rippingbutterflywings is my favorite beta of all the beta's.
Disclaimer: I don't own the Mortal Instruments.
Regret is the fingerprint of a failed mind. I just made that up, but it sounds like some clever bastard said it many years ago. My point is that I don't regret you, Simon. I miss you like hell, but I don't feel anything like regret. Maybe you were right, all along. The drinking has been too much, and I guess I understand why you couldn't stay. But a big part of me blames you. I drank for the first time when I was 18, under protest. You said it would be fun.
I tip the bottle with my mouth wide open, like the burn in my throat doesn't bother me. If I'm being completely honest, I hardly even notice it anymore. I call this recovery. You call it "being an alcoholic." I call you a mistake. More realistically, I call you one long, lost memory that can only be quelled through liquor.
I miss you more than I thought I would.
I kissed someone else today, just to see if I could. He said his name is Jace. He doesn't taste like you, Simon, but he tastes like vodka and that's all I can really ask for. He tastes more like me. He's natural. Maybe we belong together, or at least make more sense than you and me. Maybe he can love me like you once wanted to.
When our lips touch, it isn't the same as kissing you. When I kissed you, I felt sparks at the way your brown curls brushed against my fingertips. Jace's kiss ignites crackling shockwaves within my rapidly moving chest.
I do not need you anymore. But I want you nonetheless. My love for you metastasized like cancer, and I'm searching for radiation. You are not killing me, but you're eating me alive.
After you left me, I told everyone how bad the sex was. Because it was. But I still find myself thinking about you when I let Jace slip between my legs.
The next few minutes are a blur— my hormones have taken over and my body is acting on its own. There's no thought, just passion and lust and pure adrenaline. My hips tilt in time with his, the way you taught me. He says that he appreciates my technique— that my movements are sensual. I smirk like I think I'm the sexiest girl alive and my hands grip the back of his neck while my hips grind closer. I do everything I would do to you, but Jace actually knows how to make a woman feel good. I come for him like I never could for you, but it's still your name that gets caught in my throat.
Simon.
Simon.
Simon.
I can still feel your fingertips everywhere he touches me. I take another swig from the bottle while the golden-eyed man is still thrusting in and out of me. He doesn't even blink as I take a long drink.
You hated it when I drank. You said I had a problem, but I don't think you understood. I had to do something to forget that I would never be enough to fill the shoes that would one day stand beside you. You reminded me daily that I was not like Isabelle. And I tried to be.
I've placed every picture I've drawn of you inside an envelope and sent it off into another galaxy. I wonder if, somewhere, there's another life form who will recognize you from the details in my artwork. They'll find you and tell you that there is a girl who still thinks you are beautiful. She doesn't know how not to.
I broke every single one of my rules to try to be with you, and I no longer know how to obey them. You shattered everything I loved about myself, and I didn't even realize how bad we were for each other until the day I was rushed to the hospital with alcohol poisoning you threw our relationship away while I was still hooked up to an IV.
I finally understand why natural disasters are always named after people.
Not open to continuation.
-IWriteNaked
