For those of you who wanted me to space out updates in order to drag this out, don't worry. Sequel in progress. We're not done yet.
Dedicated to all of you.
***
'That little kiss you stole, it held my heart and soul and like a deer in the headlights, I meet my fate. Don't try to fight the storm, you'll tumble overboard. Tides will bring me back to you and the waves will pull us under.'
***
I took the towel off my now-dry hair, assessing the new colour that I'd put through my locks. I didn't want the blue and black anymore; they'd reminded me too much of Olivia and Melissa and I couldn't stand to look at it without feeling sad. And so, instead of letting myself feel sad forever I had gone out, bought a box dye, some hair bleach and had set to work in my stupid, white bathroom.
The colour I'd chosen?
Medium ash brown. My natural hair colour.
I was tired of running from myself and I'd been doing that with my hair for the longest time. Maybe if I just let my body be itself, let myself be itself then I wouldn't feel so empty. It was time I started to get back into the swing of life. It had been a month since I'd last seen them. And I had the rest of my life to go without seeing them as well. I couldn't dwell on it – on them – forever if I wanted to be happy.
And so, I'd bleached the blue and black off my head and dyed my hair brown. I cried as I blow dried and towelled it and realised that every part of my LA self was now gone. Mali was gone.
I was Charlotte Slater again and there was nothing remotely interesting or quirky about me. I had no talents, no bright hair and no friends.
God, I had to stop pitying myself. It was just hard to accept the fact that Michael was as good as gone and he'd left me with a crappy handshake; one I didn't even accept.
And because I was just that pathetic, I logged onto my laptop and clicked into Twitter, pulling up Michael5SOS's profile and scrolling through his tweets. They made me want to vomit. Why? Because all of them were happy, with exclamation points, and smiley faces. All of them were excited tour posts and thankfulness expressed towards the fans that came to the shows. Not one of them hinted that he might be as heartbroken as I was. Not one of them showed an ounce of sadness.
Did I want him to be sad? No. Did I want him to be hurt? Of course not. But looking through his tweets made it seem like I'd never even existed. Mali hadn't existed. I had no proof, no evidence at all to support the fact that Mali was a part of the 5SOS boys' lives. She was gone and Michael had continued on like she was never there.
My heart physically hurt and I googled ways to reduce risks of a heart attack because I wasn't sure how much more stress mine was going to be able to take before it decided that it didn't wanna beat anymore. I couldn't blame it; that life wasn't something I was ready to walk away from. Yet, I had to.
"Charlotte, your band is on television!" My mother called from downstairs.
So I guess telling her about my little 'adventure', as she liked to call it, probably wasn't a good idea if I planned on forgetting them, right? I'd missed my parents a lot and when I'd gotten home they had wanted to know all about where I'd been and what I'd been doing. I'd lived a lie for months so telling them the real truth felt good and that meant telling my mum about 5 Seconds of Summer. The minor detail I left out? That I was in love with one of them. She didn't need to know that. I felt pathetic thinking about it and so saying it out loud would feel even worse.
I'd told them that I came home sometime throughout tour. I'd left out the part though about it being on the first day because I knew they'd start asking too many questions and I wasn't ready to answer them all yet. And so my mother was clueless about the terms that I'd left them on.
"Quick, Charlotte! You'll miss them!"
Too late. I already did miss them.
I wandered down the stairs, hoping that by the time I got there they'd be gone and I wouldn't have to look at them.
But no. There they were on a concert re-run that was filmed months ago before I'd even met them. How did I know? Because Michael was missing his red hair.
He was shredding. And before I knew it, I was crying pathetically into my mother's shoulder.
***
Special POV: Ashton Irwin
I hadn't meant to take so much. I hadn't planned to down all of them. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. I didn't mean it. I'd miscounted. I'd miscalculated. Mistake.
Oh god, my body is burning. I can feel my blood boiling beneath my skin – I feel too hot. I feel like I am cooking. Oh god, I am cooking.
I rip off my shirt, my skin too hot, and sink to the floor of the bathroom. The germs would usually freak me out but right now, the coolness of the tiles is a comfort. Maybe they will stop me from boiling. Maybe they will save me.
The saliva in my mouth is foamy and my god, I am boiling. I am cooking. I am in trouble. This is not what I meant. This isn't what I'd wanted. I need help. Where are my friends? Why aren't they here helping me? Where is Olivia? Where is Olivia? Where is Olivia?
I try to shout but there is too much spit in my mouth and all I can do is choke and cough and splutter. Good Lord, I am cooking. I am boiling.
My fingers are too shaky and my legs feel like jelly. I can't stand up, can't crawl, can't move. My cheek is pressed into the cold floor and I can feel dribble dripping down my chin like a fucking fountain.
I am on fire.
I am shaking. I am twitching and moving and I am not still. I am convulsing, my limbs jutting out and jerking without my permission. Jolts rock my spine and I cannot help it. I cannot stop. I am cooking. I am boiling. I am lightning, striking myself. I cannot stop.
My stomach feels like a rock inside my abdomen and I want to rip it out. It's the ecstasy – it's sitting in my gut, mocking me. It's tsking it's tongue and teeth at me, telling me 'I told you so'.
I cough again, and the movement feels like knives stabbing into my back, into my throat, into my whole body. I am in so much pain right now that losing Olivia feels pleasant.
I don't know how long I am like this before I can hear the bathroom door swing open and people come rushing in, all of them shouting – some screaming.
There is a lot of screaming. My eyes are closed because they are burning and I don't want to stare at the bathroom floor of a pub as I die. I don't want that to be the last thing I see. I deserve more than that even though I hadn't treated myself like it back when I'd downed those stupid pills.
I want to see Olivia. I want to look at her face, look at her eyes, look at her lips. I want her to kiss me. She hasn't kissed me in a long time. I want to ask her why. Where is she so that I can ask her why?
I am still shuddering as something is pushed beneath me and I can feel my body being lifted. Am I dead? Am I being taken up into heaven? Surely it doesn't work that quickly? Surely there is paperwork to fill out?
Where is my family? I need to see them. I need to apologise. This isn't how things were supposed to work out. I was supposed to get better, Olivia was supposed to love me and we were supposed to live happily ever after like in the movies.
And now? This is me. This is me on a stretcher, being loaded into the back of an ambulance. This is me listening to my friends shriek, cry and ask a million questions to the paramedics that they can't really answer yet because they don't know what I've taken. I want to tell them. But every time I open my mouth, I choke. Every time I open my eyes, they burn. Every time I breathe, my lungs ache. I can't do anything other than lie still and hope that my body stops shaking soon because this wasn't supposed to happen and I don't want it to drag on longer than it needs to.
I made a mistake.
And I am paying for it. And I am not ready to die. I am not ready to die. I am not ready to die.
Michael is beside me in the ambulance. How do I know it's him without being able to look at him? Firstly, he's spent the last five minutes swearing his head off at me. I deserve it.
Secondly, and finally, he is now singing to me.
"One day I swear we'll be okay, man," he's singing in a tune that I don't recognise.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
One day I swear we'll be okay, man.
Over and over and over again. The same words. Is it supposed to be comforting me or is it supposed to be comforting him? I don't know.
I feel guilty. He is in just as much pain over Mali as I am over Liv. And now he's worrying about me on top of that.
I am an awful friend, an awful person.
My body is not mine. My body is fire and pain and everything bad. I am in so much pain. I am in so much pain. I am in so much pain.
I want to see Olivia. I need her to kiss me.
I'm coughing again, hacking my lungs up like they're poisoning my body.
Michael's singing falters and his voice breaks but he keeps going, his voice rising above the noise of the ambulance engine and the paramedic in the back with us ripping open packets and hooking up machines. Maybe if I were more like Michael I'd be able to keep going. Maybe if I were more like any of the 5SOS boys I'd be able to keep going. Maybe if I were more like Mel or Liv, I'd be able to keep going. Jesus, maybe if I were more like Mali I would be able to keep going.
I miss her.
I miss Olivia too.
Where is my family?
I hate myself. I really do hate myself. But I didn't mean this. I didn't, and still don't, want this.
I manage words, I manage to speak past all the fluid in my mouth that paramedics are trying to suck out with a vacuum-like sucker. I manage to speak past all of this agony.
"I'm - not ready to die," I say and my voice doesn't sound like me. It sounds panicked and high-pitched and scratchy. I do not sound like me. Am I me? Who am I? God, I'm losing my mind. What is happening to me? "I'm not ready to die!"
Michael has stopped singing and I can hear his breathing, irrational and irregular, and I know he's crying.