on the tv. 

       "No thanks. Don't disappear into your room again though, we need to talk." The need and talk brought a gun to my head. Shit. My hands were offset, my eyes jerked inside my head as I, soft and sweetly replied,

       "Okay," I was in hell.