Regret. It was everywhere. It painted the walls and decorated the sky. It coiled up his throat and dripped down frozen cheeks. It was bound around his heart and knotted in his throat. And when it would ease, it only got more powerful with it's fervered, spiteful enmity, tearing his soul into shreds. It was only in his mind, yet the agonizing grasp it had on him was so real.
"Where are you going?" It had been a simple question. Off-handed. A mumble. A cigarette in his mouth, a paper in his hand. A girl by his side and a television in the background. It was as it should be.
"Away." There was a finality in the statement. It wasn't the wording, but rather the glimmer in his eyes, or the lack of it. It shattered his world, screaming for attention, begging for salvation. It sent shivers up his spine and pain through his chest.
They had gone into the other room, to talk in private. And he heard it. The words he didn't want to hear. The ones that frightened him beyond explanation or logic. He laughed, but those lips, those eyes, they were completely serious. He couldn't take it.
"So, I'm leaving." But he didn't want him to go. He didn't want to hear the words, but he didn't want him to go.
"Goodbye." It was said as if the bitter tone, the anguish, the loss of joy were non-existant. But they were. They echoed on his ears and provoked him to say something. Something to make it stop. Something to make it go away. But it didn't. And he did.
And there was only one way to make it go away. To make an illusion of it, pretend that it wasn't there. He went about his day as he normally did. He laughed and he touched and he winked. And then he made a joke. The joke wasn't something out of the ordinary. It was a good old joke at another's expense. A person that wasn't there anymore. And the laugher ended. It all came in a rush. A wall against his heart, choking his lungs and evoking aged memories of cheer and determination, of embarrassment and, dare he so much as think it, an angelic form in the moonlight with a peaceful aura and smooth structure. It was that final one that thrusted him into the heartache he had previously refused to acknowledge. But it was there. It was destroying him.
Too little, too late. He was to be eternally at war within himself. Soon enough, he would be alone. Unable and unwilling to make the effort to keep his loved ones close. His selfish desires overwhelming him and in turn, crushing the ones who had always had faith in him and who worked to keep his alive. He was far too broken to care to fix himself, because there was only one thing that concerned him. It enveloped him in his mistakes. It was salty and pungent on his tongue.