Trigger warning: Mention of self harm and drug use, depression.

Forget to Remember.

I can feel the bloody pumping, my heart seemingly beating in my throat, in my ears. Between them? My brain's slowly fizzing to a standstill, each thought and memory I've ever stored merging into one fluid object, running, swimming through my body as I sit, my trembling hands stilling as the next hit finally takes effect. They stop me thinking, stop me overanalysing; an unfortunate side effect of having an overactive brain.

I can feel beads of sweat build and run down my temple. The contact keeps me grounded, stops me drifting too far. All my surrounding, the colours, textures, images make me react as though I'm hypersensitive, bright and blinding and shockingly relaxing. Everything still manages to be hazy as I blink, trying in vain to focus. This is usually the time when I bring out the blade, or the scissors, or the knife. Inhibitions gone I carve patterns into my translucent skin and watch as my body produces its own ink. It no longer hurts.

There isn't pain. It's a form of release.
The only form that has me feeling anything anymore. I seem to be able to sense when parts of me start drifting away, my eyes blurring as I leave precise, deep cuts over my skin.
Scars that will last for years keep me from lashing out, from acting more psychopathic that I already do. They absently mention that I need help, that I'm depressed. I'm not. That's disappeared ages ago.

I'm numb.

Thoughts when I'm high make me feel normal, stop me thinking, help me delete the memories I never wanted in my mind in the first place. Another unfortunate side effect; remembering everything most would choose to repress.

Love and sentiment doesn't make a person, it breaks them. They're chemical defects, nothing more.

Feelings and emotions that change and crack and kill a person. However happy you are, you'll end up alone. So why is it worth it?

You could be dying in a bed, surrounded by your family, your friends, your lover, and you'd still be on your own when you passed. Nothing you do, however far you redeem yourself will change that and everything you've done in your life is really for nothing.

You're buried, burned, you decompose slowly and surely.
You'll feed the earth as those still living forget to remember you.

My 'adventures' from previously in the day are forgotten until the door opens, the screeching noise violent and agitating as it reaches my ears. As a man, medium build it seems, takes a few heavy steps into the room, I blink to try and focus on him, my pupils constricted despite the dull lighting of the room. His voice echoes in my ears, reverberating against my skull. I let a manic laugh escape from between my lips as I try to distinguish between my hallucinations and reality.
It's then I remember I agreed to have a flatmate.
A flatmate in the form of Captain John. H. Watson.