Over and Over (Lashton)

Amnesia

I wish that I could wake up with amnesia,

Forget about the stupid little things

The way it felt to fall asleep next to you

And the memories I never could escape

I'm not fine at all.

~5 Seconds of Summer, "Amnesia"

Luke's POV

When I walk, there’s only silence.

There’s nothing between leaving the hotel and standing here. A blankness that occupied my thoughts, a repeated echo of three words.

I fucked up.

There has been no movement other than for my rising and falling chest and my legs carrying me onwards to a hazy destination. A vacancy, a fog that settled over my head as soon as I walked into the bathroom.

I went through the motions, yeah, but I didn’t feel anything.

My breath never reaches my lungs. I don’t even know if I’m breathing. It doesn’t seem to matter.

Everything is so distant. I need it to be distant.

The sound of the cars and people fades away. I exhale shallowly. Guess I am still breathing. I don’t bother looking up as I walk.

My hand stays clenched shut. It hurts, this tight. Stings a little. I want to let go, but I can’t open my fingers.

I don’t know what to do with it.

And now here I stand, in front of the creek, and I can feel the emotions coming back, and no. No emotions.

There’s nobody here, the wind whistling in my ears and whispering for me to open my hand. My mouth opens and closes as if I had something to say, but I have no words left.  I used them all with consolations and It’s Okays and then I ran out.

I open my hand.

There’s still blood on it. Some of it mine, now. Tiny slices on my fingers. Remnants of the panic gripping my heart.

I can shut it out. I can shut out the pain, Ashton. Everything.

Goddamnit, I scream, but it never leaves my mouth.

My breathing is constricted, a vague deoxygenated reminder lingering in the distant corners of my mind.

I didn’t mean to, I swear to god.

I throw the razor into the creek, wishing that the blood on my hands would somehow wash away too.

---

Calum's POV

Luke’s been gone for two hours.

Ashton’s asleep in the bedroom. Michael went once to check on him, just to make sure. He’s completely out, his eyes shut but still a little red after all this time. Maybe Luke’s are the same somewhere.

I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. Luke can handle himself. He can. He’s 17, he can take on someone in a fight even though he never would, he’s sensible. He won’t do anything reckless. No matter how upset he is.

But then, it was hard to miss the look on his face when he left.

“He’s not answering his phone,” Michael says from the doorway.

I throw Luke’s phone at Michael. The texts Michael sent and missed call notifications light up the screen. “He left it.”

Luke, where are you?