ZANDER's POV
I was never the kind of person to turn to the "wrong crowd" for friends. Sometimes though life got in the way, and you felt stuck. Maybe these people could relate, and maybe that's why you found yourself there in the first place.
No one likes to feel out of place. You might say, "Oh, I'm not like that, I'm different and happy" but are you really? Even the happiest, most different people worry about what others think, even though they don't realize it.
We don't like to feel out of place, so we find a place to fit in, and welcome that new feeling—feeling of being accepted, if you will.
I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I started out as a happy, go-lucky kind of guy, but things changed when I left Chicago. My parents moved our family to Los Angeles, and that's where I find myself today.
I'm home—after several months.
You probably want to know what happened? Sorry, I'm not ready to bring that up. I will say though, that even though I'm home and everyone seems happy to see me, I know they aren't. Not as happy as they wish they were anyway.
In fact, they're. . . "on a leash" I guess you could say—they're afraid of saying the "wrong" things to me.
They threw a small party to celebrate my return home—invited the whole family and everyone shared their love, but things felt so heavy, and we all knew the elephant in the room was waiting to be announced. No one said anything though.
I guess I should come right out and say it. . .
I was a drug addict. I still smoke—rehab couldn't fix that. My parents didn't say anything about the cigarettes, they were too afraid to try and change my mind. I was a drug addict for almost a year before my little sister caught me one night in the backyard while mom and dad were out.
I thought she was asleep, so I went to the backyard and lit a joint—yeah, I smoked pot—and as I sat by myself, Melanie I guess came outside and saw me. I made her swear not to tell mom and dad, but when she started having problems at school, my parents wanted to know what was going on. . .
And so the truth came out.
I smoked pot, not because I was really trying to get high or anything or have crazy hallucinations—it isn't like that at all, but maybe it's different for everyone. Anyway, you just sort of feel like a part of the bizarre "dream". By that I mean, you don't see the bizarre dream, you are in the bizarre dream.
Back in Chicago, I was happy and I had friends, and so drugs has never actually come to mind. I didn't just smoke pot though, I'd tried other things—not that I actually care to bring them up, mind you.
Once my parents found out, they'd done everything they could to get me help, and they sent me away for several months to get the help to rehabilitate myself. It wasn't a terrible several months, but it wasn't pleasant either.
I didn't hate Melanie either, and I don't even hate her now. In a way, I'm glad she told. She felt better emotionally, and I felt better in more ways than one. I'm still depressed here in Los Angeles, but it's usually bearable. I've got some joints stashed under the loose floorboard in my closet—nobody thought to check there when they searched my room—but even when I feel at my weakest, I don't feel in the mood to smoke them.
I focus more on music, something I really love, but it's still hard.
I haven't yet figured out why the move from Chicago to Los Angeles has had such a huge impact on me—and my parents have taken me to multiple therapists, but nothing works. Maybe it's good I don't know, because if I did, maybe it would just make my situation worse. . .
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I know I said even at my weakest, I never feel the desire to smoke those joints anymore, but this time is different. I always take them with me when I leave and go walking by myself—maybe I'll get that urge and I want to be ready.
I just can't seem to let it go. I don't want.
I thought I was at the park, but I must've had that urge while I was out walking, because now I find myself a mostly empty apartment. There's not a lot of furniture, and I don't recognize this place.
"You seemed lost," the girl before me says. She must've brought me here.
"Are you okay?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.
I can't answer that question, not because I don't want to, but because I don't have an answer. I don't suppose I'm okay—I'm still waiting for myself to want a joint, but I don't really remember being brought here, so I must've had one while I was out on my walk.
This young girl, she can't be more than sixteen or seventeen, maybe eighteen, but that's pushing it a bit—she must've brought me here, nice enough not to let me wander the streets, stoned. Trouble never found me, I always found it.
The trouble I find is usually always worse when I'm high.
It seems like we've been having a conversation, but I can't be sure. It must've been before the effects wore off. I don't feel quite hazy anymore, I actually empty inside again.
I want a joint now.
But the reason I said we must have been having a conversation is because she's standing before me in nothing but her bra and panties, but I'm not really paying much attention to that fact—though she has a lovely body.
No, I'm actually paying close attention to the scars on her thighs, arms and stomach. She must have at least a thousand or so!
"You're probably wondering why I have so many," she says quietly.
I don't look at her face, but just at her body. So many tiny, straight scars, but weirdly they don't look painful. Most of them are faded, but the ones on her thighs are fresh. "Why do you have so many?" I ask.
She hesitates and then sighs, "When I was fourteen, my brother committed suicide. . . he was 'lucky' you could say. No one caught him, and before anyone knew it, it was too late. He and I were really close-not that I'm not close with my other brothers. . . anyway, I started cutting not long after. This began a little over two years ago; every cut on my body stands for a day he isn't here. . ."
I wasn't actually expecting such an open discussion so suddenly, I don't even know her name. But she must realize I'm in pain. . . isn't it always easier to open up about things when others than relate?
My jaw goes slack in surprise, she's got over two years' worth of cuts—that's over seven-hundred-thirty cuts (two years)! "That's awful to do to yourself though. . ." I blurt, looking at her face.
She sighs and bites her lower lip, "I know. . . but I feel responsible. . . for his death. I knew he was hurt inside and I'd tried so hard to figure out what it was, but I couldn't and I knew he was slowly going insane-he'd talk about how dying sounded like the perfect escape. . . I knew what was going to happen, I just didn't know when and I should've and I could've stopped it," she sobs, curling into a small ball on the floor.
I sit beside her and I don't touch her or anything, not sure that'd be a good idea, even if the thought is to comfort her. "It's not your fault he's gone. . . you couldn't know when he was going to do it. He probably never said anything about it because he didn't want you to stop him-he didn't want to see you so hurt over it."
"He knew I'd be hurt. . . he just didn't think of how it would affect me," she says bitterly, shaking with uneasy breaths and sobs.
"You're right, he didn't. But if you knew someone cared about you so much. . . would you have told them you were going to die and they'd have to live without you? You would know they'd never be the same after, but sometimes pain makes us selfish, and we don't think about that."
"Suicide isn't selfish," she spits.
"Sometimes the reason people do it is selfish. He didn't think you'd take it so hard. . . he thought you'd move on after a while, not hurt yourself, but he didn't think of you ever doing that, and so killing himself had become so much easier. . ." I say, trying to comfort her. Maybe it isn't comforting, but giving an insight to someone's mind to someone who can't figure it out is always helpful.
It gives them something logical to believe.
"So. . . my brother was selfish?"
"Yes. . ." I said quietly, "But he was in pain. I was selfish once. Sometimes I'm in so much pain, I still am. But asking my sister to keep from my parents that fact that I smoked joints was the most selfish thing I could've done-out of fear and pain-and I've become smart enough now that it won't happen again."
"Do you still smoke?" she asks.
I nod my head and pull out three joints from my coat pocket.
"Um. . ." she bites her lower lip, "what is it. . . like?"
I'm not sure how to answer really. I know she's hurting, and maybe she thinks trying it will give her some peace, but I hesitate because she's broken enough. Who's to say that I won't make it worse if I give her a joint?
". . .It shadows the pain. . ." I say quietly, regretting my words.
"Give me one," she says, holding her hand out. I hesitate, but her fingers close around one of the joints in my hand and she's already pulling her hand back.
The thing about the joints though, is that they heighten your senses, and you feel content. People say it's euphoric, the feeling, but I find that word a bit extreme. Content seems like just the right word.
"Show me how to do it. . ." she says, looking at me. She's serious about this, and I guess I don't blame her. I felt sad and hurt enough once to try it. I was serious about it, and no she is too.
I pull a small lighter from my pocket and hold the joint between my upper and lower lip. I hold the tip of the flame against the very end of the joint and wait until it lights. Pulling it from my mouth, I hand it to her and she takes it and puts it up to her lips.
I already start to feel a little content. "Go ahead, put it up to your lips. When you're ready, breathe in as deep as you can and try to hold it. You might end up choking a little, considering it's your first time," I tell her.
She nods and puts it between her lips. I watch as her chest rises slightly, and she tries her best to hold it, but naturally, she coughs. I pull it from her mouth and bring it to my lips.
"Watch, like this," I say. I suck in a deep breath and hold my breath for several seconds. The sense of slight happiness comes over me, and things seem a little hazy now. She takes another joint from my hand and the lighter from the ground in front of me and tries again.
Lighting it ever so carefully, she then puts the lighter back in my pocket and then breathes in deeply. This time, she holds it better than the first, and I can see her eyes start to haze over a little. She pulls the joint from her lips and holds it in her hand as she says, "Wow. . ."
I give her a small smile and nod. "Feel better yet?"
"A little bit. . ." she responds, bringing the joint back up to her lips.
I'm not sure why, maybe it's the fogginess in my head or the fact that she's in nothing but her underclothes (possibly both), but I get the strong urge to taste her lips, or touch her hand or something. I've heard your senses are heightened quickly-the effects last about three hours—and all I want to do is see if that's true.
If I touch her, will it feel better than either of us imagine, or if I taste her lips, will the taste be better than if I wasn't high?
"You're thinking what I am," she says slowly, the pot is slowly starting to fog her brain.
"Yes. . ." I admit, nodding. I feel a bit dizzy suddenly, but I don't mind it because we're both sitting down.
"So, kiss me," she says quietly, staring at my lips. I know it's the haze that's doing this to the pair of us-I bet if we weren't high, we wouldn't even think about kissing the other. We barely know each other, but like I said, no one likes to feel out of place.
With her, I don't because we both feel pain. We both are trying to get rid of it, and getting high on joints probably isn't the worse thing we do.
Probably.
I slowly move my hand to touch the skin of her waist, and my fingers feel numb, but it's a good feeling. She makes a small, almost inaudible gasp, and I lightly trace over the fading scars there. They're not at all smooth, in fact they make her skin a bit. . . rough, but I like how they feel-maybe that's just because I'm high?
I look at her again, rather than at her waist and find her face is closer to mine than I remember it being a few minutes ago—or was it seconds? Time seems to move slower when you're high, despite how "fun" it seems.
All I have to do is move my face just a few centimeters closer and our lips will touch, and that's the only thing I want right now. I slowly move my head forward—if I move to fast I'll fall over (sitting down) and take her with me. My lips just barely touch hers when I feel something almost like. . .
Electricity?
I don't think you can actually describe how it feels like that, but it'll have to do. But I remember, even through my haziness, what my first kiss had been like, and that was amazing, but this is beyond.
It feels like I've taken my first kiss and multiplied it by three, or something like that.
It's strong, and I don't pull away anytime soon. The joints are abandoned somewhere, already put out, and I'm not sure how it happened, but she's lying on top of my chest.
I can't imagine how her skin would feel on mine—not that I've never had or sex, or touched a girl, but if this kiss is anything to judge it by, it would probably feel amazing. Her chest against mine, and our bodies so close, they can't possibly get any closer—I've awakened something within me (dammit).
She makes small noises as the fabric of my shirt rubs against her nearly naked body, and I find this driving me crazy; in a good way at least. I've never gotten high with anyone around—not including the time Melanie had caught me.
It doesn't matter that I don't know—or maybe don't remember her name, not right now anyway. All that matters is that it feels like every scar we both have (physical or mental or emotional) is being healed.
We both understand the pain the other feels—does she know my pain? Did I just explain it and not remember? My lips move to her throat, and I kiss as gently as possible, I know it'll feel ten times more than gentle that to her.
I know the effects on her are strong, she's grinding her hips into mine, and if I thought sex felt good the first time I'd had it, I can only imagine what it's like as I'm high—but will I remember it later? I want to remember, but possibly of not remembering is what bothers me.
Screw it, I think.
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It's scary, usually, to wake up in the dark and know you're somewhere you've never been. But I vaguely remember where I am. I feel the body next to me, breathing softly and evenly, and she's snoring very quietly.
My family is probably worried sick about me, but that doesn't matter right now. What does matter is that. . . even though I'm not high. . . I don't feel empty. Sure, there's a faint, yet noticeable pain still in the center of me, but it's not empty.
I'm not okay, and I haven't been.
But something about the girl lying on top of me makes me feel content for once in a long while. Leaving Chicago, I don't understand why I was unhappy. I don't understand where I went wrong here in Los Angeles, but now I know why I went wrong.
There's a girl who needed—and even still needs saving, and I went wrong to end up here, to save her. I'm a boy who needed saving, and still needs it myself, but this girl is my savior. She pulled me from the streets as I was as high as the Heavens, and shared her pain.
She showed me that I'm not alone, and people heal. I will heal and she will heal, because we both need each other, and now we have each other.
She shifts slightly, stirring that feeling inside of me again, but it isn't as strong as I remember it being hours and hours ago—I'm not high now, that's it. She doesn't wake up though, but through the darkness I can see a small outline of a smile on her lips.
It isn't the sex that put that smile there, it's the realization that she's no longer alone.
We are two broken people that, with each other's help, will find a way through our pain. Maybe we won't have to get high anymore, or slice our skin.
I don't understand where I went wrong from the start. I don't want to go back and figure out how I went wrong. Sometimes you do need a few wrongs to make a right. My many wrong-doings brought me to the girl lying on top of me, and I don't want to change anything.
A/N: I don't have ANY clue where this came from. I'm beginning to notice my fanfictions are getting darker and darker xD but I guess this just came to me at random. I've had friends who have cut themselves, and I've seen people smoke pot (I've never done either, mind you). I don't want judge people for their choices, in fact I want to understand why they make those choices, and I guess that's where this came from? This has to be my favorite story I've posted, and I wasn't going to make it a one-shot, but I don't want to make it multi-chapter because I think this one chapter pretty much did the point of this plot justice. Let me know what you thought? :)