All Roses must die

"I just miss you so much..." she finally replied after a moment of silence. She sounded drunk, but that was nothing new. I don't think she's been sober since I dumped her.

"I did it again." She was referring to cutting. "You have no idea what it feels like... I miss you," she repeated and started sobbing again.

"I know what it feels like," I responded calmly, "I've got the scars to remind me, too. You really need to stop calling me, Rose."

"I know you still love me..." she said, and somehow I felt like she was smiling as she said it. I didn't reply.

"See? You know it's true... You just were too lazy to take care of me, to walk me through it."

"And you know that's not true at all. I tried my best, Rose, I really did. I tried for twelve years. Twelve. I recovered, but you didn't. You helped me recover, but I failed. That's why it's over. You deserve someone better – someone who can succeed in what I failed." I said. She wasn't crying anymore, or at least the sobs had stopped. It sounded like she was smiling again.

"I know you did it, too..." she said. I looked down at my thigh. Among all the never-fading scars, a handful of red cuts were flashing through, some of which were still bleeding.  Rose was right; I had relapsed just fifteen minutes ago. I decided to ignore her comment.

"Please stop calling me," I said, again calmly. She didn't reply. I hung up.

Not a day goes by without me thinking about her - or us, for that matter. Like I said, I met her when we were 14. We instantly became best friends; I guess we kind of saw ourselves in each other, considering that we both were extremely depressed at the time. My depression was mainly caused by losing my mother to cancer. What about her? Well, she was raped by her grandfather.

Depression and self-harm go hand-in-hand, and the two of us certainly were textbook examples of that. But we never found out about each other until I turned 16. Rose was kind enough to pay me a visit on my birthday, but that’s kind of what best friends do, right? She was wearing a gorgeous dark blue dress which matched her eyes perfectly. People usually try to hide their scars and cuts, and Rose was no exception. However, on that day she decided not to. When I asked about it later in our lives, she said that she hadn’t cut herself for a week and thought I wouldn’t notice. I guess I just know what scars look like. Way too well. I didn’t tell her I saw them, but… I knew what she was going through, and I knew exactly what she felt like. It was on that day, my 16th birthday, that I fell in love with her.

Fuck it. Reminiscing about her wasn’t going to change anything. I didn’t break up with her because I stopped loving her. I broke up with her because she deserves someone who can help her and succeed in where I failed. And let’s face it - she kind of made my life a living hell. Going to work in the morning and not knowing if your girlfriend is still alive when you get back is… not exactly easy. But I needed to stop thinking about her and get some sleep instead. It was three in the morning and I had to work the morning shift. I looked down on my thighs again. The blood had coagulated and most of it had already dried. I didn’t even bother cleaning up; the adrenaline rush was already over and I felt drowsy. I lied down, closed my eyes and fell asleep, just like that.

 

Beep. Beep. Beep. Fucking alarm clocks. The three glorious hours of sleep I received were ruined by my nightmares. The usual ones, where Rose and I still were together. They always started out like normal, we were happy and there were no indications of anything happening. Yet, whenever I looked away from Rose for whatever reason, she transformed into a monster. A demon, I don't know. She was a bloody, winged creature, who always blamed me for her self-destructive behavior. And the nightmares always ended in the same way; she shouted something about getting revenge, after which she always tried to slice my throat with the razor blades she used for cutting. But just before she succeeded, I always woke up.