I have no idea why I AM NOT TIRED, whatsoever.
I don't know if it's because I smoked a bowl less than 10 hours ago.
I have no idea.
Whatever is keeping me awake. I kind of like it.
And I am really proud of myself because I just wrote a really
beautiful story for my creative writing class.
The story comes from three different perspectives.
The first one is the main character, the girl all detrimental and broken.
The next, is an [outside] character who looks at the situation from
an exterior perspective.
The last character is the boy who continually helps the girl. Basically her savior.
I hope it's not confusing. The first part is directly from a page in my journal.
Cracks in the wall.
Leading to destruction.
My empire is collapsing.
I don’t want to be revealed.
Every flaw, every secret. Detailed.
Put out on display.
Feeling numb.
Can’t move an inch, no muscle, no joint.
Just standing, watching.
As this city burns.
Can’t hold my breath.
Heart is pounding.
Panic attack.
Head filled with a tsunami of thoughts.
Asphyxiated by my own words.
Yearning to cry, to scream.
I try.
But words have expired.
The air in my lungs
becomes toxic.
Can’t breathe.
No inhale, no exhale.
Can’t escape my fears.
The skin on my bones tightens.
Everything deteriorates around me.
“I can’t do this” on repeat.
Tensing up.
Sweating palms.
Frustration. Deconstructing. Construction.
Hopeless strings become apparent.
As ashes brush across my face.
And this city begins to disperse.
In silence, a single tear
Rolls down my cheek,
And slips into my mouth.
I taste salt.
Immobile.
Still perplexed by this scenery.
Mist of melancholy memories linger.
Ashes, ashes fly by.
With torn paper wings.
(I know I am better than this.)
The smell of smoke is apparent.
This city has burned.
It wasn't like this before. Before the wreckage. She used to breathe in happiness. I can't remember how everything happened so quickly, how it all began. All I know is that she caused this mess. Got herself exchanging secrets with her own demons. That's it. Befriending the quiet. I don't know all the details, all the unanswered questions but I know there was always something so strange about her. I've only met her on a couple of occasions. I recall her voice, she spoke eloquently. Her face is a blur in my mind. I can only envision her shoulder-length, crimson red hair. She was always twirling it around her fingers. And her eyes. Defined in secrecy. Something was always hidden behind them. You would've never thought someone could end up becoming so detrimental. It never crossed your mind if you met her. Then she met destruction. She was consumed. Engulfed by it.
I can only remember fragments of the situation. Her best friend always being there. Giving her security. Always cleaning up the messes she made. He was quite reserved. Unlike her. I've always wondered how they became friends. I used to think he was conceited. But I got his arrogance confused with timidness. I know he was just being a good friend, constantly doing the right thing. But we all started to notice he was getting drawn into catastrophe. We all saw it coming. We warned him she was too much of a burden. That she was just a magnet for chaos. And even if you tried to help her, you just became a part of the mess. You wouldn't notice at first. You see, every time she danced with darkness you'd be there to pick her up off the cold pavement. Tend to her heart. Repair the cracks in the structure. And she'd thank you more than you'd ever known. She was so grateful. Tell you she was going to change. That'd she throw away the vices. Bury them. But that was all just an act. She was the best damn actress you've ever seen.
He told me how she'd have you convinced she was doing better. Calling you every day explaining she was alright. And sometimes he'd even check up on her and she appeared healthy. No more sunken in cheekbones. No more bruises.
You wouldn't see her for a couple of days. Weeks even. And in some way, you began to forget about her but she always remained at the back of your mind. He said, she was always in and out of his life. Everything would be normal for a while, however long that may be. But it was never for too long, always temporary. He'd be living his life. Content. Then unexpectedly he'd receive a call or news through a friend that she wasn't doing so well again. That she slipped. That's always what he said whenever she crawled back to the transgressions. It became a constant cycle. She would get better, and seem so hopeful, then all of a sudden she'd be tormented by fears and insecurities.
I felt bad for him. She walked all over him. Used him. Lied to him. It was almost like he was blind to all the damage she was doing. It took us forever to finally have him convinced. I could see why he didn't want to look the other way. Afraid, it was the truth. He was always there for her, like I said. Holding her when she was shaking. Picking her up from random street corners. Listening when it was always the same problem. Just being there for her, with her, through all the suffering. And he never really gave up hope. Always believed one day she'd wake up to reality and face it. And really look at the figure in the mirror, portraying a face full of joy and beauty. He really believed in her.
Until one day it was all too much. Couldn't do this anymore. He wanted to die that night. Struggling to fight for what was right. I know he felt it in his heart. The pain that struck him from all directions. Guilt. She was calling for him, another night, another fix. He didn't want to find her. He didn't want to get her. But he decided to anyway. She was found in an unknown alleyway. Eyes sunken in, skinny as hell, protruding hipbones, tattered clothing, greasy, tangled hair, bruises everywhere, dirt on her face. She was at her worse. He was scared. Carried her to his car. Dropped her off at her tiny apartment. She begged him to stay but he told her he couldn't anymore. Told her this was it. He screamed brutal honesty. Said he refused to clean up after her. That he was done being her rescuer.
After that night, we never saw or heard from her again. He became a bit of a hermit after this. I stopped talking to him for a couple of months. I tried contacting him but he never answered. Once in a while I'd receive an e-mail or two explaining he was getting himself straightened out from all the harm she'd done. Said he made the right choice. To rid his life from toxic people. Meaning her. He even mentioned that he was planning on moving to another city. I replied, and wished him luck, told him if he ever needed anything to ring me. He thanked me for finally making him turn the other cheek, that it was difficult to accept everything that has happened but that's how it is.
He became like her, well not completely. Just on terms of being in and out of my life. He actually did move to another city. I am uncertain of where. Sometimes I get worried and I begin to think of them. I wonder where she is at times, if she's even alive. And I wonder about him. If he's even alright. But all I can do is just hope. And believe. And just be.
The uncertainty lingers.
Frustration and fear,
pulling at opposite sides of my mind.
She is following the whispers that lead her
down the dangerous path.
And should I follow?
I am constantly here with open arms,
a subtle shelter of safety.
But she is continually being swallowed
by a sea of nightmares.
Unable to shake the pain.
And I am her 24/7 lifeguard, at least I used to be.
Always the unknown helping hand,
ready to pull her to shore, wearing hope around my neck, every day.
But the waters became treacherous,
angered, thrashing with ferocity.
It became a war. To fight for her life. My life.
Excessive amounts of prevarications poured into
the ocean like oil. Stained.
And the negligence and disregard began to float to the top.
Unbearable. Overwhelmed.
I stopped swimming.
Her stormy weather rumbled into chaos.
Dragged into disaster.
And god knows if she still swimming to shore.
If she has even tried.
But I got out alive.
And she is just a message in a bottle.
Floating away to unknown horizons.
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