You're better off without me.
Her words cut you like a knife, and the look of shock on your face tells it all. You can't believe this is happening. It can't be happening.
It all feels so surreal, to you at least- you in your drunken stupor, with the smell of alcohol still lingering on your breath. The thin piece of parchment in your hand rustles as if in indignation; the words it carries betray the darkness and despair you hadn't even known existed.
She is laying in front of you, sprawled out on the bed. For once, her hair is it's normal color; and you love it that way, more than anything else. But for some reason, the fact comes back to you that you never told her that.
It's funny what you think of when faced with death.
You shake your head quickly, as if trying to get rid of the very thoughts that are running through your head. Denial is a blessed, sweet fruit- and although the facts are sprawled out in front of you, you can't let go of te thought that maybe, maybe, it isn't real. It's all in your imagination- a dream, an extension of reality, an alcohol-induced nightmare. Maybe.
But it's not, and you know it.
You found her like this. It is just past three in the morning, and you had been out drinking again. Anything to ease the pain and escape the truth for you, right? That's what you tell yourself, anyway. That it's worth it- that it's worth anything.
Even losing her, which is now the price you've paid.
Just because I'm not strong enough doesn't mean you can't handle it.
You laugh, and the sound is hollow and empty. Lifeless.
Just like her.
When you think back on it, there were warning signs. She tried more often to get you to be intimate, to make her feel your love. Merlin knows she tried, and every time she did you ignored her, or returned to your precious drink.
Coward.
You hate the word, because you know it's true. You are a coward; and as you clutch that damned sheet of parchment in your hand and look at her face, you see it even more.
She's dead because of you.
Don't even bother. I've already lost this battle.
You stumble drunkenly out of the room, seeing out of the corner of your eye the empty bottle sitting on the bedside table. Poison. You think in the back of your head that it was a strange way for her to go; you had always guessed she would jump off a cliff or something.
Not that you considered her death, right?
Right.
The cupboard sways slightly in your gaze as you rummage through it, looking for the now well-used tumbler. You no longer have the sense of mind to mix something up, so you settle for whiskey, dry. Not exactly your first choice of alcohol.
But then again, nothing seems to matter to you anyway.
The room seems even darker when you finally make it back to your chair. The whiskey spills out of your glass slightly as you sit back down; the crystalline drops land on her face, and abruptly you move to wipe them away. You, in your haze, forget she's dead.
Her skin isn't cold yet.
I'll be waiting for you.
Without hesitation, you drop the heavy tumbler to the floor, and your mind almost registers the fact that whiskey is now all over the floor. That'll be one hell of a mess to clean up in the morning.
Your hand is now running through her hair, and you rest your head on her now-still chest. The lack of a heartbeat is slightly unnerving, but you ignore it, for now.
Your eyes flutter closed, and you grasp her hand in yours and pretend. She's not dead. No, she can't be- no- no-
And for one long, broken moment, you can convince yourself that she is only sleeping.
Please review. For the Suicide Challenge on HPFC.