Submissive cravings

Chapter 18

->Bear in mind the warnings; plus depression-related themes. I don't want to spoil you but don't read if you are feeling especially sensitive about that stuff. Remember this is only fiction and by no means represents real life!

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~VIC’S POV~

*1 week later*

Alone.

It was 5 in the morning and I still hadn’t even attempted to sleep. Slowly, I dragged myself along my bed to look at myself in the mirror.

Awful.

I had big black rings under my reddish eyes and my lips had tiny red dots all over them that reminded me of my addiction to bite them hard with my canines until I draw blood. Seemingly stupid yet it hurts like a bitch.

Was that a replacement for cutting?

Maybe.

I didn’t really know why I still hadn’t cut. It wasn’t like Jaime gave a shit anymore. Nobody gave a shit about me. Somehow, over the course of the years, I had managed to frighten away all the people that once claimed to love and care about me. I was such a failure. With dreams.

So many fucking dreams, hopes and ambitions.

Ideas.

I had always wondered where they came from, not only in me, but in everyone. We were all just packs of cells, what made a person look at a rose and think about fire and another about death?

Why some people think of dying? Didn’t nature set us all with a survival instinct?

It seems not. Lately, the idea of ending it all had been intensely seducing me, mainly due to the fact that I realized things weren’t just getting better. On the contrary, they were getting worse by the second. In the span of a week I had managed not only to lose Jaime as a lover but also as a bandmate because of my shitty attitude towards him in the studio. Tony left too, supporting his friend and disappearing soon after. The record label vanished afterwards, claiming we weren’t actually a band anymore. That left me and Mike. A very angry Mike. A very angry Mike who fucking shouted at me, out of himself and, losing in completely, hit me. I still feel those punches deep in my stomach, but it wasn't the physical pain the one I was worried about.

It was the emotional.

I wasn’t going to be in a band writing and playing music anymore.

Finally, last night I really felt my soul crack in two when my father called and informed me that my mother, Mike and him were moving to England because ‘they couldn’t stand the humiliation they were suffering here’ (because of me, of course) and notified me that I had had my surname officially revoked. Yes, apparently they had contracted a lawyer to do so and somehow succeeded. I didn’t even know that a person could be… My god, from now on I was just going to be Victor. Nothing more.

Only that I wasn’t going to be…

'Being' was reserved for people who had a purpose, not me. I lost mine the moment I saw I couldn’t write nor play music with passion anymore. That was what was used to keep me going. The little life that was left in me was because of playing music, because it made me feel like, for a moment, I wasn’t a person anymore but notes floating in the air full of emotion. Notes that maybe, if recorded, might transcend and outlive me, helping other people through all the shit in life -like many bands helped me so far. That would have given a sense to my pain.

Would have:

Expression of wish… something that could have happened, maybe should have happened, but in the end didn’t.