Deidara's POV
I wrap my arms around myself and squeeze hard – somehow, that only makes the breathless feeling in my chest worsen. Why would I want to hold myself? I don't want to be anywhere near the person I am. I'm not weak. I don't need someone to hold me together, to prevent me from breaking. I'm strong. I won't falter under the stares of others as they judge me for what I've done.
I sit in my bedroom. It's 12:30 at night, and I stare out the window, into the dark, black sky. My room is empty, save for a few photos of him and I. When it happened, I tore everything down – all the posters, the drawings, the writing. Nothing was relevant anymore. He was gone, and I was still here. I shouldn't have still been here. I should be dead, too. Why am I not dead?
It's silent. I'm placed on the windowsill in the dark. As if the night understands my now constant feelings, the moon no longer shines. I lie in the darkness intertwined with my thoughts. Demons of the mind. The only thing I can't yet escape.
Five months ago, we were still together. We did normal things together. We hung out. I think I was happy. I took his presence for granted, laughing when I wanted, doing what I wanted. I never thought that these warm summer nights could end, a time that I would no longer have a savior in my times of need.
But it happened. When it did, I spun downwards in an endless spiral of grim. It wasn't fair. That afternoon – so calm, so peaceful – my mistake, his death. My mistake. I should never have left him there on the street, I should have stayed, shouldn't have gone off. It had only been for a minute. But those sixty seconds seemed to have been enough for him to leave me for good. One crash, one strike of fate. One boy standing there, in the middle of the road, staring down at a lifeless corpse. His lover. His lover that had been living the minute he turned his back.
I tilt the bottle to my lips and savor the burn as it sweeps down my throat. I'm raw inside – who cares? If I could drink myself into a stupor, I would. But the memories are still there, and dulling the white hot pain to a numb ache is the best I can do. I take another gulp. And another. And another. Slowly I drift into a conscious sleep, staring out the window at dreams that once were.
I made the choice five months ago, on that empty street downtown. While I screamed and sobbed and shook and pleaded and begged God for a second chance at that night. Begged him for a few more seconds. Just enough to yank him out of the way and give myself to hell, instead. I made the choice to ignore the pain. I would never try to get over what happened. I would forget as best I could, for the rest of my life. Just ride the waves in a sedated state, over and over and over.
Each day the same.
Blending together into a blur of thoughts, voices, pain, memories.
The hardest thing is to get up every morning. Some days I lie in bed and ignore the sun, focusing on my once white walls turned black. It doesn't matter what I do anymore – I've lost the will to live. And when you lose your desire to stay alive, nothing matters. You're alone, just counting the days until you die.
Wishing you could die.
Wanting, waiting, needing to die.
If only I had the courage to do it myself.
I empty the contents of the bottle into my throat and crack open another. I can't feel the burn of the liquor anymore.
Cheers, I think, wearily. The world spins. To another great day.
I take another sip. And another. And another.
And another.
It's the only thing I know how to do, now.
