Circles, circles, circles. My head spins and quakes. Legs trembling, arms shaking, I grasp onto the counter for support. My chestnut brown eyes have bags under them, caused from lack of sleep, and an oversized cut on my lip, achieved from a rough battle against the purple dragons. Staring at myself through the mirror, I heave a sigh. I look so beaten up, not at all tough and strong. The build of too many caged emotions runs me down, weakening me both internally and externally. "Or I just had too much booze," I mutter in my Brooklyn accent.
The reasons behind my dizziness—my shakiness, my uneasiness, my never ending confusion and sense of loss—are endless. Maybe it's from the alcohol I drank all too quickly, emptying nearly ten bottles, or maybe because of the overdose of antidepressants, or it could be because of the defeat I've felt over the past week. Or maybe . . . maybe it's these strange thoughts I've become surrounded by.
Yeah, probably.
Though, I cannot begin to describe them. No matter how many pencils and sheets of paper you were to place in front of me, I would never be able to express myself. Not even one word would slip out of my mouth.
But, surprisingly enough, I can explain the feeling it leaves me with.
Pain.
Ever since the beginning, these thoughts have hurt me more than mental statements should. They came rolling in one day, like a misfit. It pulled out a gun and shot me in the chest.
Right in the heart.
On target.
Bullseye.
Ka-Boom.
Game over.
I collapsed to the ground as my heart fell out of my chest, rolling away. I gasped in agony at the absence of it. Empty, hollow, undesirable. That's how I felt. It was instant. One second, fine, the next, depressed.
Who am I?
I am Casey Jones.
What's wrong with me?
I am in love.
Who with?
I hesitate.
How can I answer this?
Gah, it's just a thought inside my head, simple question!
But there are so many other thoughts in my head, all of him.
Him.
The one I love.
The one I crave.
Him.
Raphael.
I don't know how long I've been in love with him, but it's been long enough for me to be desperate. One night, a time I can't particularly remember, I took a swig of him. I inhaled his toxins, like the drug that he is. Quickly, after only a few doses, I became addicted. I can't get enough of him. My skin crawls when I'm around him, all I want is to run my fingers over his smooth, delicate skin. To kiss his beautiful lips.
Him.
The one I love.
The I crave.
Him.
Raphael.
I want the security of his muscular arms wrapped around my torso as I drift into a peaceful slumber. The sound of his crisp voice whispering sweet nothings will become the soundtrack to my life, I will be fueled by his love. Or lust. Nevertheless—no matter what it is we would ever be—I need him. Whether a friend or a lover. I need him.
Him.
The one I love.
The one I crave.
Him.
Raphael.
I ain't blind, though. I know that there is no Raphael Hamato and Casey Jones happy ending. There will only ever be Raph and Casey, the vigilante duo. Because Raphael doesn't feel the same way towards me as I do him.
Through Raphael's eyes, I'm his best friend. His rock, his go-to. I've never—I'll never—be anything more.
Through Raphael's eyes, I'm in love with April O'Neil. I guess that for a while that was true, I did love her. But looking back, I realize that that washouts infatuation.
Although, Raphael is bisexual. He came out to the family just last week. But even if he doesn't have a gender preference, that doesn't mean he wants me. Why would he? I'm nothing but trouble. And anyway, we're best friends, there's no way he would want to be anything more.
I love Raphael. Everything about him. His smile his eyes. His strong voice. His muscles. His swift movements. His battle cries. The way his mask tails blow in the wind as he surveys the city. The way he twirls his twin Sai after ever victory. The way his eyes flutter when he's tired. The way he forced them open.
I mentally kick myself for thinking about all of the glamorous traits of Raphael. It hurts, knowing I will never have him.
It hurts so fucking bad.