AN: This deals with suicide, so if you are feeling suicidal, or have had feelings of suicide please approach someone for help, a friend, teacher, relative or co-worker. There’s no shame in needing help.
Okay, I posted this over at sd-1.net last summer, and have been working on the sequel, but have lost most of my inspiration. I'm hoping that posting it here, and getting some new feedback will get me writing again.
This is 7 parts long... and it's all written... but please read/review so I know if I should continue posting here.
Thanks
Joey
I’m Still Here
And I want a moment to be real
What to touch things I don’t feel
Want to hold on and feel I belong
And how can the world want me to change
They’re the ones that stay the same
They can’t see me but I’m still here
(Goo Goo Dolls I’m Still Here)
The sun still rises and sets. The world keeps on turning. Day turns to night. Night turns to day. Flowers bloom only to wilt days, weeks or a month later. Time flows by unwanted and unwelcome. I’m still here.
I thought things would get better. That things couldn’t possibly get any worse. How could they? My nightmares had morphed into my life in a blink of an eye. If my life was a nightmare, how could sleep be anything but a relief? A break from the horror. A chance to dream.
Apparently the human mind is more amazing then I ever imagined. Even after the day had ended, and exhaustion (or alcohol) caused me to pass out across my bed, my mind would burst into life creating the most vivid and terrifying nightmares that made my days seem like a piece of cake.
I’d be tortured all the while watching Vaughn and Lauren living their normal life on high speed. The dating, marriage, kids speeding by before my eyes. The two looking like the happiest people on earth, nothing ever shattering their world. Or I’d spend the night being placed in situations that required me to kill Vaughn, but unlike my encounter with Simon and Vaughn, the medics never reached him in time. I’d watch over and over the look in his eyes, the betrayal, hurt, pain, disgust, anger, hate that they’d showed as he met my eyes. I couldn’t look away, no matter how hard I’d try.
The good nights were the ones when I woke up in a cold sweat, my body shivering and shaking, unable to take the terror of sleep any longer. Nights that would meld into twenty to thirty minutes showers in an attempt to get warm, to stop the shakes. The horror of the dreams not fading in the morning light as I sat in my kitchen with a pitcher of coffee. I’d rather be on a caffeine high then move back to my bed and attempt to sleep.
The bad nights I woke up screaming, sobbing, coughing, unable to breathe. I’d lie in bed gasping for air, eyes darting around the room frantically searching for intruders, for the source of my fear. When I’d finally managed to calm myself down enough that I could breathe, I’d gather my gun and move into the corner of my bedroom, comforter wrapped around me as I huddled with my back to the wall. My eyes would be wide, frantically searching the room, left corner, right, ceiling, window, door, start over. I wouldn’t need caffeine this time to stay awake, the fear that was coursing through me enough to keep my eyes from closing.
My performance at work was slipping. I’d noticed it, and I was sure everyone else had as well. I couldn’t focus on anything anymore. My mind always running on super speed, either from the current caffeine high I was on, or the fear that just refused to leave, constantly gnawing away on the inside.
People won’t look at me anymore, refusing to meet my eyes when I enter a room, the floor, ceiling or paperwork more interesting. Only Dixon, my dad and Weiss ever talk to me, and all three of them spend the few minutes in which they could corner me trying to convince me into taking a vacation. “You just need to get away for a while.” “Everything will seem better if you take a short break.” “I’ve heard Cuba is nice this time of year.”
A Vacation. Every time I think of the words a bitter laugh escapes me before I can regain my stony exterior. Being by yourself in a foreign country, or at a hotel by the beach is not a Vacation. Vacations are something you do if you’re normal, if you have family or friends or a life. No one goes on Vacations by themselves. Besides, the last thing I need is being able to spend all my time reliving my dreams.
Vaughn tried to talk to me. Once. Doesn’t he realize that he’s the source of my problems? That telling me that everything will be alright, that I “have his number” isn’t going to make everything better? That when you tell someone you love them, only to turn around a moment later to go and hug, kiss and make love to your wife can be classified as cruel and unusual punishment? That each word he speaks just drives the knife deeper, twisting the blade so that it’s become so embedded I’m not even sure it’s possible for it to ever be removed.
I blew up at him the time he approached me. I can’t even recall the entire conversation to this day, but I do know it was the day, the incident that started the don’t-make-eye-contact trend at work. I remember yelling about Lauren, about duties and morals. I questioned Vaughn’s morals, something I’ve never thought I’d do. I told him to stay the f*** away from me if he’s going to continue to go home and f*** his wife. I told him that I hate him. I told him that if I never saw him again in my life it’d be too soon. I told him that the only thing he’s ever done for me is cause me pain. I told him that meeting him ruined my life.
I lied.
And now, now I’m lying in the bath debating taking an extended vacation. I’ve already thought everything through. The three pill bottles are lined up on the rim of the bathtub. Advil, Tylenol 1, and Asprin. Beside them resides a glass of red wine, a nod towards my earlier days when the highlight of my day would be retreating to the bathroom for a comforting bath. A tradition that Vaughn had managed to improve just by his presence, sitting on the side, sharing the glass of wine.
I was going to write notes. It would, after all, be my last chance to say good-bye. To tell the ones I love that I love them, and everyone else to f*** it to hell. But my list of good-byes were short, and when I had sat down earlier to write the letters, I found I had nothing to say. No words of wisdom or parting clichés. For an English major, my lack of words at the time had been astonishing. But my conclusion being that everyone who knew me well enough wouldn’t need to receive a cheesy good-bye card that I’d left behind. They wouldn’t need the note that I’d delivered from the “other side.” They’d know everything I need or want to tell them.
I glance towards my cell phone, as it sits lonely on the bathroom counter. I turned it off. Nothing was going to get in the way of my plans tonight. No last minute calls to come into work. No pleads to talk with a psychiatrist, or to go out for a movie because it’d make me feel better. No communication from the outside world. This was my time.
I use to tell myself that I believed in fate. That everything happened for a reason, and everything had a purpose in life. Well Fate, either I’m suppose to die tonight, or somehow, somewhere someone’s going to know what’s happening tonight and will manage to prevent it. But me, I’m placing my bet that Fate doesn’t exist. If it did, why would it have ever let my life reach the point it has?
I reach out slowly for the first bottle, fighting with the childproof cap until I can let the pills spill from the bottle into my hand.
To be continued... if you want
Okay, I posted this over at sd-1.net last summer, and have been working on the sequel, but have lost most of my inspiration. I'm hoping that posting it here, and getting some new feedback will get me writing again.
This is 7 parts long... and it's all written... but please read/review so I know if I should continue posting here.
Thanks
Joey
I’m Still Here
And I want a moment to be real
What to touch things I don’t feel
Want to hold on and feel I belong
And how can the world want me to change
They’re the ones that stay the same
They can’t see me but I’m still here
(Goo Goo Dolls I’m Still Here)
The sun still rises and sets. The world keeps on turning. Day turns to night. Night turns to day. Flowers bloom only to wilt days, weeks or a month later. Time flows by unwanted and unwelcome. I’m still here.
I thought things would get better. That things couldn’t possibly get any worse. How could they? My nightmares had morphed into my life in a blink of an eye. If my life was a nightmare, how could sleep be anything but a relief? A break from the horror. A chance to dream.
Apparently the human mind is more amazing then I ever imagined. Even after the day had ended, and exhaustion (or alcohol) caused me to pass out across my bed, my mind would burst into life creating the most vivid and terrifying nightmares that made my days seem like a piece of cake.
I’d be tortured all the while watching Vaughn and Lauren living their normal life on high speed. The dating, marriage, kids speeding by before my eyes. The two looking like the happiest people on earth, nothing ever shattering their world. Or I’d spend the night being placed in situations that required me to kill Vaughn, but unlike my encounter with Simon and Vaughn, the medics never reached him in time. I’d watch over and over the look in his eyes, the betrayal, hurt, pain, disgust, anger, hate that they’d showed as he met my eyes. I couldn’t look away, no matter how hard I’d try.
The good nights were the ones when I woke up in a cold sweat, my body shivering and shaking, unable to take the terror of sleep any longer. Nights that would meld into twenty to thirty minutes showers in an attempt to get warm, to stop the shakes. The horror of the dreams not fading in the morning light as I sat in my kitchen with a pitcher of coffee. I’d rather be on a caffeine high then move back to my bed and attempt to sleep.
The bad nights I woke up screaming, sobbing, coughing, unable to breathe. I’d lie in bed gasping for air, eyes darting around the room frantically searching for intruders, for the source of my fear. When I’d finally managed to calm myself down enough that I could breathe, I’d gather my gun and move into the corner of my bedroom, comforter wrapped around me as I huddled with my back to the wall. My eyes would be wide, frantically searching the room, left corner, right, ceiling, window, door, start over. I wouldn’t need caffeine this time to stay awake, the fear that was coursing through me enough to keep my eyes from closing.
My performance at work was slipping. I’d noticed it, and I was sure everyone else had as well. I couldn’t focus on anything anymore. My mind always running on super speed, either from the current caffeine high I was on, or the fear that just refused to leave, constantly gnawing away on the inside.
People won’t look at me anymore, refusing to meet my eyes when I enter a room, the floor, ceiling or paperwork more interesting. Only Dixon, my dad and Weiss ever talk to me, and all three of them spend the few minutes in which they could corner me trying to convince me into taking a vacation. “You just need to get away for a while.” “Everything will seem better if you take a short break.” “I’ve heard Cuba is nice this time of year.”
A Vacation. Every time I think of the words a bitter laugh escapes me before I can regain my stony exterior. Being by yourself in a foreign country, or at a hotel by the beach is not a Vacation. Vacations are something you do if you’re normal, if you have family or friends or a life. No one goes on Vacations by themselves. Besides, the last thing I need is being able to spend all my time reliving my dreams.
Vaughn tried to talk to me. Once. Doesn’t he realize that he’s the source of my problems? That telling me that everything will be alright, that I “have his number” isn’t going to make everything better? That when you tell someone you love them, only to turn around a moment later to go and hug, kiss and make love to your wife can be classified as cruel and unusual punishment? That each word he speaks just drives the knife deeper, twisting the blade so that it’s become so embedded I’m not even sure it’s possible for it to ever be removed.
I blew up at him the time he approached me. I can’t even recall the entire conversation to this day, but I do know it was the day, the incident that started the don’t-make-eye-contact trend at work. I remember yelling about Lauren, about duties and morals. I questioned Vaughn’s morals, something I’ve never thought I’d do. I told him to stay the f*** away from me if he’s going to continue to go home and f*** his wife. I told him that I hate him. I told him that if I never saw him again in my life it’d be too soon. I told him that the only thing he’s ever done for me is cause me pain. I told him that meeting him ruined my life.
I lied.
And now, now I’m lying in the bath debating taking an extended vacation. I’ve already thought everything through. The three pill bottles are lined up on the rim of the bathtub. Advil, Tylenol 1, and Asprin. Beside them resides a glass of red wine, a nod towards my earlier days when the highlight of my day would be retreating to the bathroom for a comforting bath. A tradition that Vaughn had managed to improve just by his presence, sitting on the side, sharing the glass of wine.
I was going to write notes. It would, after all, be my last chance to say good-bye. To tell the ones I love that I love them, and everyone else to f*** it to hell. But my list of good-byes were short, and when I had sat down earlier to write the letters, I found I had nothing to say. No words of wisdom or parting clichés. For an English major, my lack of words at the time had been astonishing. But my conclusion being that everyone who knew me well enough wouldn’t need to receive a cheesy good-bye card that I’d left behind. They wouldn’t need the note that I’d delivered from the “other side.” They’d know everything I need or want to tell them.
I glance towards my cell phone, as it sits lonely on the bathroom counter. I turned it off. Nothing was going to get in the way of my plans tonight. No last minute calls to come into work. No pleads to talk with a psychiatrist, or to go out for a movie because it’d make me feel better. No communication from the outside world. This was my time.
I use to tell myself that I believed in fate. That everything happened for a reason, and everything had a purpose in life. Well Fate, either I’m suppose to die tonight, or somehow, somewhere someone’s going to know what’s happening tonight and will manage to prevent it. But me, I’m placing my bet that Fate doesn’t exist. If it did, why would it have ever let my life reach the point it has?
I reach out slowly for the first bottle, fighting with the childproof cap until I can let the pills spill from the bottle into my hand.
To be continued... if you want
