It's been 10 years, but these wounds don't seem to heal.
It's been 10 years, but these wounds don't seem to heal. I can't forget him, and I can't forget that he's gone. My life is a never ending spiral, I'm trapped, living in blank nothingness. But I don't care anymore. I can't. I was told that it'd get easier, that I'd learn to cope. But nothing's changed. Nothing. I want to die. Maybe, if I died, I'd see him again. I'd like that - to see him again. His parents pretended it was an accident, pretended that he hadn't fallen victim to his own hands.
But they weren't the ones that found him.
I wish that I could forget. But every time I try, I rememeber it in more detail than I did the time before. It hurts. It feels like someone stole his blade and stabbed it multiple times into my broken heart.
I remember it so well. Too well. I had just arrived home. I called out, but the was no reply. He didn't answer. I thought that he'd be asleep, so I let him be whilst I fixed us up a mug of coffee each, like the loving boyfriend I was. I carried the mugs upstairs and walked into our room. I was surprised that the bed was empty, uncreased. It hadn't been touched since the morning. I placed the mugs on the nightstand and walked over to the bathroom door. There wasn't really anywhere else he could be, so I presumed he was in the bath. Well, I was right about something, at least. I wasn't worried at this point. In fact, even after knocking on the locked door, I still wasn't nervous. I picked the lock, however, just to make sure he was okay.
I wish I'd never opened the door. There was blood. So much blood. Everywhere. It was spread across the white walls, over the white towels, on the white floor. There was so much that the water that was supposed to dilute it wasn't pink. It too was bright red. Scarlet. Scarlet that came from my beautiful boyfriend. He looked almost peaceful. Almost. The blade he'd used, the kitchen knife, had slipped from his grasp and it too lay in the crimson liquid with him. With Gerard. His jet black hair was stuck to his face, his closed eyes had lines of mascara and eyeliner descending from them. There were small cuts on his neck, but many deep gashes on his arms, legs, torso... everywhere. I had simply stood there and stared, frozen in time and unable to react.
I still can't react. Not completely. We were young, only 22. We were inexperienced, we still had so much to live for, so much to give the world. I've given the world less than he has. He gave the world his death. All I've done is mope for ten years. I feel pathetic, but, alas, I can do nothing else. This life isn't worth living without him, no matter how hard I try. I long for his soft fingers to caress my cheek, I long to press my lips against his chapped pair. I long to feel his skin against mine. Every inch of my body wants blame him, wants to scream at him. Except my heart. My heart wants to hold him, to love him. My heart understands why he had resorted to such a horrific decision. A permanent solution to a temporary problem.
It took me two years to find his note.
I could've helped him.
I would've helped him.
I should've helped him.
I would've given him everything I had just to save his life. I would've given my own up for him, just to see him smile. He'd suffered so much for someone so young, and yet, he told me so little. I had always suspected that there was more to his story than what he'd told me, but I never questioned him. I never pressed for an answer. Even though he loved me and I loved him, I didn't feel it was my place. I felt he'd tell me when he was ready.
I didn't want to find out after he had slipped away and faded. Disappeared without a trace. There is only a small amount of evidence pointing towards his existence. Almost like the world is trying to erase him. But he's still my world, even if he's light years away. Or maybe he's by my side, sitting here right now. And I can't see him. I feel so guilty. I feel as though I am the only one that remembers. Why does nobody else remember him? Sometimes, I wonder if they remember me. I can hardly recall the feeling of a hot summer's day. Instead, I spend my time trying to recall how it felt to have him breathing against my neck. To have him breathing.
I want to remember him alive and smiling. But how can I when all I can see after afterimages and flashbacks of the worst day of my life.
I've seen better days. This tortured, underfed body has seen better days. But it will never see them again. I'm in too much pain to even smile, so how could I have a good day?
If I could meet him again, if I could go back to the day we met, I'd still meet him. He saved my life.
So why wasn't I there to save his?
I wonder if he ever existed at all. Maybe he was a figment of my imagination. But then, there is the headstone in the cemetery. There are the photos that are kept in a fireproof case under my bed. And there are the memories, so rich and pure, as strong as ever, all things I can never forget. I still love him with every inch of my broken soul and I can't help but wonder if he feels the same.
Except, he can't feel. I try to remind myself of this, but, alas, I cannot. I don't want to believe it. It's been ten years. Ten fucking years.
And I can't pretend anymore. It hurts too much.
Tonight I'm going to end it.
I'm damaged enough already, I can't take anymore.
I'm going to send this body, this mind, this soul to sleep.