Monday 14th May

Craig

Part Four

I take the steps two at a time as I hot foot it up to the flat, steaming through the living area and straight into my bedroom. Shutting the door haphazardly, I grab my iPod and throw myself down onto the bed, staring up to the ceiling as the music pierces through the earphones. I always turn it up full blast, hoping to block out the absolute mind fuck that I've had going on for God knows how long now. It never works though, I could stick on the loudest, heaviest rock tune that I have and John Paul will always be louder in my head. Then again I've not exactly got the most eclectic of musical tastes, Razorlight are just about the closest thing to heavy rock that I own. Yeah… exactly.

So it's not surprising that my mind starts to wander before the song even reaches it's first chorus. I knew as soon as my eyes connected with his not five minutes ago that I had to get out of there, away from his stare. Why was he even looking at me anyway? It's not as if he seems to give a fuck that we don't speak anymore, he obviously prefers to spend his time sucking face with Spike nowadays. And while we're at it, what sort of a name is Spike? I had a stuffed dog when I was a kid, he was called Spike n'all. My dad bought it for me when we were in Rhyl on a family holiday, I was probably about six at the time. I'd forgotten to take my teddy with me and there was absolutely no way that I'd be able to sleep without a teddy, so he went out to one of those cheap pound shops and brought it back to the caravan for me to cuddle. I loved that teddy, had it for years I did. I chucked it away last week.

I've come to the conclusion that I'm destined to be a loner forever. I was a loner before I met John Paul, and I'm a loner again now that I've lost him. Maybe that's why he doesn't seem to phased by the break-up of our friendship, because to him I was just another one of his friends, whereas to me he was the only friend I had… the only friend I wanted. It probably doesn't matter to him that we don't speak anymore because he has other friends to hang about with, other friends to laugh with, go to the cinema with. He's got a fucking boyfriend for Christ's sake, why the fuck would he care about having me as a friend either way? I mean I'm just me, a weirdo at the best of times and not exactly a great loss to his social life. I've even started to doubt whether he ever actually loved me like he said he did at Hannah's 18th, cos it didn't take him very fucking long to get over me, did it?

That thought alone has been tearing me up inside ever since he got himself a new squeeze, the thought that he probably doesn't have those feelings for me that he once said he did… that he's over me. What bloody good is that to me now? He realises I'm not all that great just as I decide to fall head over fucking heels - is it any wonder my brain is fried? And the worst thing is, I know that this is all my fault. I'm the one who made him see what sort of a person I am when I knocked seven bells out of him, made him realise that I was never worth all of the hassle that I brought him. Well he's well and truly shot of me now, and quite clearly he couldn't be happier about it - I bet his fat-headed boyfriend has never hit him like I did, I bet he's never called him vile names in front of people and embarrassed the fuck outta him. Then again if he was to ever harm a single hair on John Paul's body, I would murder the twat in a second. Yeah so maybe that kinda makes me the ultimate hypocrite, but I'd do it nonetheless.

I turn over onto my side and reach into my bedside draw, extracting one of the bottles that were left over from last night's session. It takes me just a few seconds to remove the lid (using the bottle opener that I have now taken hostage) before I'm lifting the bottle to my lips and taking the first few gulps of much-needed lager. It's gone warm while it's been sat up here, in fact it tastes like fucking shit, but I'm not drinking it to enjoy the stuff am I? I sit myself up more so that I can drink without soaking myself in the process, propping a few pillows behind and resting my head against the cold wall as I continue to down my beer. I can never seem to get it down my neck quick enough these days if I'm being honest, and I nearly always run out of supplies far too quickly. Darren and Jack have even started to lock the cellar door behind them whenever they use it, twats! They bloody know that I'd pay them if I was earning more cash, I don't even get paid for working behind the bar anymore to make up for all the stock I've nicked and yet they still lock the door? I don't care about the money anymore anyway, at one time I would have kicked up an absolute stink about not getting paid what I was owed - I used to use that money when me and John Paul went into town with each other - but I don't need it for that now, so I don't really need it full stop. Well apart from to buy booze with, but I live in a pub of all places - there are ways and means of getting around that little obstacle, locked doors or no bloody locked doors!

Draining the last few dregs from the first bottle, I make quick work of opening up a second and polishing off a third of it's contents. Thankfully I can already feel the alcohol starting to take effect on me. Everything is a bit softer around the edges now, but I'm gonna need a hell of a lot more of the stuff before I can wipe the image of John Paul playing tonsil tennis from my mind. Not that I want to remove that image from my mind, but I usually prefer to picture him doing it with me rather than some cheesy dick twat. In fact it's an image that's barely left my thought process recently, the excitement that jolts through my body is like nothing I've ever experienced before whenever I allow myself to imagine massaging my wet tongue with his. Fuck, just thinking about it now is causing my whole body to tingle with sheer want - well it's either that or the booze that's doing it, probably both.

It's those thoughts that consume me for the next half hour or so as I empty my second and third bottle, taking a sip out of the fourth as the iPod continues to burst my eardrums. I'm tormenting myself, I know I am, and if I could stop it then I would. But I've tried and failed countless times, I've learnt now that it's better to just go with the flow and see where they take me. Sometimes it ends with me getting myself so worked up that my trousers are around my thighs and I'm there wanking myself into oblivion. But then there are other times, times like now, where just the thought of John Paul sends a sharp pain shooting through my body as the realisation hits me for the millionth time that none of these fantasies I keep having will ever become reality. Not anymore they won't anyway, I well and truly made sure of that. That's probably the one thing that torments me more than anything else, knowing that I could have had all this with him a few months ago. He told me that he loved me, surely you don't say that to someone unless you can imagine going all the way with them? If I hadn't been so stupid back then, if I'd only realised sooner how strongly I felt about him, I could have had it all. But as it turns out I'm left with sod all as per usual, but instead of some girl trampling all over my heart, it's me that's fucked it all up. It's not all just about sex though, there's also the small matter of me being totally and utterly in love with him.

Argghhh! I feel like my whole fucking life is one great big broken record right now. I do the same thing every fucking night, I get pissed up and spend hours wallowing in my own self pity. I need to sort myself out once and for all, if John Paul can do it then so can I! I must look like such a bloody sad case as well, sitting here in this stuffy room with the curtains closed and surrounding myself with empty beer bottles, when did I become such a frigging loser? Actually… don't answer that. Fuck this, I've been doing this crap for far too fucking long. I pull myself off the bed - albeit rather unsteadily - and place the half empty Stella on my bedside drawers. I'm gonna jump in the shower, have a quick shave and down a couple of paracetamol, that should sort me out. First thing's first though, I need to get some air circulating in this place. I head over to the window and yank the curtains back, letting the daylight stream into my room for the first time in yonks.

And do you know what? I really wish I hadn't fucking bothered. I haven't even let go of the curtains when I see him, John Paul, stood outside on the patio with [i]him.[/i] It might not have been so bad if they were just stood there talking like any normal human beings would do, but no they have to be all over each other don't they? Look at 'em, cuddling each other close, hands all over each other. I swear if that twat's hand goes any fucking lower I will rip his saggy arm from it's socket! My anger doesn't last for long though, it soon gives way to gut-wrenching sadness as they hug each other closer without a care in the world. And it hurts, it really fucking hurts seeing John Paul so happy and… in love? They certainly look as if they are as they pull away from each other slightly, Spock rubbing his hand over John Paul's shoulder as they look into each others eyes. I don't move, I keep watching them as my breathing gets harsher, my face contorting slightly as I desperately try to stop my tears from falling. I feel as if my heart is finally breaking, it's taken this moment to realise that as much as I've always been a loner… I've never felt so alone in my life. I grip the curtains tightly as tear-drops snake their way down my cheeks, breathing shakily as I take one last look at them laughing and joking with each other. And then I close the curtains just as they take hold of each others hand, no doubt to walk off into the sunset for a night of love making and togetherness.

I don't know how long I stand here for, staring at the closed curtains as I sob silently to myself. I don't wipe the tears away, I need to feel them, I need to feel my sadness. I guess that's it then, right? There's no point in any of it anymore. The best friend I ever had has left my life as quick as he arrived, and all I've got left to show for it are the tears on my cheeks. I don't really know what to do now to be honest, all of a sudden my whole life has become alien to me, nothing is registering like it should. I turn around slowly to face my room, hands resting at my side as I realise how melodramatic this all is. But anyone who's ever felt sadness like this - and I can't imagine there's many out there considering it really doesn't get much worse - will know that the only thing you can do in these situations is to make yourself feel even worse, make yourself even more emotional by re-playing over and over again in your head the reasons why you're so upset in the first place.

So that's what I decide to do as I walk over to my desk and reach once more for this godforsaken diary that we've been asked to write. Another ridiculous decision from the school on our behalf, probably to psychoanalyse us all at the end of it. But right now I couldn't give a flying tit about anything else, if I'm gonna sit here feeling sorry for myself then I may as well do the job properly. With the bottle of Stella back in my hand, I pick out a random biro from the plastic wallet and write down everything that I'm feeling… everything that I'll never be able to speak to anybody about.

14th May 2007
Mondays suck!

So today I finally saw them. I knew it would only be a matter of time before it happened but I don't think I was quite ready for any of it. Seeing them together, John Paul and SPIKE, has left me feeling like FUCKING SHIT. I saw them earlier outside, kissing each other, and I really didn't think the day could get much worse after that. But I was wrong, cos I've just seen them again and it was even worse than the first time. Hugging each other, holding hands & laughing - probably at me. And John Paul, he looked happy, really fucking happy, and while he's down there right now having fun I'm up here on my own writing bollocks and getting slowly pissed again.

It's not fair though that I have to be the one all miserable and alone again and he gets to move on as if I meant nothing to him. What happened to being in love with me? Yeah, that lasted all of five minutes. I already know that this is all down to me, I know that I hurt him in more ways than one, but he doesn't have to rub the PDA's in my fucking face does he? He's a twat!. I might be in love with him, but he's still a twat. He looked gorgeous today as well, it's the first time I've seen him properly in a while now and honestly, he looked so good! I swear someone up there has got it in for me. It was like some sick joke being played on me when he came in showing me what I basically gave up.

I'd give anything to rewind these last few months, get my best mate back, cos I miss him so bloody much! And if I could go back, and he were to kiss me again, maybe this time I wouldn't pull away from him. In fact I know I wouldn't, because right now I would give anything to be downstairs kissing him instead of that PRICK! I am SO desperate to just kiss him, and I could fucking shoot myself now for not going for it when I had the chance. I've lost the only opportunity that I was ever likely to get, and now I've lost him for good.

I'll never get over him, I wish people would stop telling me to sort myself out because they haven't got a clue what it's like. I miss speaking to him, playing Fifa with him, sending him jokes. I've lost it all, I'm on my own again now. Suppose I'll have to get used to it. I really don't want to, but I haven't got a choice no more.
Life sucks, it REALLY sucks!

When I'm done, I scribble a quick sad face at the bottom of the paper, pretty much summing up how I'm feeling. It's not until I put the pen down and look over what I've written that I notice the smudge marks on the page where my tears have fallen, distorting some of the words without me even realising it. I hate them, the water smudges, I hate what they symbolise. Maybe one day I'll find this diary at the back of an old drawer and laugh at how pathetic I sound… or maybe I'll never stop feeling like this.

Pushing the diary away, I stand up and swallow what's left of the beer in my hand before heading back over to my bedside drawers and grabbing the last two bottles. I'll drink these then start on Jack's whiskey, I'll just top it back up with water afterwards - he'll never notice.

Thank you for reading x