No, I'm Just Delusional (Phan) RE-WRITE IN PROCESS

Remembering Sunday

Through my anguished sobs, silence echoes around me, and then I hear the light dings of rain hitting the car and bouncing off. It is light and within seconds it turns almost torrential. My body is cramping up and I know I have to stop before I crash. I pull over somewhere. The sky is dark and starless as I look out my window. The rain is pounding the front window and I turn the windscreen wipers on,  they do nothing.

And then all the emotions come back worse than ever. I can’t breathe, I need to get out of the car. Everything is a memory. I open my door and I am immediately assaulted by the heavy rain. I shiver and wrap my hands around the opposite  upper arm. I don’t feel the rain mixing with my tears. I don’t feel it dripping down my back. I don’t feel  my waterlogged shoes. All I feel is the tornado seconds away from erupting out of my stomach. I look up and brush the water soaked hair from my eyes, taking in my surroundings.

 Of all the places.

It’s the park. The park that is the biggest reminder of every single thing I have ever done or felt towards him. It had once been a park, any normal park with a swing set and climbing blocks. The park that had once been just that, a park. But now it harvested memories, both crippling and painful. The tornado inches close to my throat and I feel the need to scream. Scream for everything that has ever happened to me, to him. I want to scream for the pain inside of me, I want to scream because of what we just did. I want to scream because time after time after time I fuck up and there is no way I can ever make it right. But I don’t. Because the tornado isn’t at my throat yet.

My feet squelch in the mud and grass, my white shoes going a murky brown. I walk slowly, taking in my surroundings. I sit on the swing. The rain is now falling harder than ever and I can’t see my car only 20 meters  away of me. I can barely find the effort to push off from the ground and when I do my hands grip the plastic covered chains and I let out a strangled sob. I push off again and let out an anguished cry, and another, and another. Until I can’t push off the ground and I can’t hold onto the chains.

I feel myself falling before I hit the ground, but I don’t feel the pain. The only pain is in my heart. Sobs rack my body and I pull my knees up to my chest. I am laying in a puddle of mud and the rain is ghosting down my back and settling in my hair. The wind picks up and I shiver, an extreme cold coming on.

My hands reach up to cover my face and I pull one hand back when I feel something warm. There is blood, I wipe it away and wrap my fingers in my hair, pulling and pulling until I can feel the pain, but I don’t. It is then that I give up. I let go of any hope of getting up and walking away. Walking away from this park, and this life and that damn boy. Because there is no way I can go. There is no way I can leave. I am in too deep. I am too in love with that damn boy. But maybe I could leave, get away, let him live a life worth living. But before the thoughts get a chance to whirlwind around my head, I push them away.

All I can do is embrace it. Embrace the pain. With the rain pouring down overhead, my clothes soaked and blood dripping down my face, I have no other choice. Because I can’t get up.

Everything is there. In that moment every painful thing I’ve done to him, every moment in that hospital, every heartfelt cry for him, every second locked away behind his door praying to a God that doesn’t exist to give him back to me, every time I thought it was the end, every time I woke to his screams, every time I wished I could go back, every time I wish I could of saved him, every time I wish I hadn’t been born, every ounce of love that I have for him, is there. All at once, and it is too much.

 I cry, because that’s all I can do. Cry for him.

With my body wound tight and loose all at once, I feel hot and cold, wet and dry, the one thing I can feel is the pain. The pain that after everything I still choose wrong every time and every time, he’s the one who cops it. He’s the one who trusts me uncontrollably every time. All the things I did to him.

I don’t know how long I lay there. Minutes feel like hours and hours feel like centuries and still I can not move. Because how can you face the world when the one you love is being destroyed by rain and wind and you are seemingly both. More the rain than the wind but what do you say?

 “I’m sorry that I’m both your umbrella and the rain?” No you can not say that. How, how could you even try to say that?

It is when I catch a glimpse of the rising sun that I manage to un-wrap my hands from my knees, lift my head from the mudded ground and push my self up on to unsteady legs. I push my self to the car, a seemingly impossible task and when I reach the car, I get a glimpse of what I look like. My hair is matted with dried dirt and it is stuck to my face. My eyes are red and puffy. My lips are bruised,  from my teeth, my face is covered in dirt and there is a large cut continuing from my forehead into my hair. I touch it gingerly and flinch when I feel a large and painful bump. The scariest thing I see however is my eyes. They look back at me, like they once did a million years ago in a hospital bathroom. I can’t look away, but I force myself to because I have to get back.

The drive seems like seconds and when I arrive I climb up the steps and my head is fuzzy. My heartbeat increases and paranoia sets in. My breaths are coming out laboured, I shuffle slowly towards my room and find the door slightly ajar, just the way I left it. I breathe a small sigh of relief, but the paranoia is reinforced when I see him.

I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.

I can’t do this.

He is curled up in a ball . He looks troubled,  no different to any other night, but it has not been any other night.. The covers are thrown off,  his brow sweaty, and his slim figure tightly composed. At least he is asleep. I don’t know what I’d of done otherwise. I walk into the ensuite bathroom and close the door. I drop my head into my hands, yet again and feel the ache in my hunched shoulders. I shed my clothes and step into the shower. I can’t do this.

I need to wash, or else he’ll know. I briefly consider telling him what actually happened but immediately dismiss it. He can’t know and I can’t do this.

The shower is neither hot nor cold but I can see steam rising from my skin. I turn the water down. I scrub myself till I am red and even then I keep scrubbing. I wash my hair with rough hands, hands that could once play the piano, but are now rugged and calloused.

I step out of the shower and dry myself, I wonder whether to put pyjamas on, but I know he will notice and knowing him, worry. I glance in the mirror at the jagged cut. There’s nothing I can do about it, so I brush my curly wet hair over it and wrap the towel around my bottom half.

I walk out of the bathroom and over to the bed. It is still relatively dark and I hope he has not woken while I was gone. I can’t do this. I really I can’t do this.

I stand up again and drop the towel. I can’t do this.

I push the blankets and force myself to lay down. I really can’t do this.

I lay facing the ceiling, staring at nothing. I focus on his breathing. I turn my head and look at him. He’s so beautiful. I can’t do this, but I know I must.

I reach over and brush the hair from his sweaty forehead. I sigh, letting the air fill my lungs before I move. I gently pull the pillow, soaked in sweat, from his chest, wrapped in his naked arms, and throw it off the bed. I move closer and his hands reach out. I pull him closer and he surprises me by pulling me into his naked body and wrapping his arms around me. His face has softened and his legs are stretched out.

“I missed you.” His raspy voice echoes around the room.

And that is how I fell asleep, with Phil's fingers dancing in my hair and his red lips on my collar bone.