Author: tolerate PM
She hoped he would come to visit someday, but he didn't. And she waited on.Rated: Fiction T - English - Hurt/Comfort/Angst - Words: 591 - Reviews: 1 - Published: 10-29-12 - Status: Complete - id: 3069598
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
author's notes: Very short chapters. Not meant to be a story as a whole, but just bits and bits of drabbles loosely tied together.
She was drowning.
In opened eyes and soft-felt sensation, she gave a nonchalant sigh. She knew she was now breathing properly, air and maybe her own love for the hatred she had given to the world and every living being with the exception of somebody. Her hair was terribly tangled, still in the same mess from two days ago, smells of the cigarettes and alcohol— her needs, she claimed. It was night time again, and every night was the same. The same old things, a cycle just to be completed and renewed again, a life not worth living. Cans of alcohol with hints of abuse sat lonely on the side of her bed, somehow she had found the strength to punch or just scratch the cans out of anger. Anger, anger, it seemed like a word so overrated: no, she doesn't feel angry. She would never feel angry.
It wasted her energy, even if she needed the energy for nothing. Her tired hands, driven by habit, knocked her bangs away from her eyes that were deprived of sight just a moment ago, and she sat up a little. An annoyed groan escaped from her bloody lips— she bit them, but most of the time it was from the dehydration— with her trying to push herself out of the bed afterwards. The only thing in liquid form she has been drinking was the alcohol, and she had long ran out of them.
Her legs were a little useless, it felt numb and they were uncouth. Bruises, from as far as the eye can see, were covering the legs. She hurt herself, she punched herself and she cut them sometimes; not just the legs, the other skin surfaces needed attention too, she felt. It hurt a lot, but it was almost as if she couldn't feel the pain no more. She had grown immune to it, maybe. It might have been the way she ignored it, because she still had something that held on to her like a single, wavering thread that would soon end itself.
Nevertheless, she held on to it dearly, called out his name late at night and walked on the streets with her long jeans covering all her scars and jacket that would cover up her wrists, just to find him.
This time was no different.
She forced herself out of the bed she didn't bother to clean up, accidentally stepped on things she couldn't put a name to. Her floor was ruins left behind after a war, a battlefield left abandoned and really, she felt no need to care. It was mundane. Things that repeat itself, but he was the only thing that could drag her out of the ordinary world. If she was stuck inside the salted world, she would have been an escapee if he was with her. She sighed again, putting on whatever clothes long enough to cover up, turning the doorkn— and she realized the door wasn't closed. She must have forgotten, but she paid it no mind.
Her clothes tattered and torn, walking out of the house she would never call home, and just walked on the street. She hoped she could see him this time, she wished she would find him but she knew if he remembered, he would have came to her house. But he didn't, and she waited.