Something I wrote when I was in an odd mood...I don't know what to rate it but I'll say it's pg-13 for drug use, alcohol etc.
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Maybe the worn down bathroom of some old random club wasn't the best place to break down yet again, but he hadn't had much of a choice. These things just aren't controllable. You can't just wish for these things to go away.
He rested his head on his ink'd forearm, full of memories he both wished to remember and forget, as his entire body felt like it was caving in on itself. His head was fuzzy and he felt like he was floating, which seemed impossible because he could only think of himself as a boulder; he was so heavy with anguish the floor seemed to crack under his feet. A smile broke out on his face, a sickening one to say the least. His life was laughable, even to him, what the hell was he doing? Why was he even here? Why did he even deserve to exist?
Movement, that's all he could make out. Movement and a loud bass thrumming through his ears to his pounding head; everything was a blur, his feet moved on their own as he walked, to where, he didn't know. And didn't particularly care because right now, he forgot about everything. He was too fucked up to remember, and that was okay; he didn't want to.
He lost count of how many times he's been here; waking up in an unknown place, be it a cheap motel or a dismal alley, still shit-faced but more broken than the day before. Stumbling to his feet he could make out the blurred lines of a trash can, another alley it seemed. He looked around slowly, his eyes attempting to adjust to the light like a broken camera lens, only to fail and burn even more; no doubt from the effects of whatever he got into last night.
A step; his feet feel like they're cemented to the concrete.
Another; the sound seems to travel through his body to echo in his head, bouncing around in there like a fireball, egging on his never ending headache.
One more and he's on the ground again, cheek flat on the gritty surface and eyes rolling until blackness veils over his mind once more.
iv
He doesn't own a phone, he doesn't need it. He doesn't have any friends, doesn't have a life, why would he need something that he would most likely lose just as soon as he's gotten attached to it? He doesn't need the disappointment, he can't bare to feel that pain again. The heartbreak disappointment brings; one can only live through so much until they can't take it any longer. And for him, that happened long ago.
v
He laughs at himself in the mirror, how low can you get? How much longer are you going to burden the world with your presence? You don't belong here. You don't mean anything, you aren't worth anything. You're useless.
Selfish.
You're selfish for wanting to stay here.
Just leave.
vi
It takes days to find him; held up in the dingy apartment he somehow was able to rent, complete with water stains and broken pipes, on his almost invisible cash flow. It wasn't because his friends hadn't heard from him, he had none. Not one. It wasn't his parents, they too, were make believe. It was because he hadn't shown up to pay his rent for the fifth month in a row.
The manager found him, curled up on his bed like a child, with a note stuck under the empty bottle of Xanax, and half empty bottle of Everclear; it was barely legible due to his constant shaking hands, but past the trembling lines, the underlying message was clear.
'I'll stop being selfish, I'm sorry.'
