05/08 -- the day i grieve
I AM ARMELLE. I SHALL GRIEVE.
Dear Diary,
Today was different. The neighbourhood was quieter, and I didn't see Michael for the whole day. I actually took my meds, as well. I figured that I should maintain my sanity for as long as possible -- just until I kill him. Just until he realises that he missed out on so much of me when he was alive, and when I was sane... just before he dies and hits the ground. God, I'm so morbid. I've been feeling sick the whole day -- maybe it's the pills. Thoughts of Michael have been plaguing my brain, too, but nothing amorous. Nothing far off how I'm going to carry through with the plan. I have to remind myself that it's only nine days away. That's less than two full hands worth of counting.
This morning, I picked up the wired telephone on my nightstand and dialed Calum's number. I was already halfway into his phone number when I realised he was gone, and no matter how much I needed him, he wouldn't be there. But, I dialed it, anyway. I dialed it to hear his voice through the receiver, and rock in my bed with tears down my cheeks as I called his number repeatedly. It hurt. I hurt. Everything hurt. Calum was a pile of ashes and nothing more -- and I wanted him back. I wanted to tell him how much I cared for him and how much I wished I didn't take him for granted. I felt empty. Empty without his hand on my back. Empty because I knew that our first kiss was our last kiss. Empty because I knew without him, I would never move on from Michael. Not when he was dead, not ever.
I'm wearing all black, today. For Calum. For the memory of him. I know I'm late -- so very, very late -- but it caught on me like a horrid flu that I really did like Calum. I liked his dark skin, and I liked his black hair, and I liked the little limp his leg had when I first let him in my house. I missed going to Rosehip Boulevard every couple days and asking for the same LSD papers every time, and I miss the lopsided smile he gave me each time I passed him more cash than it cost. All I could think of for the first half of the day was how his lips felt that day before he died. The softness of them, how they were plump and perfect and were around mine wonderfully. He didn't kiss like Michael, oh no -- he kissed gently. He kissed like I was going to break, and held me close to him so I wouldn't leave. Michael was rough -- Michael knew he had me wrapped right around his finger, and he knew he could slam me up walls, bruise my neck with his ardent mouth, and bend me over the table while I accept it all gladly. He loved my obedience -- I was the good girl that Clarity would never be for him.
Strangely enough, I wanted to see Clarity, today. Not really talk to her, of course. I couldn't hear words pouring aimlessly from her mouth without thinking what else she had been doing to Michael with it. The very thought made me shiver -- made my skin reel and my spine roll back in disgust. I hate what Michael did, and an unfamiliar wash of guilt passed over me as I realised that Clarity was paying for Michael's mistake. She was carrying the baby. She was the one he was going to leave. She was the one who had the decision of abortion or for raising the child herself. I felt guilty enough to run to the bathroom, pull away the hem of my black shirt and retch into the commode. I held onto the commode after I was done, resting my forehead against its cool body.
I sat there, and cried for my dead supplier, and the pregnant red headed girl.
And most of all, I cried for myself, who was wretched enough to not put an end to the real monster's life and tormented everyone around him, instead.
I was wretched enough to procrastinate killing Michael, or even worse, myself.
