FicWad

You can’t say you know how I feel, so don’t bother attempting to bullshit me with lies, save your breath, because, let’s get one thing clear you have no idea how I feel.

She’s gone. She’s left. She’s absent. She’s not here. Whichever way you phrase it the point remains clear; She isn’t coming back, no matter how hard you plead, no matter how many tears pour down your face, she isn’t coming back. This is it for you. The only thing holding you in the world was the hand of a girl, and now she’s no longer around. You have nothing to live for.

You’ve chewed it around in your mind many times, putting forth reasons as to why she isn’t here and what went wrong, who’s to blame. You’re sure everyone’s been in this situation, yet you do not attempt to find help to overcome these feelings of guilt and self-hatred which plague your mind. It’s fucking horrible. You hate it, you hate everything about it; The weeks of depression and self-harm that follow, the whole days spent crying over pictures from memories, the hours of complete silence where you lose yourself in old memories you try the hardest to forget.

You throw special memories around in your mind and remember them as though they were yesterday, oh how you’d like them to be yesterday. Your first kiss. Your first date. Your first fuck. These feelings plague your mind and the more you try to forget them, the more they keep coming back and they make you feel worse, so much worse. She’s gone, fucked off with one of your friends. You and her boyfriend used to be friends. Now that you’re not, everything about you annoys him. The fact that he’s with her, the fact that he’s a friend to everyone, the fact that he doesn’t know what suffering is. You do. You’ve stared shamelessly at the cuts that plague your arms for hours at a time. You’ve considered suicide countless times in your life but never had the guts to overdose to prove a point to everyone. This depression envelopes you like a wave a small child and doesn’t improve when you realize you’ve never had the guts to even attempt suicide. You realize you’re pathetic, you’re nothing, you’re the scum of this city. Perhaps that’s why she left you.

Fuck, it’s not her fault; you acted like a dick for the best part of that year. Maybe if you’d told her you loved her more often, took her out to dinner more regularly, maybe then she’d have stayed and you wouldn’t be in this fucking mess that you call your sad, pathetic life. It’s your entire fault, you’re sorry, you want to hold her and tell her to forgive you, but it’s all to no avail. You miss her. You spend whole days lying in bed, smoking cigarettes and drinking alcohol to numb the emotional pain, all with tears streaming down your eyes.

But then you realize it’s not your fault. It’s her fault. Fuck her, she means jack shit to you now! She’s ruined the relationship with one of your tightest friends and she’s not even that attractive. She’s not worth it. She was boring anyway. You were bored six months in when she started to become religious. The wave of guilt leaves you and you find yourself refreshed. You decide to get your life back on track and meet someone else. You don’t miss her. You hate her.

You meet lots of new people, date some and decide to stay as friends with others. You go on lots of dates, to lots of movies and to lots of fancy restaurants, but nobody seems to click. You were a long-sleeved shirt every time, not only to create the illusion of sophistication, but also to hide your scars. You can barely bring yourself to look at them, how are they supposed to? You’ve been out for weeks, maybe months, but nothing seems to be going anywhere. You thought at one time that that girl who worked at the deli was the girl for you, but no, that wasn’t to be either.

Something happens. You shrink back into that cave you call your home and that wave of guilt hits you again. You envelope yourself in drugs, harder, more dangerous stuff this time, in order to numb and destroy the pain. Fuck her. These hits will teach her that she was wrong. Self-harm becomes more of a routine necessity than a method of coping with trauma. Fuck her, so long as it hurts, it’s worth it. This’ll teach her that she was wrong. You loved her. She spat in your face.

You cry again every night, for what feels like weeks, but could’ve just as easily have been years. You arrive at a depressing realization; she was the only girl for you. It is decided, there is only one thing that will work for you. Drugs don’t work, dating refuses to help and self-harm isn’t an effective means of aiding the pain. You have to kill yourself. It’s the only way to help. You’ve never had the guts before, but prove them wrong, show that you have the guts to do it, your friends never meant shit to you anyway, and neither did she. This would be the biggest “fuck you” she’d ever seen. You weren’t bothered; you were on a downward spiral anyway. What did drugs, sex and self-harm lead to? You missing her more than you first did when she walked out that door.

You leave your room, your sanctuary that protects you from the evils of the world and head to the DIY store. There you purchase a rope. “Don’t worry about it,” you keep telling yourself. “It’ll be quick.” You pray that you’re right.

Religion had never been your thing. You’d tried it, but it didn’t make sense, it wasn’t believable. It worked for her, but you couldn’t see how believing in a man on a cloud would help you. He wasn’t real anyway, and if he was, he seemed like a pretentious dick anyway.

Back home you smoke one more cigarette, drink one more beer, make a few calls, make amends and write your note. You don’t make amends with her; she’s the reason you’re here. You do mention her in your note. Fuck, you even write her a separate one. You blame her, and her only. She’d been the only one for you, and she wasn’t here to talk you out of this. Were you told as a child how cruel the whole world could be? You turn your phone off; you don’t want to be disturbed.

You’re tired. You decide you’ll do it in the morning, at least then you can enjoy one more cigarette in your empty life. You sleep surprisingly well to say this is the last day you’ll ever see. You cry and climb the chair and slip your head into the noose you’ve tied.

You cry once more, softly this time, as though you’re making peace with the world. You hesitate with no reason as to why. You wanted this. You wanted to show her she was wrong.

You hear a nock at the door and she shouts your name. She shouts your name. You jump out the noose and sprint to the door, opening it. She’s a mess. She’s changed. She’s not like you remember her. You get talking. You invite her in, explain the situation. She tells you her situation. She’s a whore, essentially. You don’t talk about the old days, and she explains why she’s here. Mutual friends have told her what you’re about to do. She’s driven over two hundred miles to come and save you. You agree to rehab and counselling as she suggests. She didn’t mean any harm; it just “wasn’t working out.” You’d loved her, but you don’t feel the same connection you do now to her. She’s just a friend now.

You stay in touch. After a couple of months you reintroduce yourself to friends you haven’t seen in months. You’ve been wrong all this time. They’ve cared about you, they’ve missed you; they’ve been worried about this downward spiral you’ve put yourself in. This whole time you’ve put the idea in your head that everybody hates you and you have no purpose now that she’s gone. You keep up with your friends. You go out with them, meet new people. You never get back with her, and you don’t want to be anymore. But she’s saved your life, and you’re forever grateful. Whoever you end up next may be the perfect one for you, and she’s happy for you, proud of you even. And that suits you perfectly. Even without her, because of her, you’re happy, the happiest you’ve been in months.