When I open my eyes, I'm in a blurry, grey room. The first thing I notice is how cold it is in here; but as my eyes adjust to the gloom I begin to make out shapes. A guitar, a fridge. The bed I'm in.
I sit up, shivering, and pull the blankets close as I tuck my knees to my chest and hug them. It doesn't help; I'm still freezing. But the hug is comforting.
And then I remember. I panic for a second, flailing and tangling in the bedclothes. I fall out onto the cold floor, and by the dim light I strain to see my arms. I rub my wrists nervously, thinking I feel the hint of a scar, a scab, a drop of wet blood, the scrape of steel, but no. That was before.
I stand and gather the cold sheets around my shoulders, peering through the gloom. I've never been here before, but everything's familiar and it feels as though the room has a personality. Distant, yet caring; cold yet kind; stubborn yet sensitive. It's like a sea of contradictions. It reminds me of Roger.
Roger… who?
I stop dead still.
Roger… Roger… ROGER!
I fall to my knees and begin to sob, violently. My face flushes hot and I can't breathe, but the tears don't come because I've given them all to him. All my fears, my mistakes, my pain. I left him alone with my disease, I abandoned him to my demons because I was too weak, to spineless to see past my own shame. I rage at myself and collapse to the floor.
I'm lying on my back now, staring up at the looming grey furniture as I wait for my breathing to slow. There is a ceiling above me somewhere, but it's lost in the dark.
And then it comes out of the blue, like a punch, but instinctively I know where I am.
I'm in his heart.
And then I feel a pang of emotion, because I know it wasn't always this way. I think it used to be a happier place, and this coat of grey paint was just slapped on recently.
I lurch to my feet. I'm not going to stay here, feeling sorry for myself or pining after him; he doesn't deserve me. But if I've given him all my troubles, I might as well give him something nice too.
I find paper and a pencil in the drawers of a rickety old desk, and as I finish scrawling the last word of my note, I feel lighter. I drop the paper onto his desk and my feet begin to lift off the ground. The gloom over my head looms closer, but I'm not scared. I don't feel like anything at all, as a matter of fact. My last thought is to hope that Roger finds someone who can repaint his heart for him. Maybe a deep blue, or a reddish maroon.
And then I'm gone.
I forgot to mention:
We've got love too.
~Good Luck, April
