Fallout: Part III of The Journal Series

Chapter Eleven: Magic Colic Ride

December, 1997.

Christmas. My first Christmas season alone, to be precise. 

Happy fuckin' holidays, you stupid, heartbroken fuck. You did it to yourself.

I didn't have a tree, decorations, or anything. Friends and family were lucky enough that I remembered to send out Christmas cards, and those closest to me, the few and far between, even managed to get gifts.

Like a dumb ass I'd gotten Duff something, too. Even sent him a card and, to my surprise, got one back.

Merry Christmas, Uncle Slash!

Lots of Love,
Duff and Grace

That was the only contact we'd had since the hospital. It seemed that was our final bow, our last, broken goodbye without actually saying a true farewell.

I stared out the window from my protective ball on the couch, my knees pulled to my chest, into the darkness of the drizzly, near-freezing night. I wished it would snow because I'd certainly love to liquor myself up, bury myself in the flurries, and commit suicide by means of transforming into a human icicle.

How festive it would be.

I couldn't do that, though. Sure, I could hurt myself, do ill-advised daredevil shit that put me in extreme bodily harm's way, but my self-preservation instinct was too damn strong for me to willingly try to end my shitty joke of a life.

So instead I sighed, grabbing up the acoustic guitar propped against the couch. I spun myself upside down, feet over the back of the sofa and my head hanging off the front, my hair pooling on the carpet below. Somehow it was comfortable as I mindlessly strummed, my eyes closed most of the time unless I stared vacantly out the open window, focusing my empty eyes on the moon, a small, arched, silver sliver in the purple sky.

A melody, old and familiar, surfaced to my fingers. It was the song without a name. A song that I played for years. A song that once brought me immense joy. Now it only snuck up on me. I made a conscious effort to avoid it, to stamp those memories down, forget what happiness felt like since it made me yearn for what I couldn't have, what I fucked up, what I didn't deserve, but it was to no avail.

What were once beautiful, sweeping classic melodies now sounded like the chords of misery, a creeping, melancholy harpsichord as opposed to what had once been a passionate grand piano.

I'm not sure if that makes sense since I have no fucking knowledge of piano, but that's what it reminded me of. Like a movie, a scene of love gone sour with a macabre, doomed edge that sets your hackles on end as you wait for the villain to appear. I didn't have to wait for him to appear, though. I had only look in a mirror.

I inhaled again, closing my eyes to the emotions that made them prickle, made my tear ducts betray me, playing through the song, his song, empty, completely vacant but for the plethora of memories that played behind my closed eyes.