GONER

15 • Glue and Smoke

A/N: Just a friendly reminder stating that if I, a thirteen year old with no patience, little will to bite my tongue, a lot of idiocy, and all the qualities of a disgusting coward can get through things, so can you. Not to mention the fact that I am a hot mess and everyone is jealous of me and hates me at the same time. (I am only telling you that last part because it is actually a terrible thing. Contrary to popular belief, having people be envious of you fucking sucks. Especially when everything they're envious of isn't even real.)

***

It took two weeks after Josh and the streetlight for something terrible to happen again. I wasn't even entirely sure what caused it considering that nothing out of the ordinary took place for quite a long time, which was kind of a lot for me.

I didn't want to get bad again, though. At all. But today, I could feel that horrible dread in my fuzzy brain, my eyes swimming in their sockets. It felt like I was waking up four months ago, to the feeling of just wanting to go back to sleep. But this wasn't four months ago, and I shouldn't be thinking about the past. But I was. And I was thinking about how much I really didn't like myself back then. Or now. Who would like me? Besides Josh. And who even knew what was going on inside of his head?

But the point was, this was the feeling that reminded me the most of the worst part in my life, and I didn't know what to do. At all. But the biggest thing, was keeping it from Josh. He couldn't know about anything that happened before I moved here, because I left all of that in Seattle.

Or maybe I didn't.

I had a taste of it on that Friday we jumped into the lake, but it was in the morning and didn't feel as severe as this did. This felt kind of like being buried in snow or something so strong and heavy that you literally can't get out of it if you tried. As if I was in a small box with my hands on whatever side I could reach, trying to push my way. But I couldn't. I physically couldn't do anything but sit in the metaphorical box with my shaky hands and bloody fingernails, and that was the equivalent to staggering out of my bed, struggling to get my air around the pain in my chest.

And the alarm couldn't seem to stop. It was basically a constant noise shouting at me even after I turned it off, bouncing around in my skull and slamming into the walls just to get stuck in my brain again. It all ricocheted back to me automatically, but I just pressed my hand into my face and then tangled it in my hair, aching for any sort of pain. If I couldn't do what I wanted, then I was going to do something. Anything that even got close to matching that feeling was what I needed.

And I was walking clumsily to the bathroom when I had a thought that kind of made me want to cry.

Because no one was really stoping me. No one knew I was hurting myself, and there was no one to stop for besides myself. There wasn't anyone that believed in me and had faith in me and thought I could recover the way I needed back in Seattle, and I had to help myself. So, essentially, me relapsing would hurt no one but me, and I would be doing that anyway.

In summary, there was no point in staying clean anymore, but I knew I was going to attempt to keep it up anyway. I had to. Even though I had absolutely no real value to any human being on earth, and I knew that. Not even my own mother could talk to me without getting frustrated, and if she couldn't handle me, how could anyone else?

Yanking my toothbrush from its resting place, I wet it before slathering it with toothpaste, not caring enough to keep from making a mess. I just sighed, that heavy deep sound, before attempting too look decent and okay and not sad.
Though I was very obviously neither of those things. I washed my face and maybe cried a bit during that entire thing, and I had no real time to take an actual shower, and so I traipsed over to my room and pulled my pants over my scar covered legs and tried to ignore the healed marks on my arms, simply because I didn't want to create more.