For Crying Out Loud

18: Cluttered

Jake's P.O.V.

     I, again, refuse to sleep. I lock my door so my mom will stay away, and crank my music up louder and louder until I finally hear her leave. My mom doesn't give a shit about how I feel. She just wants me to fake it out, and when I refuse to do so, she leaves. She's the type to leave.

     After she finally leaves, I turn off my music and light a cigarette, observing the cherry every time I exhale. I still haven't figured out the answer to my question, but in a way, I stopped searching. I don't want to search. I want my death to be a surprise. Maybe I'll wake up one day and decide to hang myself or something, or maybe I'll go to the doctor and have them tell me I'm going to die a long and torturing death from cancer or some other disease caused by smoking, but one day I won't wake up. That's inevitable.

     After a while I start going through my draws, looking for thing Sia might have left behind. I find a bracelet she gave me in eighth grade. It's a leather band covered in silver skulls. I snap it on and keep looking.

     I eventually find a half-full bottle of Prozac that she must of left on one of the nights she slept over, though we rarely slept when she stayed the night. It was probably back when she actually took her meds in the mornings and never "forgot". When she left them doesn't matter, they are still here. I put them in my bathroom cabinet for safe-keeping and keep searching.

     I find a few more things, including an old crawfish-boil t-shirt and a black belt. Haha, I probably took them off her. Jesus... I miss her.

     I stop then, sitting on the bed and running my fingers through my hair. Then the old bracelet snaps off and rolls under the bed. When I reach down to grab it, I find a pack of blue post it's. Memories swim through my head. She used to write sweet things on these and put them on me in my sleep. When I'd wake up, and she was gone, I'd have a letter stuck to my body that I'd have to piece together.

     She always had these. Always. She'd stick them on her wall, crumble them up and shove them in her purse. She'd even rip them up when she got nervous, but she always had them. She loved to write. She still does. I know this because that is one thing about Sierra Paige that will never change. Writing is her escape. She's the type to write.

     Time ticks by so much slower than I wish it would. Eventually I do everything I can to busy myself, including sticking blue post it's to the wall. Live, shattered, Dear, in, we, a, world, People. I stick these words in a jumbled ordered. Thinking of how true what I'm trying to say is.

     I take a shower- a cold one because I've grown accustomed to the stabbing feeling- and I listen to music for a while longer. It's only three a.m. and it makes me angry. I want the day to come. I want the sun to rise before the darkness can consume me and force me to sleep. I don't want to fucking sleep. I turn the music up louder and rip blue paper until my bed is covered in pieces of post it. I look at the clock. Three-thirty a.m.

     I clean up my mess. Then I clean my whole room for the first time in Months. Sia used to make me clean my room. Amy and my mom don't give a shit, but Sia said "If your room is cluttered, your mind becomes cluttered. If your mind becomes cluttered, you make rash decisions. When you make those decisions, you suffer the consequences. Trust me, you don't want those consequences." Four months since my room has been clean, and in those four months I have set myself for horrible consequences. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was more than OCD.

     It's four-thirty by the time I finish, but I still have two hours until sunrise. I honestly don't think I can make it. I mover over to my wall again, moving the notes around.

Dear People,
     We live in a shattered world.

     Finally I admit defeat and curl up until my blanket. I read over the the note a couple more times before I turn out the light. When I do, I just lay there for a moment, feeling like this should be more monumental. Bigger. The small moments should always be bigger. Even though this is just a teenage guy with depression finally allowing himself to sleep, this should mean more. Finally I whisper into the dark "Good-night Sierra Paige." and allow the darkness of sleep consume me. Before it does though, I have to smile. This may be the first good decision I've made in four months.

______~|~
Now, I am all but OCD. (There is more to OCD than wanting everything clean, by the way) But I do believe that if you are in a clean environment, your mind cleans up as well. I rarely clean my room. I'm that kind of teenager, okay? But I do find I think better when I do clean my room. Maybe it allows my mind to stretch farther, I don't know. I'm just to lazy to clean my room. (Sorry Mom)  VOTE! COMMENT! TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!!! LOVE YOU MY DARKLINGS!