#stangst

The memories of last night start flooding in, much to your dismay. You remember the casino first, when the alcohol started flowing; then, the cards, which were mostly not in your favor; after that, you distinctly recall a small transparent bag with some white powder on it that you had bought a couple of days before. The rest of the night is a blur, up until the bouncer kicked you out. You don't remember why, but you guess you didn't cause too much trouble; otherwise, you would probably have a broken... something. An arm, a rib, the nose... you could win a bingo just with the bones you've broken in the past decade. You have more patches in them than in the clothes you wear.

The events following your walk home now invade your mind. You involuntarily close your eyes, first in a futile attempt to stop looking at them, and then because you want them to last a little longer. Usually, you try to forget those hallucinations as soon as possible; seeing your brother, the person you love and miss the most, in front of you... it always hurts. When you're in this state, so out of your mind that you picture him talking to you, he normally doesn't have great things to say: he either shouts at you (rightfully so) or he speaks in a condescending tone, reminding you of all the mistakes you've made, and asking you why the hell you had to ruin everything for the both of you.

You caught on pretty quick that it wasn't real, that your brain was turning to mush with every hit, but that wasn't enough to make him leave. You had tried ignoring him, answering him, letting him take you wherever he wanted... anything but punching him. You never had the guts to do that. Instead, you would just get drunk and/or high faster, so your brain wouldn't be able to stay awake long enough to produce that damned image that followed you like a shadow.

This time, though... it was different, and you can't tell whether it was for better or for worse. He had screamed at you, sure, but who hasn't at this point. The thing that stands out to you the most –and you close your eyes tighter in an attempt to see it more clearly in your mind– was the look on his face. No disdain, just pure worry. No pity, just compassion. Simply... love.

A tear rolls down your cheek, and the dampness makes you open your eyes. You're curled up in a ball, hugging yourself, and the sheets that the figure supposedly put over you last night are now on the floor. That's all the confirmation you need to make sure it was not real, as much as you would want it. The room is empty.

Or, well... The side of the room you can see.

You haven't moved yet. You can only see the door and the window, but there's the other half of the room. The one with the table and the chairs.

No. Don't do this.

You cannot afford this, this... delusion.

Don't even for a second think about it.

Whoever said hope is the last thing you lose was a fucking liar. You lost all hope years ago. Why is hope even on the table right now?

Stop. You're doing it, don't.

There's a tight feeling in your chest, but you know damn well it isn't anxiety. It is just plain and stupid...

You're just gonna hurt yourself.

... hope.

You turn around in a second, probably faster than you should, and you sit on the bed. There, on the table... is a big pile of emptiness.

I FUCKING TOLD YOU, WHY DID YOU DO IT

Whatever was in your chest is growing bigger and angrier by the second. It tugs at your lungs, taking away your breath, and it settles in your stomach. You definitely turned too fast.

You jump out of the bed, trying to reach the bathroom, falling to your knees as soon as your feet make contact with the floor. The door is open, but it feels a mile away from where you are. You reach your arm, getting a hold of the door frame and pushing yourself into the tiny space–

You barely grace the rim of the toilet before your insides are poured onto the brown-ish floor tiles. You stay there for a few seconds, eyes closed shut and focusing your entire strength on keeping your arms straight; they’re the only thing preventing you from falling face first into what you assume is a puddle of mostly nothing.

The smell of puke is just marginally worse than the bathroom’s itself, and it makes your eyes sting from how close you are to it. You’d love to get away from it, but you’re trembling like a leaf, and you can’t stop retching. Every single sensation in your body is coming to the front at the same time, and it’s becoming more and more overwhelming: your knees hurt from the recent fall on top of the bruises you already had; your stomach feels like it’s trying to come out of your mouth; your throat and your tongue are on fire, even though there’s nothing going through them; your arms feel like they’re about to give up any minute; the smell, god the smell is just replaying the last minute over and over again. And, worst of all, you’re crying.

How fucking dare you.

How dare you cry for the obvious consequences of your actions. How dare you feel sorry for yourself when you know you shouldn’t have bought the cocaine, shouldn’t have spent the little money you had gambling, shouldn’t have been here in the first place.

You shouldn’t have been here. Anywhere. Ever.

It’s a rational thought. Rational thoughts should have rational responses. But you can’t even do that, and now you’re fully crying, feeling the tears drop onto the floor, which is now closer than you anticipated. You can’t face the truth, and you’re left with the only remaining option: being a fucking child about it.

I need to get out.

This thought isn’t new, but in this case you mean the bathroom, the epicenter of the smell that keeps making you gag on an empty stomach. You raise your head to avoid looking directly at the mess on the floor, and you finally open your eyes. Crawling backwards, you grab the door and close it, leaving the odor behind, and you lean on the wall.

Stupid fucking hope.

Where does it even come from anymore? And, most importantly, when does it plan to leave for good? Because you can’t keep doing this. Time and time again, whether it’s after a big win or right before calling for the thousandth time, you find yourself feeling a small pang of hope. It doesn’t even make sense; every time you win, you manage to make the worst decisions in the shortest time possible, and you chicken out and hang up every single time. But that warm and exciting feeling finds its way into your brain and settles there for just a second— enough to be noticeable. And then, when it disappears, it seems to rip something out of you, leaving a dead cold void where it once seemed to bloom.

Hope is just a weed. One that keeps coming back, no matter how much you try to get rid of it. You keep pulling at it, hoping it won’t take roots, but it always does. It poisons the grass around it, manages to find hidden corners in which to grow undetected, and when you think the garden is safe, it comes back into sight.

Why won’t it leave? What else are you supposed to do? Why isn’t everything you’ve put yourself through enough to get rid of it? You’ve messed up in ways you know are definite. No one in their right mind would forgive someone like you. You’re past fixing. Teachers knew it, that’s why they relegated you to the desks at the back of the class. Your father knew it, that’s why he did what he did, to get rid of the problem before it spread to the others. The shrinks knew it, that’s why… why…

A sob finds its way out, high-pitched and desperate and fucking pathetic, and there’s no stopping from there. They burn your throat, raw from the stupid stunt a few minutes ago, and you pull your hair in an attempt to direct your attention somewhere else.

It doesn’t help. Not when the migraine has found an ally in your hangover, happily greeting its old-time friend the withdrawals, and having a square dance party in your head.

You don’t want to cry more, it makes everything worse, but you do it anyways because it’s simply not up to you. You curl up further, your back against the wall, and hope you lose consciousness again. The only thing that you’re grateful for is that you’re finally alone. No imaginary figures, no cleaning service, no bruisers coming for their debts.

The knob twists.