pretty brown eyes (a 3rd part to 'boyfriends ^^' but it's better grammar!!!)

chapter 3: aim, click, pull

Not long later, I'm sitting on my bed, waiting for Jordan to answer my goddamn call. I've already called her three times. The door is locked. My head is spinning, and my vision is blurry. I'm not thinking straight. Like, deadass more than usual.
  As the phone rings, I'm thinking of how much of an idiot I am; I've been so mean to Jordan. I've avoided help. I've lost jobs. I wrecked my car because I can't sleep without crying. You know the song "Wet" by Dazey and the scouts? Yeah, that's how I goddamn feel at night. Why am I thinking of that again? Oh yeah, my boyfriend is dead.
  Hey, is he still my boyfriend? Why am I so chill of this? Man, my mind is spinning. If someones dead, do their relationship statuses die?
  Better question, when Noah died, was my weakness to blame?

"Jayden? Are you okay? I'm on my way home. Why are you calling?" Jordan asks. Her voice is covered slightly by static noise through the phone. She works in the country. As my hand is holding up the phone, blood stains my sleeves and drips from the blade on the nightstand beside me.
"Jordan, I-I'm.. I'm sorry," I whisper into the phone. I wipe my tears that were previously scattered down my cheeks and giggle at myself in a drunken way. I don't know why I'm laughing. Maybe being so pathetic is just something I can't believe.
"Why?"
"I've been such a dick, a-and I haven't been telling you the truth and I've been secretive and I haven't.. I.. I just.." My speech is slightly slurred, and I sound tired and shaky. I am, though, not gonna lie.
"You're not a dick, Jayden. You were a little stuck up today, but you're a sweet..." Jordan's voice trails off. I wonder if she got distracted, or lost signal, but she replies with a sudden question,"Jayden, are you drunk? You're nineteen, you can't do that." True, but who cares?
"No, no.. I'm just sorry."
I hang up.
I did that because I'm gonna do something even more stupid than puncturing deep cuts into my skin and leaving them to bleed.
No. I wont. I'll just sit here safe until it wears off, right? Because my bleeding arm is no big deal! I stare at it. The cuts, fresh, are deep. But who cares? I've said that a lot. Anyway, maybe the blurred vision has an effect and I'm not really bleeding that much. I just toss my sleeve over it and press harshly as if it will heal the wound. As if it doesn't sting.
  Actually, a good question pops into my mind: what's the point? I'm a goddamn wreck.
  I stare at that photo on my nightstand, and push it down, so I can't see it. I don't want to see it. I don't want to see his face in a picture. I want to see HIM, not a memory of what he was. I lean back on my bed and just stare at the ceiling. Better than a photo reminding me how much I hate being able to remember something to remind at all. That makes sense, right?
  Let's see; I've lost multiple jobs, I've been terrible at caring for myself, I've had headaches daily, I've been a guilty, greiving mess...
  Shit. I already said that earlier.
  Either way, even if I'm sitting here thinking of it all, I want to deny it all. I want to tell myself I'm okay. But right now, I can't deny I'm a mess. Maybe it's because I'm so drunk I can't think straight—do all 19 year olds go through a phase of downing bottles of alcohol, or is that just me? Am I alone? No. I can't be. It doesn't even taste good!
  ...Why am I thinking like this? Usually, my thoughts aren't even bad. They're just.. quiet. Right now, my thoughts are quite literally rainbow.
  I sit up, open the bottom drawer of my nightstand, pull out papers and a pencil. Under all of that is a gun. I'm not exactly allowed to have it, but my dad had it before he, yknow, died.
  Hold on. What am I doing? I dunno, but it feels right!
  I pick up the gun and make sure it has ammo, and toss it onto the bed. I pull out a piece of paper and a pen, and start to write something on it. It's not very neat. Well, I am trembling, and I'm woozy.
  Once that's done, I stand up. I'm not thinking anymore. I'm only acting on something I've never really planned for.
  I never thought of death, not even after I watched it. Not for myself, at least.
  I don't think.
  Yes I do.
  I don't want to die.
  Why am I doing this?
  No, I do want to.
  I want to die so much.
  I don't think of how this could affect Jordan. How I can get better. I don't even think I can be fixed. Screw that, man. All I'm thinking of is how I've only gotten worse. And how I know, no matter what happens now, it will only end in something terrible. Better to end it all sooner.
  Aimed at the middle of my chest, I click the gun back, close my eyes, and pull the trigger, a tinge of regret flashing through me as it all goes to black.

"Jordan, I'm so, so sorry. I can't do this anymore. I'm a mess. I can't even care for myself anymore. I miss him, and I've been a dick to you for it. You don't deserve that. I've been trying so hard to be a good person and I'm failing. I haven't told anyone, but I can't stop blaming myself. If I wasn't so weak, would I have been able to stop Parker? I deserved to die, not Noah. He was too sweet to die, and I wish I was strong enough to save myself to save him.
Love, Jayden."