A Brief Inquiry Into Online Relationships • {The 1975}

How To Draw / Petrichor

He lay in bed on a particularly cold night, the blankets consuming him like the lack of satisfaction he felt in his life. His dull eyes were half open, half shut, the flashing light from his TV flickering in between his eyelashes. He simply lay there, completely still, except for his chest, expanding with each deep breath in. He was sprawled out, one arm behind his head and the other outstretched by his side. It was his first sober night this week, and he felt absolutely brain dead.

Suddenly he jolted awake, barely yawning as he threw the blankets off himself and stood up. He paced around the room, panicking about things that had never previously crossed his mind.

He rummaged through his bedside cabinet, picking out his phone and dialling his friend's number.

'Hello mate, I'm really worried, you can't speak can you?'

'It's fucking half 12, this better be important.'

'I'm just, well, I feel like I've been doing my life wrong.'

'What does that even mean?'

'Well, you know, I could've done so much more with it. I haven't learnt how to draw an-'

'Oh not this again!' He cried, 'get some sleep mate. I'm sick of this.'

'But- hello? Are you still there? Fucks sake.' He muttered, placing his phone face down on his bed.

It's such a stupid thing, worrying about the unknown. He knew that. But what if?

What if he disappeared without saying everything he needed to?
What if the way he was expressing himself wasn't enough?
What if he died with all the cameras?

He came to a halt after pacing around the room for what felt like forever. He then heaved himself up onto his counter, staring into space with his legs and arms crossed. His body trembled slightly, the anxiety taking control of him like a wicked spirit.

He picked up a cigarette and lit it. With each inhalation he remembered all of his troubles and embarrassments and with each exhalation he forgot them. He could feel something changing within him, something new, but not at the same time. Something old, reinventing itself all in his mind. He didn't know what was wrong with him.

He thought about his drug addiction, and how he was told it would take him 2 weeks to get fully addicted. What bullshit was that? If he could get addicted to heroin in 14 days, he could get addicted to anything.

But maybe that's what he was missing.

He quickly put out his cig on the windowsill; threw on a Gucci jumper and a pair of knackered trainers he'd bought ages ago and stormed out of his room, swinging his leg behind him to close the door.

He turned behind him and went back inside, realising he'd forgot his phone. His heart beat quicker than it'd ever beaten before, and it was probably a rush of blood to his head, but he decided to open the top window and fling it out as far as he could. Fuck it. You only live once, that was his saying.

He raced out of the room, forgetting to close the door this time. His trainers squeaked as he sprinted down the stairs and began searching for a notebook and pen. Grabbing them off his kitchen counter, he unlocked his front door, stepped out and closed it behind him, locking it just in case.

It was drizzling, which came as a surprise to him since it hadn't rained in weeks. He could feel it cleansing him, changing him. He was finally starting to love the rain, and himself.

He walked down the pavement, ignoring the gloomy pitch blackness of the night sky. The street lamps were his only light source as he started to scribble away at the notebook.

'To,
   Future self.'

He bit his lip and looked around him, before crossing the words out. A letter to his future self would only make him pissed off in later years.

'To,
Mum'

He always spoke to his mum. It was never about things that mattered. He considered himself close to her, even though she didn't know about his addiction. Neither did his dad.

'To,
Mum and Dad.'

Was he really about to do this? He gazed up at the sky, darker than his mind. The wind let out a soft howl, reminding him of who he'd made them believe he was, almost like a reassurance. Yes. He was really about to tell them.

'To,
Mum and Dad.
I'm sorry. I don't know what you'll think of me after I've told you this, but you need to know.
I've been hiding it from you for longer than I'd like to admit, and I'm so sorry.'

He began to wonder if they'd even be able to recognise the writing of their mentally unstable and half asleep son. They'd at least try.

'I'm just going to say it.
I'm addicted.
To drugs, alcohol, whatever I can get my hands on.
I wish I wasn't.
I think you may have had suspicions, there are a few rumours going around, but there, I've said it.'

His heart pounded in his chest at the thought of his parents reading the letter. The wind slapped him across the face to wake him up a little.

'No, I don't want help. Please don't get me help.
I can help myself, I'm doing fine.'

He wrote, still walking, turning every couple of blocks. He quickened his pace, he didn't want to be out for too long.

'I don't want to shock you, I just thought you needed to know. Im sober as I'm writing this: I love you both.'

He underlined the last line a few times, not quite sure what he was doing. He paused to look up, and to check he was at the right house. He quietly ran up the front steps and slotted the note through the letterbox.

Whilst walking back, he had the same two sentences ringing in his mind.

They can take anything as long as it's true.
What they can't take is you telling them lies.

—————————————————
—————————————————

I wrote an extra-long chapter to make up for the last one being a little shorter. I worked really hard on this, let me know what you think :) (30.12.18)