Queen of the Headphone Zombies

Score

ZOE

Killer Queen // Queen

I lay on the floor of my room, once again gripping my Beats close to my head as the music flows through them. I've got my Requiem playlist pulsing into my ears, anticipating that song. I close my eyes, waiting for the inevitable heartache to follow. This is part of my daily torture. But why do I torture myself like this? This constant mourning over losing Dylan is bullshit. Deep down I know he doesn't want me anymore. Shit, during our break up he screamed the words, I don't love you anymore and every time I see him, he's sucking face with his new girlfriend. He's made it clear, he has moved on. Why can't I? What the fuck is wrong with me that I keep clinging to these memories of the two of us together.

The song begins to play, the one that has destroyed me daily for the last few weeks. I take in each opening note, building up towards the first verse. I hold my breath as the words begin and...nothing. Not a single flutter in my heart or roll in my stomach. I don't feel sick or on the verge of certain death. Nothing. What does that mean? I'm suddenly freaked out and not sure how to feel about not feeling.

I open my eyes and roll over, not crushing a single pizza box or fast food wrapper. My room is clean. A feat I blame entirely on Chelsea. I found myself pacing the room after walking away from Chelsea, stomping on the trash and inhaling the stench as I muttered furiously. Then I was pissed at the mess, at the remnants of my sorrow scattered all over the room. In a blind rage, I marched to the utility room and gathered a garbage bag along with some cleaning supplies and commenced ridding my sanctuary from the filth I'd collected. Each box and wrapper was shoved into the trash with a few words of condemnation, some for Dylan, some for Chelsea, and some for new guy who had succeeded to get under my skin in less than twenty-four hours after we met. That's got to be some kind of record.

There had been no blow up with Chelsea after band practice. For all of my talk about killing her the moment I had her alone in the car, I never even laid a finger on my so-called best friend. Instead, as soon as that new guy, Emerson, sauntered out of her car, waving and smiling at me like an idiot, I initiated my newest grand plan: The silent treatment.

If Chelsea is going to ignore my requests to leave me the hell alone and stay out of my love life, then I'm going to ignore her. Period. I was so fuming mad by the time she dropped me off that I slammed her car door and stomped into the house.

Dragon lady didn't even get a chance to question my newest mood before I'd made it into my room with an equally loud slamming of my own door. It was a good thing dad isn't home yet because that kind of attitude wouldn't fly in his presence. A teenage tantrum would have meant facing another solid month without my car for sure.

So now I lay on my stomach, in my clean room, smelling the lemony scent of carpet cleaner and polish. I am not happy, I am not sad, I am numb. Have I burned out all of the anger in my psyche? I know Hozier inspired the fire to burn hotter, pushing me forward in my quest to appear stronger than I actually feel. But what is this sudden feeling of emptiness? Where has the gut-wrenching longing for Dylan gone? Does this mean that I am finally over the bastard? Or am I so emotionally exhausted that I've run out of feelings, just for the moment. Will the heart ache and darkness come rushing back?

I hit shuffle on my playlist, trying to shake things up. It's not that I'm upset to have a moment of reprieve from the wretched heartbreak, but not feeling anything at all is kind of alarming considering the shit show that Dylan put on yesterday during school, and after it. The hell on earth he put me through when he decided he was going to kick me out of the band. And then on top of all that I was subjected to every bit of humiliation he could think up with his little trollop. Yes, it's gotten so bad I've now lost my mind and I've started using some of the Dragon Lady's favorite words. Trollop--a word thrown at any flirty, good-looking female under thirty in the neighborhood. Trollop, an early twentieth century reference for a hooker. Yep, I looked it up. Trollop, the perfect word for my ex's newest fling. Dylan is such an ass.