Chasing Blue

#50: Bin Over Blood.

Present

Austin

The car drove away. There was no miracle, no supernatural occurrence which stopped her. In just a matter of seconds, she vanished. This time out of my reach. Hiding behind curtains just stashed me from her sight, not the wounds which opened up after. If my pain was like a physically wounded body, the blood flow would cause a flood in Frankfurt.

That feeling you get when you lose something special and it creates an excavated dent that can never be fixed? That dent keeps getting bigger and wider and more painful. It's like you just took a bottle of death pills and you can slowly feel how each part of you is retrograding, suffering, dying. You can feel yourself slipping, losing it altogether and you know there is no solution to it. May was right last night. I don't know if I'll be able to handle this.

Some authors term that exact circumstance as death. The final blow which can't be fought against. But I don't think it's death. It's more severe than euthanasia. You have to live with this feeling. Death would be a sweet escape. Living with it is the hard part. You can't let go of it, nor can you cling to it. The more you let go, the more your head tells you to pull it back. Your heart pumps more and more blood at a faster rate when you try to forget.

It's worse when you agree to cling to it. The more you cling on, the more you dig up the aches and the more blood oozes out. And when you try to be happy with what you remember, an unreal bucket of acid is poured onto the wound. The sting which follows is inhuman to handle.

Nothing can be the same again. When I see my chest, I see her fingers tracing my skin. When I touch my hair, I remember holding her hair and pulling her close. When I look at my eyes in the mirror, I don't see my reflection. In those blue eyes, I see her smile. That very smile when she can't look at me without blushing anymore.

Even when I accidentally let a drop of tear slip by, that tear keeps saying 'Coop' in her voice. The same voice in which she yelled that she loved me. And the more I dwell in those thoughts, the more acid I'm pouring on my wounds, and it becomes fucking hard to breathe normally.

I love her way too much. I loved her way too much to let her go and cause myself so much pain. I love her way too much to forget I ever had her.

"Izz," I groaned pulling my hair in all different directions as I stare at my reflection in the mirror. This is the second time I've cried so much in one week. My eyes are more red than blue, her hoodie is filling me with her scent and I can't help but notice how I'm so much her and so little me at this moment.

I need to get out of this place. Her room, it's filled with her presence. And I need to move away so my eyes would stop tearing up.

I take my phone from the nightstand and my eyes catch the second rose she's left on her side of the bed. I push it into the pocket of my hoodie. I'm about to leave when I see the drop of blood next to a wet drop of tear. Fuck, did she prick herself? Anger grows in me when I imagine how she must have hurt herself and didn't bother telling me that. I clean the drop of blood and take up all the roses and pocket the two special ones she plucked out for me. I drop them in my room and head for the cafeteria after freshening up.

Although I try my best to think of anything else but her, she keeps invading my mind. I pull out my phone and dial Jason's number. Within the next four rings, he picked it up.

"Alive yet, Don Juan?" Asshole muttered from the other end.

"It's not funny." I hissed as I pressed the ground floor button on the elevator.

"I didn't mean it in a funny way. It's an alternative, creative way of asking 'How are you'," He said in a low voice.

Within a second I could see what mood he was in. Low and sad and left out. He felt the same way too.