nyctophilia | phan

1: Guess Who's Back, Back Again

one and a half years later...

It happens every night that I come here, at different times, in different places. But it always happens.

It's so hot in here, and yes; before you ask me where I am, I know that I shouldn't be here and yes, I've only came out of the rehabilitation centre two weeks ago, but honestly it's the only place where I can try and forget everything that's happened over the past year. But even in an illegal strip club I still see his face on the walls and in the expressions of the strangers pulsating to the horrific dance music blaring from the speakers on either side of the room.

And no one knows me. Not my face, not my name. If they do then they ignore me and pretend I don't exist. For the past year I've been a dark shadow of YouTube and the Internet has slowly discovered about my drug addiction and branded me as damaged goods. My name has been completely blackened. Now everyone hates me. I'm pretty sure Phil hates me too, because he hasn't called me once or replied to any of my messages.

But I need to stop thinking about Phil. I need to fucking forget.

I merge into the crowd of unfamiliar faces and watch the female strippers at the top of the room. It isn't something that I like watching. In fact, I hate watching it. And it's the fact that I hate watching it so much that distracts me and keeps him out of my brain.

Suddenly, I feel icy hands gripping my shoulders and I cower against them, whirling around to face a girl about my age with long silvery blonde hair and dark eyelashes shadowing her wide eyes. She bats her eyelashes seductively and I can already see where this is going to take me. For a split second I make the mistake of turning my head and I feel my heart sink in my chest as I think about how what I'm about to do is going to hurt Phil. And that's when I think I see his face, one of his electric blue eyes hidden beneath his ebony fringe and his skin dyed purple and blue by the flashing lights. But then he disappears.

Then I remember that he doesn't care about me anymore. I'm free. This girl who I don't know is free to do what she likes with me, because I don't care.

And I know I'll hate myself for it in the morning.

+++

When I wake up my skin appears paler than usual and the bedsheets stick to me. I'm alone in this double bed, but it's too obvious that I wasn't alone last night. There's red and beige make-up stains on the pillows, hair pins sitting on top of my bedside locker and an open box of condoms lying on its side on the floor. When I close my eyes, I can see flashbacks of what went on last night and I cringe.

I feel like fucking shit.

It's only been two weeks since I was let out of rehab, and I know that I should he happy to be free at last after eighteen months of being trapped in a rehabilitation centre with days where I'd do nothing but cry and beg the doctors there for pills, any pill at all. I would get absolutely nothing so I'd go to sleep and have nightmares and wake up in cold sweats. And I felt so alone. It felt so strange to not have Phil by my side telling me that things would be okay, and to hold my hand. Or even just to look into his eyes and know that if he was there with me I'd make it through.

It's been eighteen months of fucking hell, and the drug withdrawal wasn't even the worst part. It was the fact that Phil was not by my side that killed me every single day. It was that he was the first thing I'd think of in the morning and the last thing I'd think about before I go to sleep each night, and he probably wasn't thinking about me at all. I'd sit by the telephone every Sunday when I was allowed a phone call and wait for him to call for me. And in those eighteen months he didn't call me once.