A/N: I have to say, this is one of my favorite stories of mine. I can't wait to finish it. It includes drug use, alcoholism, a lot of heartbreak.

Enjoy.

He's bouncing on my cock. I know he's moaning because I can see his mouth moving but I can't really hear him. I can't remember his name either...did I even ask? Maybe, I'm not sure. He seems to be really over heated because I can see the sweat running down his chest but I can't see his face. It doesn't matter; I can't see anything anymore, not really. Why is he sweating? I can't feel any heat.

I can't feel anything.

I know I'm mostly hard since I haven't slipped out of him yet but I don't feel aroused.

I should be used to this by now.

Numb. Hollow.

I'm dying.

Every night, I bring a guy home, fuck him and send him out the door. Every night, I feel nothing. Every night...I'm just here. They are all similar for the most part. Some shade of green for the eyes, red, auburn, or sometimes light brown hair, skinny yet toned, and pale. But the green in their eyes doesn't consume me, the auburn or red hair isn't bronze and chaotic, they are missing a freckle on the inside of their left thigh and they don't have a scar on their right shoulder blade from falling out of a tree at the age of eleven. Their voices aren't velvet. Their laugh isn't contagious.

They aren't special.

They aren't fascinating.

They make me feel nothing.

Am I coming?

I think so because I can see my stomach muscles clenching but I don't feel the burn spreading through my abdomen or the delicious euphoria that should accompany it. He's coming too, it's hitting my chest but I can't feel the warmth it should hold. I can't hear the scream that is coming from him. I can't feel his ass tightening around my cock.

When he finishes, he climbs off my lap and goes to bathroom. I did come, I can see it in the condom. Shouldn't I have felt that? Oh well, it's just like every other night.

At least this one is nice enough to clean me up as well and I know he's talking because his lips are moving but I can't make anything out. It's all white noise mixed with murmured words of affection and a beautiful deep, rumbling laugh from the past in my ears. So I just nod my head and roll over, I think I might have said goodbye or thanks or something.

He's gone now so I reach into my nightstand and grab my whiskey and the blue tablets I have sitting next to it. I chew the pills and I know they should be bitter in my mouth but they are tasteless, just like the whiskey I wash them down with. I can't feel it burning my throat like I should.

I'm so tired of feeling nothing.

I'm so tired of breathing and living and it's pointless and I hate it. That's not true; I don't hate it because I can't. I can't hate or love or cry or smile or... do anything that resembles being human.

I close my eyes, praying for sleep but all I see is a gorgeous crooked grin and lashes so long they look false. I see full lips and long fingers and toned calves that always felt so good under my hands.

I can't remember what feeling good feels like.

If I squeeze my eyes tighter and listen real carefully, I can hear him whisper 'I love you' and I can almost feel the hurt from his absence, almost feel the need to cry...

But it's only almost, and almost doesn't count when it comes to being numb.

I'd rather hurt than feel nothing at all.

I chew some more pills and swallow some more tasteless whiskey.

I stumble as I get up from the bed to walk to my closet. When he left me, he forgot to take his white Metallica tee shirt. On the front is a stain from when the juice from a strawberry dripped from his perfect lips. It doesn't smell like him anymore even though I've never washed it.

My scent covers it now because I bury my face in it every night, trying to get a reaction out of myself.

I put a razor blade to my arm once. I knew it was going to burn if I cut myself and it would have been welcomed, anything would be welcomed as long it was something. I couldn't do it though. Just as I was about to drag the blade across my flesh, I heard his voice telling me how beautiful my skin was, begging me not to get a tattoo because my skin was to perfect to mar.

I threw the blade away. I didn't want to be tempted with it again. But the burn would have been amazing...

I hang his shirt back up and walk to my bathroom, looking in the mirror at the man who used to normal. My hair is too long and I need to shave, my eyes are still blue but they are dead, just like the rest of me.

I was happy once.

I bet it felt so good.

I can't remember.

I know it must have felt nice when he would wrap his arms around me and kiss the back of my neck. It had to feel good when I pushed inside of him. I had to have felt some sort of pride when I made him smile or come.

Right?

I can't remember that either.

I walk back to my bed and ignore the false image of a naked, lean body with a come hither look and long fingers beckoning me over.

I chew more pills and drink more whiskey.

Shouldn't I feel high or drunk?

I don't.

I wish I did.

I could change it though. I could pick up the phone and dial the number I know from memory. I could hear is smooth voice tell me not to call anymore and that he doesn't want to talk to me. I've done it once or twice.

It's the only time I feel anything.

I feel the sting of his rejection and tears welling in my eyes. I feel the hole in my chest where my heart has gone missing. He put it somewhere after he crushed it. I haven't found the pieces yet.

I feel the burning lump in my throat. I feel the ache in my head.

I feel...alive.

But after I've cried myself to sleep and I wake up screaming from the nightmares I have so often, I'm empty again.

My fingertip is turning white from where I've wrapped a lose thread from my comforter around it and pulled tight but I can't feel the prickling that I know should be there.

Is this death?

Surely it can't be considered life.

It's not. My life walked out on me a year ago today, taking my soul and his suitcases with him. It was my fault, really. I should have kept the promises I made to him.

I didn't and now I'm useless.

What good is a human that doesn't feel human at all?

I grab my phone.

I want to die.

I dial his number.

I want to live.

He answers and I breathe in, feeling the air in my lungs for the first time in two months and seventeen days. "Hello?"

And I can feel.

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