Summertime (Frerard)

44: I'll Know It's You And That It's Over So I Won't Even Try

This was the worst way to remember, and this was going to be my demise with the third gunshot, when it would come in eventuality, but for now, my head crashed against the wall, and dented the plaster further and I could only think of how much I hate the colour they painted the house, and perhaps this would encourage them to do something about that, so I didn't feel worthless, not really.

My head just didn't stop spinning, and common sense would call upon the impact with the plaster and the visible dent of my own creation, but I was in such a state that common sense was rendered nothing more than an inaccessible privilege.

There's a shout of my name that I just managed to catch before I fell victim to the great power that is unconsciousness, and I wondered if I'd ever wake up, and I wondered if I even wanted to, but I stopped trying to answer questions that I couldn't; the third gunshot, bringing true silence in the form of nothingness and a pure pitch blackness that I couldn't open my eyes to.

But the third gunshot was nothing to do with me, and I knew jealousy was the wrong emotion, but everything was wrong right now, so perhaps I could bury my hypocrisy and masochism amongst the sins of many, but I knew that was nothing but a fool's exit, and that I too, was nothing more than a fool as I put trust in a boy without his medication and a gun in his room, and this was my fault, and I hoped that when I woke up things would all be perfect and all be happy, but this wasn't a fairytale, and I was no princess, and my prince charming was certainly a fucking asshole, even to the very end.

We were like that - assholes, doing everything wrong and facing no consequences for it until the very end.

I guess the world just finally caught up to us, but I never wanted it to end, not like this, not when I still hadn't-

-

I woke up.

But I didn't, and the world was dark, and my senses didn't quite really work properly, and I felt myself stumbling around in the darkness of my mind, leaving me to the sole conclusion that this was simply some kind of fucked up dreamland; some kind of fucked up dream, serving as my transition into whatever hell I would find myself in from now one - literal, or figurative, right now it didn't quite seem to matter.

And I saw him, beer bottle in hand and that scowl on his face, shouting words that almost seemed to come out in another language, because they weren't even words, they were just noises, and my head was spinning as I attempted to decipher the barbaric yells directed in my direction as I found myself rooted to the spot.

Because God would never have it that I could run away from someone like him, because he'd always follow me in my head, no matter where I went, and as I thought things had gotten the worst they'd been, with him inches away from me, but then it was her, and she was stopping him and it was all over again and I was young again.

I seemed to shrink on the spot, losing about a foot in height as I morphed into my childhood self, looking wide eyed up at the parents before me and the words I didn't quite understand that they hurled at one another as the house as it was seemed to be slowly fading into the background, as if it was scribbled in with crayon.

I stood in the doorway, and it was late, and I knew, I knew what was happening here, and for the second time, I couldn't move, I couldn't stop it, and my stomach practically doubled over with the knowledge, because I couldn't do this, and I begged, I begged, I begged, but, of course, with no words to leave my lips.

And suddenly, as if with the turn of a dial, the sound came up to full blast and my ears began to ring at the shouting in the kitchen and my sobs, drowned out in the wine bottle shattered against the tiled floor and the slap that followed, hard against my mother's face, and it stung red on her pale cheeks and she said a word I knew not to repeat.