Disclaimer: I don't own Degrassi.
Has mature language and mention of drinking...so yeah. ;)
The smoke travels up his lungs and he can feel it latch onto every part of his sticky body. The cold, glass bottle is placed limply in his hand. Drops of water sweats off the bottle and topples pathetically onto his pale skin. He removes the cigarette from his mouth and forms his mouth into an oval, causing the white smoke to turn into a ring. And he watches it blankly, his stare holding no particular interest.
A circle. Who gives a fuck?
He glances at the cold bottle and licks his lips in desperate anticipation. He wants the cold, bitter taste of the alcohol on his taste buds and the numb mist to sweep over him and tell him that it's alright. But, his arm feels heavy and he knows that he shouldn't drink. His arm is the only sensible part of his body; it's dead with exhaustion and it knows that he can't take another sip.
"Eli, you can't drink." The voice calls out.
Fuck you, you heartbreaker, He thinks before lifting his numb arm and pouring the bitter liquid in his cavern of hatred, fuck you because this is what I am. Because of you. Because of you, I'm fucked up. So fucked up.
The drink is numbing the burning hole in the middle of him. It's sucking the poison out of wound, and leaving nothing but an ugly scar that's bright and shiny and new. And even though Eli would love to pretend that it doesn't hurt, he knows the truth. He knows that even though the cold drink is running through his pathetic body, the scar is still thumping painfully. It's still exploding and throwing fire into everything that Eli has ever worked to contain.
So he takes another sip and places the cigarette between his lips and inhales. The smoke is just as lonely as he, so they get along quite nicely. They are pals in the lonely and deadly game. He switches every once in a while. The drink, the cigarette, the drink, the cigarette. It's a never ending cycle.
It's a system. A deadly system.
It's a fucked up system. Because, you see, he's fucked up. And everything he touches is fucked up. He's just a fucked up kid with no idea what to do. He doesn't know and he'll never know.
And that realization calls for another sip.
"Stop, Eli," The voice calls out, right when the opening of the bottle is hot-cold-on his lips. He's frozen, just like the black heart that's rotting inside of him. He doesn't want to hear this voice again. Because it's not real. It's never real.
"What do you want from me?" He replies shakily, and he glances up, and can see the girl standing there. Her hair is styled differently; the curls not as tight, but her eyes still hold that beautiful shade of blue that makes the evil monster in Eli shake.
But the girl merely sits down on the chair next to him and it's just like old times. When they'd skip over any lines that were being crossed. When they'd laugh over things that they couldn't explain. When he'd mutter that he loved her, every wall that he'd ever built had toppled down.
"You're killing yourself, Goldsworthy." The girl says, disappointment is set deeply into her deep eyes. And "Goldsworthy" just rolls his eyes and cocks his head back, letting the drink slip between his teeth and throat. It burns on its way down, but he encourages the pain.
"Fuck you, Clare. Fuck you. How would you know if I was killing myself? You're not real! You're not real! I know this game! I know your tricks! You aren't real!" He shakes his hand at the sober illusion and sinks desperately back in his seat. A crazy gleam is shining deeply in his face and it's even more prominent in his mind.
"I am real, Eli. I swear. And I love you."
"Stop," He moans and drops the bottle and the cigarette that had went out long ago, and covers his hands over his ears. The glass of the bottle spreads by his feet and he can feel the cool drink seep into the carpet and all he knows is that he wants that drink. He wants it, "Stop. You don't love me. You don't! Don't lie, Clare. Don't lie, please. Just stop. Please. Just...stop. You aren't real."
And the broken man sobs, his cries sound like a pained animal. The cries are like sandpaper when they crawl up. They scratch up his throat with bitter vengeance, mocking every feeling he has. And he can feel a knife going through his lungs and he wants to blame it on the damn cigarettes, but he knows that it's not its fault. The smoke is his only friend in the lonely, fucked up world. And he sobs, and he doesn't aknowledge that the girl was gone with the crash of the drink.
He doesn't have to.
He already knows.
He always does.
Depressing? I know! I'm sorry. I just go through stages with my writing. Sometimes it's fluffy, sometimes it's complete depressing crap. Like this one. Once again, I'm sorry that this is depressing, I'll try to write fluff again! Because it looks like Eclare won't be fluffy for a while...
Review, please?
(Okay. In the episode tonight, Adam Torres was such a fucking boss.)