On the fourth day, she brought alcohol. A fancy French vodka which name I cannot pronounce. She sat on the couch, and then she cried. I asked her why she was crying. She said she felt immensely depressed because she feared that she was going insane. I told her she wasn’t going insane. I was the insane one. She laughed, she didn’t believe me.
“Are we even real?” She said in between tears. “Because sometimes, I think we’re not. All we ever do is spend time together with hardly any emotion. That’s all my contribution to life, is sitting here and talking to you about the opposite. Sometimes, I’m so insane that I think I’m your consciousness, like a piece of your mind. What makes it worse is that, Matt, sometimes I think I love you, but if I’m not real, then I’m loving myself. You understand me right? Matt?”
I didn’t answer, for I was crying too. There had to be an end to this. There had to be.
“Matt, I-I’m sorry, I just speak my mind. It’s horrible. I can’t stop it either, it come out like word vomit.”
I got up from my beanbag, and over to her spot on the couch. She stood up, next to me. For the first time I noticed how short she was compared to myself.
“Matt”.
“Shhh”. I said, bringing her into a hug, running my hand through her hair. “I’ll make this stop”.
She smiled into my torso. I cried.
YOU ARE READING
swear • r.w
Mystery / ThrillerI didn't kill her. I swear. © rainwater (I wrote this in 2014 at the age of 15, not the best)
