Acid Death

         
“Laying in my bed staring at the blank walls ...”
         I threw my pen across the room. My stories are all the same; start the same, end the same, nothing special. This one will be different, I know it. Writing aside, it was my escape, but now even that isn’t numbing me anymore. My mind is cluttered. The mere sound of his voice fills me with a panic, a joy, a total loss for words. The words I love you drowns me in confusion, terror. My mind closes down, my throat constricts, cutting off my breathing. His call earlier was torture, and I did more damage than good. When I tried to make sense of everything it was like trying to swim through a junk yard, as if metal kept falling on me, crushing me.

         The nights are haunted, my own personal hell. Sweat pools at every crevice of my body. I’m fighting the tears as I try to accept that he is gone forever. The pain in my chest is unbearable. I have done this. Pain stabs at my throat and chest, ripping and tearing fresh wounds there.  Does he ever think about me? Does he remember that I love him? Does he believe it? Does he love me? Does it even matter anymore?

         Sobs overtake me as the pain I hold back rushes forth, no longer subdued. My chest burns with loneliness, with the loss. I ache with his disapproval. My pillow is drenched as I roll to my back, my cold, hard friend in my hand. The sharpness of the blade is tempting, but I promised. I have made my choice before I have even thought about it. With a chilling scream I know as my own, the steel is digging viciously into my chest, twisting, tearing, shredding. I laugh as I plunge it farther and the burning becomes as physical as it always has. The only real difference is the sticky proof of death pouring from my gaping chest. I think of his face for the last time, the face I love, and of the story I had started but would never finish. This is the story I always wanted to write, the one I was living now but never had the guts to put on paper.