Xanax, Sorrow, and Love (A Mikey Way Fanfiction)

I took a sip of my coffee. The diner was completely silent except for the mumbles and coughs of truckers, clatter of dishes, and holiday music playing in a depressingly happy mute.

I looked up at a vintage Coca-Cola clock on a cream-colored wall and realized I'd been here for over an hour and haven't finished half of my coffee. A better way to waste my time, I guess, I thought. I mean, it was better than sitting in a boarded-up house doing cocaine, right?

My surroundings were quite relaxing that morning, while at the same time emphasizing the abyss in my heart. A little girl played with her doll while her mother stared out the window at the gray morning skies, dark bags under her eyes. A trucker in the gift shop picked up a souvenir stuffed animal from the gift shop and bought it, most likely for a little girl back home. These observations were happy in a way, but somewhat heartbreaking, knowing I'd be spending another holiday season alone in my not-so-great apartment in this tiny, shit town, watching TV and crying while these people are having fun with their families and actually enjoying the privilege of having a family.

I knew there were people out there who had it worse, but on that day I was at an all time low. I propped my head in my hand and sighed, a slight painful cramp rising in my chest. I added a fourth, fifth sugar packet to my coffee I doubted I'd drink. Diabetes in a neat little package, I thought, stirring the beverage mindlessly.

My stomach growled. Oh, shit, I haven't eaten anything for the past day and I haven't noticed. Dammit, Ember, you're getting worse by the minute. There I was, talking to myself again. Maybe my conscience was right, even though I really wasn't that hungry.

I waved at a waitress, and she came over with her notepad ready to take orders. "Um, hi," I said, smiling awkwardly. "I'd like the classic breakfast, with over easy eggs, bacon instead of sausage, corned beef hash instead of fries with gravy, and white toast with butter." The waitress was scribbling fantically in her yellow notepad, the red tip of the pen forming a blur as it swished rapidly in the air, then finished. "Is that all?" she asked. "Yes," I replied. She smiled warmly. "Alright," she said in a cheery tone. "I'll come back with more coffee." The waitress briskly walked away, auburn hair swaying airily behind her. I looked down at my somewhat chipped mug, stained on the inside by years of coffee. It was nearly empty. Huh, I thought. I must have been drinking it while letting my mind wander.

While I waited for my meal, I let my mind wander more. By now, it was a habit, I guess. On the walls, there were many plaques of religious sayings; like "Jesus Loves You", and "Our Blessings". "Hmph," I mumbled, looking at the table. "If God was real, my parents would be alive and I'd have a real job, not a cashier at the Dollar General." I felt a tinge of pain in my chest and sighed at nobody in particular; some truckers gave me a funny look. Why did I keep reminding myself of horrible memories? I pulled my headphones out of my pocket and turned on my portable CD player, which began to play a Disturbed song. I didn't bother to remember the title like I usually did, because hey, I made myself sad. Really sad. My mind floated off again, as if I could prevent it. As far as I can remember now, I was having an extreme existential crisis.

I was startled out of the thoughts in the recesses of my mind by the clang of the bells on the diner door, whose sound made it past my moderately quiet headphones. I quickly paused my music, the song stopping with a final 'whir' of the spinning CD; to get a better study of the man walking through the door. He was pretty tall, really skinny, and was wearing an Anthrax T-shirt and acid-washed skinny jeans. His hair was the color of milk chocolate, with a black beanie and glasses. He looks like a nice guy, I thought. But just ignore him. You've said that with every guy, and none of them cared. Human society is fucked. You don't stand a chance with him. Again, my conscience was fighting me. And the worst part was, I was beginning to side with it.