" You only truly miss someone when they are gone.
And sometimes, it's hard to let go.
But you have to let him go..."
It is hard when your loved one is gone. But for Riley, it was something different. In a sick sort of way, she loved it-reminiscing...
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Riley fell against the door with a loud bang, crying her eyes out. She couldn't take anything anymore...not a moment longer.
She went upstairs, and locked herself in her room.
Soon, Maria arrived, banging the door. Riley just holed herself up.
She didn't want any pity, any mercy. She wanted to be out and left alone.
So she did the most bitchiest thing possible...
"I SAID LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE AND STOP CARING AS IF YOU ARE MY OWN MOTHER!" Riley yelled with all she had, Maria had stopped banging right then.
Riley heard her leave.
Riley cried even more...she was so sorry. She was so tired. She felt so so tired and weak.
Somewhere around the night, she had fallen asleep....
Then she had that dream...
It was at the middle of a windy night. The window was open, curtains flapping furiously, leaves flying in, trees swishing in a harsh manner. The wind was prickly and the type of cold that bit at you. But it was calming. A familiar tattooed hand reached for the cassette player, an age old rusty looking one.
Then, the slender fingers reached under his pillow, taking out a small bottle. He rolled it under his hands before finally opening it. He messily poured a handful of pills in his hands, some white pills gracefully fell and bounced on the floor sophistically with audible thuds.
He gulped them whole and waited, staring up at his empty white ceiling in the dark. He felt cold, very cold for the wind. But not once did he allow himself to be warmed by the blanket that was just below his foot. He just waited.
When the first ray of sunlight streamed, he began feeling woozy , but he didn't sleep. He didn't sleep, he was waiting for something more to happen.
Before he finally gave in, he put on the cassette and finally started the song, music filling the deathly silent room...
" Sunday is gloomy My hours are slumberless Dearest the shadows I live with are numberless Little white flowers Will never awaken you Not where the black coach Of sorrow has taken you Angels have no thoughts Of ever returning you Would they be angry If I thought of joining you Gloomy Sunday...."
He was smiling. Smiling to that song, trying to defeat the sadness off it.
His eyes took in every nook and cranny of his room—the crumpled bed sheets, to the colorful posters on his wall–his broken dreams, the faded curtains, even his white ceiling, all was seen. The sleep was prickling in his eyes and was welcoming him with it's arm open ....his eyelids dropped finally, all seen was black. Just the pitch darkness, mingling with the song...
