One time he heard someone say: You have to crash to know you’re alive. one-shot
His eyes still seemed so different, so wrong. Aged in less than months, so old and so dead. That’s how he felt. Dead inside, eaten up from the inside out and a shell of the man he never really wanted to be. A pretender, a fake. He’d kept telling himself that was alright, as long as everybody falls for your trick. Too bad his mask started to show cracks, the person he wanted to be died or maybe never existed.
But he couldn’t face that, so he tried everything to keep that man alive.
One time he heard someone say: You have to crash to know you’re alive.
‘Well son of a bitch I’ve been crawling on rock bottom for months and it doesn’t make me feel alive.’ It just made him feel sick. So damn sick of his life, of that disgusting fake face he saw in the mirror every damn day. Smudged of makeup couldn’t hide the fact he utterly hated himself.
So to lock up his weakness and smother the fear of death that seemed to linger a bit more every day he warped himself in a daze of alcohol and drugs. He couldn’t keep days from melting together. How long had he lived like this? Months? Weeks or just minutes? He didn’t know what time meant anymore. He just kept on pretending and craving for that one moment of happiness. How many times had he passed out on the bathroom floor? Said hi to the inside of the toilet bowl to depose the content of his stomach. Sometimes a friendly hand tapped him on his back and laughs slowly died away.
‘They probably think I’m having an abso-fucking-tastic time.’ But for him the partying wasn’t a way to pass time and have fun. For him it was a cruel fight to survive himself, from falling back down on rock bottom. For him life was just to survive and look as the image of the famous singer he’d acted himself to be. The person he made for people to like him, that loose and fun to be around character was his safety net to fall back on the moment he felt unsecure.
But the cracks grew bigger, he forced himself not to shy away and shrink back into that introverted teenage boy that lived in the basement of his parents, writing comics to escape the cold real life.
With trembling hands he tried to roll a piece of paper. ‘C’mon c’mon.’ Lost he stared at his hands, doing their work on auto-pilot. They knew perfectly well what to do after repeating that motion nearly three of four times a day.
You grow into addiction, it doesn’t just happen. It’s like a tight skinny jeans, you have to wear it for a while until it fits you, until you feel comfortable.
You melt together with your addiction, it takes over your being, bents with who you are. It will tell you to need it, take it, crave it and love it like you’d never loved anybody else before and never ever will love again. It’s forceful and abusive, yet you always come back to it like a sad fucking pup begging for some love.
He’d finished his paper roll with a sight of relieve. He inhaled deep and it felt like his inside stood on fire. From the tip of his nose till down his throat and the sad thing was it was the only moment of the day he felt truly alive, one quick moment out of his cocktail of adrenaline alcohol and cocaine.
He sunk back against the tilled wall breathing deep in and out. Back down on that stupid place, back on the bathroom floor of a hotel in a country he didn’t know. All countries looked the same to him, it had been so fantastic near a dream. Now it was just a rushing nightmare of airports, car rides and locked up hotel rooms.
Everything, it just didn’t seem to matter anymore. And he felt so guilty about that. Thousands and thousands of people screamed his name every gig. Cheering, crying, jumping and raving to see him and listen to his voice. And he just didn’t care about that. It was just a motion, doing his little act go completely crazy afterwards and then cry himself to sleep as the sad boy he once had been. He never ever had felt so unwanted yet wanted as he did nowadays. Because people craved for the attention of the entertainer, the singer, the star. But nobody worried about the insecure real version of him.
From where he sat he could see himself in the reflection of a large mirror above the luxury sink with many different kinds of soap stacked next to it.
It made him feel wrong. He wasn’t supposed to be in a place so bright and fancy like this. He should sit at his desk down in his basement and drift into the world of fantasy, not staying stuck in a real cool world where he didn’t fit in.
“I want to die.” He told himself in the mirror. Strangely it felt relieving saying those words. Like the truth finally was ready to leave his lips. “God, I feel so dead.” He ran his fingers through his sticky greasy hair. He smelled so bad, locked himself up after the gig and hadn’t taken the effort to shower.
He refused to cry again and to keep the tears in he lit a cigarette, it took a while because his hands weren’t cooperative at all. But it kept his mind off. He smoked in silence while looking around the room. Twisted and sick thoughts started to fill his head. I could hang myself in the shower. I could smash the mirror and slice my wrists. Would I be able to drown myself in that fancy bathtub?
Partly it frightened him to have those thoughts yet… It eased, calmed him down. Because it was an option, one he tried to mellow with all the booze, the pills and the rush. But it kept stumbling back up urging a place in line of numerous possibilities.
He felt in his pocket, tic-tacing he tapped out a few pills out of his orange medicine box. ‘Self medicating, such bliss.’ He kept tapping and soon his hand was full, some pills already falling on the tiles. With a face in lack of expression he took them all, one by one. Swallowing them away with one of the finest shots of Tequila. He didn’t even know what he’d taken.
For the first time in months reality kicked in when the room around him started to spin and he had to throw up. His stomach turned, his faithless motions didn’t help him get close to the toilet in time. Burning tequila forced its way back to his throat, gagging he hold his stomach. With tearing eyes he looked at the disgusting mess he made. He whimpered scared to death. Scared of death.
“N-no…” The room spun around, making it so hard to keep balance. Terrified he searched for the toilet, dragged himself to it and pushed his finger down his throat. He threw up a few more times, everything burned. Throat, stomach, eyes everything. Panicked he tried to stand up, failed and fell right back onto the tills.
‘Now I’ve finally reached bottom and it might be too late.’ He thought feeling how his lips bleed, how sour his mouth tasted, how tears combined with his blood and saliva.
Slowly he reached his hand out to his jacket and pulled it closer while his body shocked from sobs and soft outcries. With trouble he could get his phone out of his pocket. He’d always been a disaster with numbers but this one he even knew without thinking.
“Y-you have to help me.” He whimpered. “I-I… I tried to kill m-myself.”
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