The Sound of Regret
Summary: We still stand like this: severed, discontented, yet living, among billions in the masses – just remember that I'll always be able to understand you where no one else will.
A kind of chaotic serenity – it was you to me.
Silver-tongued and double-edged, you spoke of music, of writing and life; your poetic prose was mind-blowing. You had cuts much too deep to be healed, and your mind was too scarred to be renewed of its innocence.
We never spoke of forget-me-nots or daisies - they trivialities not to be associated with. We condemned and more often than not spoke with sadistic and degrading views, and with it came a sort of euphoric bliss, grasping us in its clutches until we were raised to a higher dais of satisfaction.
I thought we could share anything – I would have shared my innermost secret with you, had you asked. I rattled on about bands and songs, my eyes flickering towards to seek your opinion. There was no inclination you didn't agree with my opinion – though, I could never read you as well back then. You were an enigma, sophisticated with life outside the sheltered confines of this prison. You were so different, so entirely bitter, and I had no reason to doubt you.
You wanted more than just a pathetic little friend who could be too optimistic if the time called for it. You were slipping away ever so slowly, and every time the distance increased between us, I'd feel a little less happiness, a little more pain.
Our interests varied and differed until an awkward silence overwhelmed the incessant chatter that was so usual and routine of us. We were selfish, sick, and self-absorbed.
The year passed on and we parted ways. No longer did we discuss and you had received your wish.
I couldn't help but feel this bitter taste in my mouth when nostalgia absorbed me.
I remembered that you always spoke of popularity with contempt, a sort of propaganda I wholeheartedly adopted as my own views, but when you became one of them, it was too much to bear.
You couldn't tolerate the living life as a fake, yet you revelled in it. I watched on as you were fed the most delicious of lies, the succulent form of power. And you knew it.
You mask did not break - a glassy sheen, so capable of hiding even the tiniest details. Oh, but it wasn't as opaque as you made it out to be. I saw you – I see you, through that crystal clear façade that you keep so carefully guarded.
Remember me when you're the one who is silver screened – you will be, at this rate. Your laugh was fake, and entirely too different from what I remembered.
I silently mused whether your so-called friends were as lacking of intelligence as I thought, or if they were merely to indifferent to care.
I'm more than an acquaintance, even if you regard me as such. Pretend as if you never knew me – no one will try to contemplate why you were hanging out with that girl. They will never realise that we had our jokes and our notes, that we were so fucking different until I slowly became more like you: less gullible, more cynical.
Your wrists seeped droplets of crimson all too regularly for me not to be concerned. Your eyes told me it was a bittersweet release when you tore away and clawed at your flesh until you had reached vindication.
And during this time, you'd write your poetry regularly as a way of venting. You'd
Press a folded slip of paper into my hands, and told me in a searching whisper that I wasn't to show it to anyone. It spoke of redemption and memories hidden behind the metaphors of your cynical and bitter prose, and I could not help but think that you shouldn't have to conceal yourself from your so-called friends.
I was here – you knew that I still cared, and you spoke to of how you'd drank yourself into stupors, how your cuts had gotten worse, and that you'd tried to suicide again.
Then I managed to slip into my own world of greys and half-shades that never matched up with the sort of colour generated by the populace. I'd close the door and collapse on the carpeted floor and hope that my legs would decide to get up soon, yet, at school; I still managed to appear as cheerful as ever. I was crumbling, disintegrating into nothingness, I forgot to eat, and would've forgotten to breathe if it wasn't programmed into our systems.
As I walked past, your jaded blue-grey eyes would glance at me and you'd understand.
And we continued on from there – our half-friendship of confessions and of lies, of facades and loathing. We'll never be the same again in this world, and yet we'll still walk with a condescending air and entirely too much bitterness to handle.
Yet, now, we're almost in a coma where you can't dream, hurrying to continue with our detached lives; you barely reply to my occasional greetings in the congested hallways between subjects, and I'd feel a familiar, bitter feeling of being forgotten rising up in the back of my throat.
You'd think that by now, I would've learnt not to lament.
Occasionally, you ask me for small favours. I barely argue, before complying, and you reward me with a small, weak replica of an even slightly meaningful smile, and I can barely suppress the feeling of being used.
We still stand like this: severed, discontented, yet living, among billions in the masses – just remember that I'll always be able to understand you where no one else will.
This awkward silence between us is lethal, suffocating and oppressing. It hones in, until the words no longer form on our tainted lips and poisoned tongues. A few disjointed strings echo hollowly in the background while we silently realise we have nothing more to say.
Our lies are the most exquisite; intricately joined in a tangled disarray of fallen halos and nooses wrapped tightly around our slender, bruised necks. We have desecrated our graves and witnessed our own deliberately painful tortures until beaten into submission and the life has escaped our clouded eyes.
And we are here, silhouettes, ominous and daring against the dark of the night as it swallows us; our hearts are alight with a small hope that aches for deliverance.
Another angst-filled piece from me, kids! Thanks to Trish for the help concerning the title & summary, and to Runi as well.