I’m writing a short story right now, and I’d love to get some feed back.
Spoilers, it’s about an overdose, so if that’s a trigger for you, like it is for me tbh, maybe don’t read it.
Ups and Downers
Life is what you make of it. Unfortunately for a certain type of person that makes life pretty empty.
Between binging and purging on sleep and food there wasn’t much to it. Pain was a constant friend, kept close and guarded from view. The only thing that ever made it go away was the drugs.
I lay with my head on my cluttered desk, a half watched episode of Doctor Who still playing on one of my monitors. I smile as the stars burst in front of my vision and reach for another handful of the violently pink pills. I know they’re bad for me and I know that an overdose isn’t far away, but I take them anyway, desperately chasing that high. I know that if I stop now the pain will only come shrieking back, louder than before.
The clock on the microwave reads 4:00, and I know that if I don’t go to sleep now I won’t sleep for the rest of the day. I decide that I’ll just sleep another day. I take out my sketchbook and try to draw something, but the inspiration never comes. My vision swims before me as I return to my computer. The sensation washes over me as the new batch of pills hit. Suddenly there’s no pain, no emptiness, not even the constant nausea that plagues my waking hours.
For now there’s only the dizziness and confusion that comes with the sweetest of highs.
But something’s wrong. The confusion is tinged with fear. My brain already knows something is wrong. I feel my pulse quicken and my tongue drys to sandpaper. I’m paralyzed by the overwhelming vertigo as the bile pools in the back of my throat. I slump forward painfully onto my desk, and the bitter liquid pours from my mouth as my vision narrows to a point. The only thing I can see is the mocking smiling face of my vault tech bobble head.
I pass out.
The next few hours are a hellish blur that I can only recall in part. My body is rigid and my mind hazy. Nightmare shapes twist and dance in front of my eyes. Snippets of conversations past crawl across my brain, and I am powerless to stop them as they torment me, tiny devils prodding at my very soul.
Of course the conversations that I sought to erase are the ones that come back to me in this state.
The painfully awkward flirting, the rejection. Nothing that matters in the long run, but still things that hurt. Certain particularly horrid memories are featured above the rest of them.
* * *
It’s a cold October evening, the wind is whipping gently and it’s raining slightly. We are outside in one of the nondescript quads, normally very green, but made gray by the moonlight. I lean in for a kiss, sure I’ll be received warmly like I have been for the past week, but I’m held off at the last moment by a reticent hand on my chest.
“Wait,” she murmurs, barely audible in the silent quad. “I can’t do this any more, I need to to think”.
* * *
It’s the first day after I kissed her.
The influx of endorphins and happiness is enough of a drug to keep me high for months, but it’s all distilled into single moments. Finally I am experiencing love, finally I am wanted. The one thing I felt had been missing for my entire life and I had it. And it was perfect. It was the fulmination of a life spent poorly.
* * *
It’s two months after she broke my heart and she’s with another guy. I bite hard into my cigarette, the first I’ve had in months.
The smoke slowly creeps into my lungs, bringing it’s dark succor to the recesses of my already damaged lungs. The pain feels good.
I shake slightly as I stand, the rush of nicotine and tar makes me unsteady.
Sleet is pounding the sidewalk around me yet I don’t feel cold.
The world is numb.
* * *
It’s the first time I meet her. My roommate’s organized a poker night with our entire floor. We click instantly, the chemistry is undeniable. We spend the evening talking about ourselves. Nothing she says is forgotten, every detail is crucial. I’m lost in a sea of infatuation.
* * *
It’s been a week since she broke my heart.
I’m home with my parents for the weekend, not able to bear being close to her. I hold the rope in my hands. I know the knot very well. I wrap the end back around itself and begin to coil the it thirteen times over. Science says eight loops is enough friction to work on the first try, but the romantic in me says thirteen times will do the trick.
I loop the end around my neck and stand on the chair I’ve rigged under the fan.
I stand there, not ready to take that final step.
My phone is ringing.
It’s my best friend. She knows I’m having a hard time and wants to see if I was OK. Hot tears of fear and shame spill down my face. I step down carefully and untie the noose.
* * *
I am finally released from my torment. I bolt upright and cringe in disgust at what I’d been laying in. My head is pounding and my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth.
I feel horrible.
But inside there is no pain. There is clarity. There is peace.
C.S. Lewis created an imaginary world
J.K. Rowling created an entire culture
J.R.R. Tolkien created a whole civilization and his own language
Then there’s me
Cheer up, you could have created 50 Shades of Grey
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