Bill Skarsgård • Roman Godfrey Imagines

storm

Content Warning

A paper cut. Some people say that's what it feels like in the beginning. Like the surface of everything you've created for the past years of your life, has been tainted, uncomfortably so.

They say the sting doesn't really set in until you're bleeding. Like the wound becomes real, only when you can see the blood soaking into the beige carpet in your livingroom.

But for you, it was instant. The raw burn of your eyes as you rubbed them with your dry knuckles for the hundredth time in an hour, the sickening fester of acid in your stomach that threatened to rise to your throat.

For a moment you prayed to go numb. You wanted to slip into a tub of ice water and wait for your veins to run cold. Maybe you'd find tranquility, floating.

But no one tells you that the crippling, debilitating throbbing in your chest isn't numbness.

It's paralysis. 

Instead of feeling the pain like you had in the beginning, you sit, unable to do anything as your wound gets torn open over and over again like an envelope from a lover who's last goodbye you just want to read over and over again.

When you could finally swallow past the rock in your throat, you ate.

The sweetness of the berries in your oatmeal reminded you of his lips and how he'd use your cherry flavored chapstick instead of just buying his own.

You finally managed to get dressed in something other than sweats, and stepping on solid ground instead of being molded into your matress felt foreign.

But the silk of your top reminded you of his skin.

Your favorite moments were lying under the comfortable cavern of your covers, encased in darkness with the warmth of his body pressed against your back.

You'd turn over and he'd huff, before inviting you into his arms. He'd smell like home. 

You'd trace circles over his broad back and marvel at how a human being could feel so whole against you.

You swear you memorized every blemish, every scar, every mole that adorned him. You'd kiss the one on his cheek and place your hand over his heart.

You don't get over heartbreak. That part is a lie.

However, you do get through it.

You don't get to feel the rush of pain like you're getting a shot, one two three, and it's gone. There is nothing to clean your wound afterwards, either.

It's a storm. It rages every day and you beg the sky to stop crying. You want to be able to walk outside and not drown.

But you can't beg anyone, or anything to change. That's how you got here in the first place.

However, after the clouds have been drained of every bit of rain they have stored inside of them, maybe they'll part.

And after you have forgiven the sky for all of its rage, you'll walk outside again.

And the sun will warm your skin.