“How you feeling, mate?”
What a redundant question. Come on, now. How does he really expect me to answer given the situation that I've been inadvertently thrown into?
I'm fine, Mark. Really, I'm the best I've ever been. Nothing that's ever happened before has come close to this feeling of pure bliss and happiness, and nothing that is to come will ever touch the surface. I'm the happiest man that walks the face of the earth. A smile is constantly plastered to my face, so much so that I cheer up those that I see as I pass them. In fact, I shit fucking rainbows. That's how happy I am these days. That's what this feeling is...
No. Fuck off. If you have ask that question, then you're not really paying attention, are you?
I am rotten. Everything in my life has crumbled down around me in a matter of months. All the plans that I had laid out on a table inside of my head have now been swept off by a fucking hurricane called 'Cancer'. And hey, I'm not even the one that has to live with it. Not directly. I'm just the victim of second-hand cancer. Does such a thing even exist?
Everything is getting worse. Every day, I feel her falling further and further away from me. It's a battle in itself just to get her to look at me these days without an air of resentment. My voice now strains out a calm tone, when all I really want to do is break down and beg her to look at me properly again. To let me into the heart I know so well rather than shut herself down with a wall of anger. But I know she won't, so long as her face is plastered on the television screen.
As I suspected, my words and actions have taken the worst possible scenario. That evening, Twitter was going ape-shit with the fact that their beloved lead vocalist had lashed out at innocent fans. Facebook was laden with images of the twisted expression of hatred on my face and the frightened expression on Clara's. The newspapers contorted the scene to what they wanted, coming up with theories that would be laughable in any other lifetime. And the television was swarmed with video footage of the entire day, replaying the moment of shame that Clara will forever be haunted with.
I never wanted this to happen. A week later and I'm still plagued by the memories. And as long as I'm in the shit, so is Clara. She's even recorded the first instance, keeping it playing day in and day out. Staring blankly at her peaky expression, watching the moment over and over again. Hearing the words and lies they spew about her and letting them fall into her heart, settling right next to her insecurities and morphing into truth. And if I try to stop her, all I get is a whirlwind of abuse and accusations. It's my fault this happened. If I loved her, I would have protected her. I should let her watch the results of my complete disregard of her emotions and dignity.
I'm the worst person in the world.
I've tried everything. I've tried to stop these irrational ideas running through her head. But I get nothing but pain every time. She barely moves from the settee, barely eats or drinks. Just sitting seething at what I've done to her. And nothing I can ever do will be able to remedy that, will it?
So what the fuck do I say to Mark now?
“Shit.”
Short and simple. Why bother going into more detail when he can read it on my face? He's known me long enough, after all. I can give him one word answers and he can read me like a book. And that is the only word that I can conjure up right now. So that should be enough for him.
“Has she spoken to you yet?”
I shake my head, trying to ignore the lump in the my throat. Out in public would definitely not be the best place to cry. I know we're in the one place that keeps us on the low-down, but still. I'm not about to fuel more rumours when I've got enough in my hands to last a lifetime. So to keep myself occupied, I push around the sausage on my plate with my fork. Trying to muster up the desire to eat something when, in reality, it's furthest thing from my mind.
