Shackles & Roses

Fifteen

Everything hurts. Every fibre of my body is screaming. I make no sounds.

I think that, if I were to drop dead right this second, or indeed any time recently, my spirit would skip the funeral and then dance upon its own grave. If it remembered how to dance, that is, for I have not done so in a long, long time.

It's days like these I miss her most. When it rains outside and I daren't leave the house, for the droplets taste salty to me. We used to curl up under a shared blanket, Illa at our feet, and watch films as the rain poured in sheets outside the window. Other times we'd do nothing but sit together for hours on end, listening to the pitter-patter of raindrops, my arms wrapped around her, leaning against me, leaning into her. Like one person.

Instead I sit, alone— devoid of even Illa's company— at my kitchen table. My hands are still trembling a little. The lights are turned off to prevent my eyes from aching. I have lit a candle, at least, which sits in the centre of the table a-flickering, and casting elongated shadows on the walls. The rain beats relentlessly against the windows, and the candle wavers, as though they're both dancing to some beat I cannot hear. They are keeping secrets from me.

But I mean, more than this, about the weather, my mood. I miss her most on days I feel so awful. When my mindset is that of hatred for myself. Pure and unadulterated hatred for my own being. My thoughts are daggers, blatantly stabbing me in the back again, and again. Not that I try to hide my hatred. I don't even try to counter each cutting statement. I let it run free, with the full force of water from a broken dam.

It's not always this bad, though; the way I feel about myself. Today has been more trialsome than usual, because— of what happened. On top of that, I can't get that night off my mind, The night she— The night I wasn't— I breathe deeper. I deserve this guilt; I should not complain.

This guilt. These memories, bombarding me. My very own arrows, driving swift and true towards my heart. I do not know what I intend them to do. My heart is already shattered like fragile glass, and the pieces buried with Bailey. Or maybe I should say burnt with her. She was burnt. I can still feel the flames licking hungrily around me, asking to have me, too.

The rain. My love, for her. The love that is slowly ripping me apart. I need her strength beside me- I've never known that more than now. A love as strong as ours is dangerous on its own. I've been trying to carry the torch by myself for too long. I want to rewind time.

Pain ricochets through my abdomen, accompanied by another dagger of hatred. She saw me as the man I'd like to be. I saw her exactly as she was; perfect. Now forever perfect she remains, and I am still no closer to being the man she thought I was. It feels like a betrayal. I've let her down.

I let her down a long time ago.

Bailey was never one to hold a grudge; love and forgiveness are what she emanated. And so, knowing she would never condemn me no matter what I do, I loathe myself enough for the both of us. In my mind, I see my spirit, broken, but laughing. Laughing at me.

The walls feel like they're closing in. They're bearing down on me from all sides and I close my eyes to shut it out but it keeps on coming. I can feel them moving closer; feel as they lay me in shadow. Panic bounces throughout my mind, loving the power every new second of this feeling gives to it. I want to scream, but I clamp my mouth more firmly shut and press even further into the seat. I deserve this.

I reach blindly towards the radio. It whirrs to life beneath my touch, just like I used to under Bailey's gaze. She never even had to touch me. If I don't get the sound of the rain out of my head soon I'm going to snap. The voices of the presenters fill my head.