Ugh, this became exactly what I didn't want it to: a story. I wanted this to by my own little 'therapy' session thingy. Oh well. This has turned into the same kind of bullshit story that you read in other fanfics. I wanted to be more thought provoking. I guess you'll just have to look back at my earlier chapters. :\
Disclaimer: I don't own Camp Rock. If I did, Shane would be depressed and Mitchie would be clingy xD
The next thing I know, I'm waking up to a bright Sunday morning and numbness in my head.
"Damn it," I curse under my breath, rubbing my head. It doesn't hurt, it's more of the absence of feeling that's making me rub it. It feels weird and awkward.
I sit up and look at my clock. 7 am. Even when I'm not trying to kill myself, I never wake up this early.
Then I remember.
It's Valentine's Day.
I close my eyes as tears start springing up. I don't need her, I don't need her, I chant in my head. After a minute, I give up. Who am I kidding? You are my life, and now you're gone.
You may not be perfect, but neither am I.
I groggily get out of bed and trudge over to the bathroom, the bathroom I used to share with you. You would stay here 6 days a week and then tend to your own apartment for the last day, usually a Monday.
I guess we aren't sharing anymore, though.
I go through my medicine cabinet, looking for some kind of face wash to help me wake up more, when I see it. My eyes widen, I never bought it and I haven't seen it in there before.
Laxatives.
I gingerly pick it up. I hate them. They make you have to go, you know. Maybe you had an upset stomach or something. I go to throw it out when I decide to keep them. Maybe I'll get sick and need them. I put them back in my cabinet, but something still doesn't seem right.
After bathing, shaving and a quick breakfast, I decide to go find you and make things right.
You're my girlfriend, my one and only, and hopefully my wife one day. I'll never forgive myself if I let you go. I head out to your place in my BMW wearing a black jacket, white teeshirt, and some skinny jeans. Gotta keep it real.
I lean over my steering wheel as I inch along in the rush hour traffic. Why does everyone just have to go out on Valentine's Day? It's not even dinner time, or date time as I call it. I sigh and continue my slow paced trek to your apartment. After 45 minutes on the highway, I finally turn off and drive to your street. I park in front of your apartment building and take a deep breath before getting out of my car
This can go two ways. Either I will show up, you will cry, and we'll work it out, or I show up, you hit me and throw me out. Either way, I'm nervous.
I finally make it to your apartment: C303. I've always loved your number, it's the name of one of my favorite bands, 3OH!3. I hesitantly knock and hear some shuffling around.
You open the door wearing a robe, your face flushed with exertion of something. You quickly pale, though, as soon as you see me.
"Shane," you silently say, your wide eyes tracking my every move.
I look down before answering you. "I know you probably hate me, but I wanted to say I'm sorry and we should work this out." I look back up to see you still staring at me. You think for a second before letting me in.
I quickly step in and you close the door, pulling your robe on tighter. "Shane... I'm sorry too..." you mumble.
I give you a small smile and pull you towards me, rubbing your back. I gasp when your arm touches mine.
"Mitchie," I say shocked. "Why is your arm ice cold?" I take your hands and feel that they're even colder.
I stare at your eyes, trying to get an answer. You glare at me, yanking your hands away.
"It's just really cold in here..." you mutter.
I roll my eyes. "Mitchie, it's like 80 degrees in here, it's so not cold," I argue.
You glare at me and walk off to the kitchen. I follow, looking for answers. You just sit at the kitchen table and watch me with a look of disdain on your face. You cross your arms and grit your teeth.
"It's cold outside," you say, raising your eyebrows, daring me to challenge you.
I slam my hands on the table. "You weren't outside," I say accusingly, my eyes narrowed at you. "You were doing some hard work inside or something, and you're wearing a robe. There's no way in hell you were outside."
We have a glaring contest for what feels like hours. I have an idea at what you're hiding from me, but I really hope it's not true.
"Fine, if you're not going to talk, I'm gonna eat something, ok?" I mutter. I open your fridge, only to see nothing in it.
Out of nowhere, you burst out in sobs. My eyes widen as you cry your eyes out. When I try to help you, you just push me away.
"Why do you have to be so mean to me?!" you scream in between tears. I sigh; why do you always have to be so much work?
Suddenly, your wheezing gets out of control. You stop crying and focus on trying to get air down your throat, but it's not working. You stare at me wide eyed as you clutch your throat.
I stay frozen for a second before I go running for the phone, my fingers fumbling as I dial 911.
"911, what's your emergency?" a feminine voice says boredly on the phone. It must suck to sit at a desk all day waiting for someone to call.
"Hi, yeah, my gi-girlfriend, she's chok- well, I don't know what's happening, she just can't breathe," I quickly sputter out, my eyes glancing nervously at you every few seconds.
"Wait, are you… Shane Gray?" the girl asks, recognition in her voice.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, just please, bring an ambulance to 100 Ocean Avenue," I sigh. Why do I have to be famous?
The girl agrees and everything that happens afterwards is a blur. They come, whisk you into the ambulance with me trailing behind. They put the breathing thing around your mouth and nose as I hold your hand. It's more of a one-sided holding though, you're apparently still mad at me. We get to the hospital and they take you into a room, leaving me to fill out forms.
I creep into your room about a half an hour later.
"Hey Mitchie," I whisper when I see you're awake and staring out the window. You turn, glare at me, then go back to looking out the window.
I sigh. "You can't be mad at me forever. Can you at least tell me why you're mad?"
You whip your head to me. "You want to know why I'm mad?! How about the way you tried to make me look like an asshole last night! I asked for a break, I never said anything against you. You don't understand what I'm going through," you hiss at me.
I humorlessly laugh. "And you understand what I'm going through? Mitchie, I tried to kill myself last night. Kill myself. As in never coming back. You're lucky I'm even talking to you now."
"Oh yeah, like you're the only one with problems. The whole universe completely revolves around you, doesn't it?" you scream at me.
I get ready to fight back when the doctor comes in.
"So, Michelle, your tests are back and it seems you had a panic attack," he says.
You roll your eyes. "Can I leave now?" you snap at him, starting to take the IV's out of your arms. The doctor stops you, a sad smile on his face.
"I'm sorry, but you can't. It was brought on by starvation." You instantly lay back and look away, a pissed off look on your face. I gawk at you. I had suspected you had an eating disorder, but suspecting and knowing are two different things.
The doctor looks between us for a second. "I'll leave you two alone…" he says and starts walking towards me. He leans into my ear and says, "You're gonna have to keep an eye on her, maybe put her in an eating disorder program, okay?"
I shudder, but nod my head. He pats my back and leaves the room, leaving us alone.
I look at the ground, letting the silence consume us. You're still looking away, your arms crossed as if this is somehow my fault. Finally, I can't take it.
"Mitchie, why are you acting like you're mad at me?" I ask you exasperatedly.
"Maybe because it's all your fault!" you explode, clenching your hands. I take a step back.
"My fault?! What the hell have I ever done to you?" I shout back.
"YOU BROKE MY HEART!" you cry out, bursting into tears (again).
I cover my face with my hands and let out a silent scream. This is way too fucked up for me to handle. I take a few deep breaths before hesitantly sitting on your bed.
"How did I break your heart?" I ask lowly.
You look up at me, tears still clinging to your eyelashes. "When someone tells you they want to die, you take it personally. Was I not enough to keep you here? Did I disgust you? Did you blame me for everything? I didn't know, and I hate not knowing, you know that. I needed to be in control, and my food consumption was one of the only things I had left," you silently say.
I slowly shake my head. "Here, look at this," I mumble, pulling out my journal. I'd been required to bring it everywhere, so I give it to you to show you my last entry. You flinch at the part where I call you a bitch, but otherwise don't show emotion.
When you're done, you look up at me. "You really tried to kill yourself last night?" you ask.
I grimace and nod. "I thought I had nothing left to live for. I don't know what I would do if you weren't here," I say absently. You take my hand into yours, a surprising move seeing as not even an hour ago, you were trying to yank your hand away from mine.
"I think we need help," you softly say.
I snort. "Understatement of the century."
You giggle and we tightly hold hands together.
I look up into your eyes. "So I guess we're together again?"
You smile, a real genuine one. "Definitely.
And then we seal the deal with a kiss.
The end? I don't know. You tell me. If you want, I might post another chapter. Like an epilogue or something. The majority wins, so start reviewing. :)
