broken | shyland ✓

epilogue

s h a n e

a/n: that is the end of broken! there won't be a sequel, i think this is where the book needs to of ended. so please, enjoy, and my deepest condolences to any one who has ever been broken.
thank you, always.

i have not slept in a week. sleepily, i stare at my appearance through the mounted mirror on my wall. my hair was clumped together with grease, my eyes thoroughly complimented by the ocean blue semicircles that graced my under-eyes. my thighs were covered by loose fitting basketball shorts, at least two sizes bigger than they ought to be, and my chest was swamped in a baggy britney spears t-shirt.

my eyes shot daggers into my reflection, repulsion rising in my throat and threatening my gag reflex. i didn't see myself in the mirror, i saw the ugly, dirty, disgusting boy who broke ryland adams' heart. my fingers started twitching, the sudden urge to hurt someone or something succumbing me as my fist collided with the glass, shards tearing my skin apart with each fragment that tickled my skin.

my hand became a canvas, painted with colours of cherry crimsons, rich rubies, sordid scarlets and rose reds. each shade was in stark contrast with my pale skin. i stared blankly at my still clenched fists, tears welling up in my eyes as the spider web shatters crawled up the mirror, cracks left behind like snail trails.

i screamed, yelping in shock as adrenalin streamed through my veins and vessels, apple-red blood spotting my cream carpet. my mom came bursting through the door as i staggered backwards, shoulder blades slamming against the bed frame as i slid down onto the floor, body racking in sobs, grey cotton allowing the scarlet paint to seep along the stitch line.

my mom rushed to my side, sitting down next to me her arms snaking round my shoulder as i shook violently. she kept asking me questions, but i ignored her, crying louder as she stared in shock.

ryland was all i thought of when my mother drove me to the accident and emergency unit, when a needle and threat stitched the cuts in my hands shut, when we drove back home through the rain, my hand swollen, wrapped in a thick white bandage.

all i can think of is him, and the voicemail he left me exactly 165 hours and thirteen minutes ago. i have written it in my school planner, on the inside cover of every school binder, in the typed notes of my phone and carefully pencilled on the wall next to my bed, each word engraved in a sharp grey.

i can't write now; my hand is so fucked up that all i've been able to do is lie on my bed, crying whilst i stare at the writing next to my pillow and read it till i could say it backwards and mumble it in my sleep.

listen to me. stop ignoring my calls. that video was edited, and perhaps everything in life is some big conspiracy or lie, like those stupid videos you watch on youtube, the brunette boy chuckles through tears, but one thing that is real is my feelings for you. i would never call you what was in those recordings. if you choose to believe someone who's treated you like shit your whole life over someone who... whatever. you're an idiot if you believe him.

garrett came round yesterday. i've missed a whole three days of school now, despite stumbling through it all of last week without any sleep, so at four pm he was nestled under the covers with me. proudly, he had shown me the huge box of rainbow felt tips he had bought with his first pay check from working at the small cake shop by his house, huckleberry's kitchen. i smiled and rested my head on his shoulder, thanking him for always being my best friend as he coloured in my bandage with the pride flag, gently nursing my fists.

he left after an hour or two, leaving me alone with my thoughts once again. i couldn't even play guitar, so i laid flat on my back and just sung. it didn't work, because every original lyric i had wrote was about ryland. i hate him. no, i love him... and i hate him. at the same time. it's complicated.