A/N: Okay... I was flipping through an old notebook and found the original version of ‘part five: those days’ and after reading it over, I couldn’t remember why I changed it so much before posting it, so... I thought I’d share, as I haven’t had much inspiration to write anything new recently.

Enjoy.

---

Disjointed Fairytale
by dysturbation

part eleven: some days

Some days, it’s better than others. Some days they don’t fight so much. Some days you don’t cry so much.

Some days, you only spend every other waking moment wishing you were dead. Wishing you’d never been born. Wishing, praying that this time, no one will save you. That tomorrow won’t be another ‘some day’.

Some days, they’re louder than others. Inside your head and out. Arguing and yelling and calling names. Some days you think you just don’t care anymore, but every day you do.

Some days, you just want to scream. Some days you want to take that gun he’s always waving around at your mother and put a bullet right between his eyes. Some days you want to hit him, kick his face in, scream your fucking lungs out at him for making your life so goddamn miserable.

Because, some days, you know that if he’d just left the first time he threatened to, everything would be better. Because your mother would have gotten back on her feet, and start a new, better life for herself, and yours would simply be better by association.

And some days, you know how stupid it is to blame him for all this because if only those fucking voices would shut UP! ... Well, then you’d be able to think clearly enough to straighten yourself out, right? Some days you think you could do it. If only. If only. And some days you know it’s your own fucking fault you can’t pull your sorry ass out of the gutter and some days... some days it’s just so much easier to blame someone else for all the mistakes you’ve made.

Some days, you think you might just have lost it, but you’re never sure when or where. And maybe if you knew that... maybe then you could go back and piece your life back together again. Just a little duct tape. Maybe a few stitches.

Some days, you look at the scars on your arms and it’s all you can do to keep the bile from rising up the back of your throat. Some days they look so bad it makes you wonder how you’re even still alive, and some days you wonder if you really are at all.

Some days, that scarred skin is so white, so pale, it’s almost translucent, and the veins just underneath are so bright, in shades of blue and green and purple and it takes everything you’ve got not to dig through your bedside table drawer, searching for a razor to cut them right out.

Some days, you don’t even bother fighting it, because the cold bite of metal is just too good. And some days you’ll cut deeper, because they’re yelling and screaming and you just want to go to sleep and never wake up again. Some days you wish you wouldn’t have to bleed yourself dry to make that happen.

Some days just thinking about it makes you sick, but you don’t wish for death any less and you’re pretty sure a few of those anti-depressants with a nice vodka chaser would do it. But those days, you just don’t want to deal with the violent illness that will follow if you somehow manage to survive again.

Some days, you’ll consider a noose, a bullet, a nice deep lake, but you’re too masochistic for any of that and you really do think you should suffer just a bit more before you die. Some days- the days when you actually go to school- you’ll stand up on the roof and wonder just how long that fall is. Three stories. Would that do it? Would you die on impact? Or would you lie on the concrete below, bleeding and in agony, only to be whisked away with sirens and flashing lights and saved one more time? You don’t have the guts to find out, but you tell yourself that you just don’t feel like it today.

Some days, you remember that there’s at least one person who will cry for you when you finally get around to doing it right. Some days, you don’t.

Some days- when you’re doing things most people would never dream of just because you’re broke again and you’re sure those withdrawals are going to kill you- when you’ve had your face shoved into a filthy, stained mattress and you can’t breathe and your body is screaming even when your voice refuses to work... Those days, you wish you’d had it in you to just take that last step off the edge of the building.

Some days, you’re glad someone loves you enough to save you from yourself, and some days you’re not so sure anyone really even cares at all. Some days you just want to curl up in his arms and never have to move again. Some days you just want to drown in his kisses, because the only thing sweeter in the world is the way he tells you he loves you.

And some days, you can’t bear to let him touch you at all because you’re afraid you might be contagious and you’d never be able to deal with the guilt of fucking him up too. Some days you want to leave him. Never see him again, because he doesn’t understand how bad you are for him, but you’re just not strong enough to pull away.

Some days, after you’ve gone and whored yourself out again just to alleviate that burning, twitching, itching addiction- just a little- you want to stay as far away from him as you can but somehow you always find yourself clinging to him desperately instead.

Some days, you wonder why he puts up with it, because you know you’re hurting him, even if he won’t ever say anything. Some days you wonder why he doesn’t just kick your ass for all the shit you put him through, because you know he could if he just tried. You lost your will to fight back a long time ago. You think it might have gone the same place as your sanity and your dignity.

Some days, you wonder why he even bothers dealing with the crazy little heroin addict whore you’ve become. Some days, it’s just easier not to think about it. Some days, you don’t.

-fin-