Mentions of subjects such as drugs, alcohol, violence, blood, gangs
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Skarsgård. It's a name that use to be so fond and warm, you'd sigh like a love sick puppy whenever you'd hear it. It belongs to a man you used to call your best friend, except he wasn't a man then, he was a boy.
You knew him through his twenties, through his college years and through the stupid late night calls when he was so drunk he couldn't even speak; the only word he could say without a slur being your name.
You knew him through his first loves and through the heartbreaks so severe, that you're the only person he'd ever let hold him while he sobbed other than his own mother.
And held him you did. You enveloped his large, weeping frame like vines embrace a Willow, your hands rubbing his broad back as if it would soothe the pain away.
But then there was a shift. Around two years ago to be exact.
He didn't come around as much, his presence becoming equally as rare as a genuine smile. Oh, how you adored his smile. When he was genuinley happy, it'd light up a whole room, and become so magnetic it's all you could focus on.
Your chest aches when you think of him, the memories, the Netflix movie binges where both of you would he so exhausted you'd collapse on each other like sleepy, wilting flowers with your hands shoved in a popcorn bowl.
He'd always wake up first and cover your body, knowing how easily it becomes chilled, especially with the blaring AC. He'd go sleep on the couch, even though you two have slept in the same bed more times than you can count.
He'd lie awake and think about how safe he feels with you. Yet that safety would turn to protectiveness, and it would become a primitive instinct that coils inside of him like a hot iron, giving him the strength of a thousand men.
He had to protect you, he still does.
He felt like a part of his heart was being ripped away when he had to slowly distance himself from you, to remember your exuberant smile when you finally saw him after weeks of unexplained absence and to smell your scent that he'd grown so fond of whenever you'd embrace him.
He imprinted the feeling of you in his arms so vividly, sometimes he feels it in his dreams and wakes up thinking you were actually there, ear to his chest and arms around his waist.
The pain never went away, that slow, agonizing and torturous burn in his chest that takes his breath away at moments all too inconvenient. It suffocates him.
Almost as much as it suffocates you.
It's been a year since he's left, a year since that half assed goodbye he gave you over the phone at the exact time it is now as you step into the dimly lit, cigarette smoke polluted bar.
