#gian ginoble

Finally, after all too long, drama returns! Part 2 of Gianluca’s “you get shot” imagine, based on “si me falta tu mirada”.

Just to give you a plan, I have promised @ignaziobosco a second part to Igna’s drama imagine as well and I have also promised a Halloween themed one which will be top priority next week. You might have noticed me rebloging some individual prompts and tagging them as #prompts. If any of them catch your eye, just send them in and I’ll be more than happy to write something based on them!

Let me know your thoughts on it and don’t forget to like/reblog!

Enjoy! Xx

part 1 is here: http://ignaziosearring.tumblr.com/post/151891631352/gians-version-of-the-drama-imagine

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Time had lost its sense. Had it been days, weeks, months since that day? It didn’t matter at all to him.

All he could remember was numbness. Numbness when the nurse told him the news, numbness when he informed everyone, numbness during the funeral. Numbness.

Everything had a sense of surreal. He remembered the encouraging pats on his back during the funeral from people who wore a fake sad frown and bore fake tears. People who came only to fulfill social expectations. Anger had boiled up in him when he had heard them praise you and agree that you would be missed. They had no right to say those things. They did not know you. They never were by your side. And they certainly would not miss you.

But he didn’t say anything. He didn’t do anything than stare at the coffin. Even his stare was numb. The more he looked at the coffin, the less it seemed that the person lying inside was the love of his life. He didn’t know if he should hate himself for not crying. The tears seemed to have forever drained from his profoundly red and swollen eyes.

Did it matter? No. After all, he still wasn’t sure it was indeed you in the coffin. Maybe it was just a joke. A sickening, inhumane joke, but nevertheless a joke. It took all the mental strength to stop him from jumping off the chair and declaring that it was enough, the joke had gone too far and it was time for you to wake up and kiss him with wrinkled, sparkling eyes from the laughter.

The fogginess of uncertainty and denial sank his heart deeper into the abyss.

The days were even to him. It didn’t matter what day it was, or what time. All he did was get by, till he could fall asleep again and reunite with you in his dreams.

He had shut himself inside the prison of memories.

Not a ray of sunshine would light the flat. Dust had already begun conquering the once clean and sunny apartment. He hadn’t changed one thing. All the furniture, the decoration was were you had left them when you left the place the morning of that fateful date.

Waiting for your return.

He hadn’t eaten in days. The only thing he would allow to enter his body was caffeine. Every once in a while he would abandon the bedroom to make a cup of strong, black instant coffee. But even that was pointless. The caffeinated drink had lost its taste and wouldn’t keep him energized more than a couple of hours. The exhaustion, the fatigue and the weakness had already made it hard for him even to walk the small distance to the kitchen and prepare another cup.

The sense of abandonment was evident on the dark circles under his swollen eyes, the pale color of his face and its profoundly visible bone structure.

That was all he was and all he felt: skin and bones.

Lying beside him on the bed was your favorite dress. Its silk fabric once delicately hugged your body, highlighting its curves. It was the dress you had worn for your first date. It was the dress you were wearing when he proposed.

On top of it he had laid all the memories he needed to hold on to. Memories carried by the very first picture you had taken together, by ink and paper baring a draft of your vows in delicate handwriting, by a wedding magazine turned to a specific page with a dress marked as “perfect”, by a positive pregnancy test he didn’t know you had taken that fateful day.

Every object he had discovered when he had gone through your belongings was a new, deeper stab in his aching heart.

There was no explanation as to why he had chosen to condemn himself in an inferno of your remnants, dwelling thirstily on your memory. Maybe he was afraid he would forget. Forget your breathtaking smile, your soft voice, your delicate touch against his skin, the taste of your lips. Maybe he was afraid he would forget the ecstatic feeling of being loved and having loved. A feeling he was damned to never experience again, left with a heart that would only operate physically, battling fiercely to keep the body alive despite any efforts to end this inhumane torture of existing without you.