May a Meteorite Fall on my Head
Bullets have jackshit on guilty revelations from former lovers. Wow. I thought I knew what it was like to hurt. I didn't know shit.
She left with my baby in her, and I don't even get a simple fucking phone call or a single word from her for ten goddamn years. I need to get away. I need to get out of here. I need to think. I need to not think ever again. I need to get wasted.
I only see red; Bella's a smoky ghost I brush past. I feel like I'm tumbling down a rabbit hole. This has got to be a dream. Yeah, that's it. Or maybe I actually died in Iraq and am now wandering around a purgatory where Bella is in my ears and in my eyes but I can't touch her, and she exists only to torture my sinful soul.
She reaches out to stop me, but I tear my sleeve from her grasp. This is not happening. Fuck no. Not now, when I could say or do something I might regret.
I shoot a text message to Emmett that I'm taking a cab back to base and snap the phone shut and shove it in my pocket. This night is a joke. I'm like one hundred and thirty-two percent sure I'm getting Punk'd by Ashton Kutcher right at this moment.
But I'm not.
The cab doesn't drop me off at base; I tell him to stop at a dive bar just outside. I'll walk in when I'm done drowning my memories with whiskey. And pussy. Definitely need some pussy. Pussy always gets rid of overthinking. There are willing girls in there. Trash, trashed, ready to be trashed by me. I want to use someone the way I feel used right now.
I need to go to the range tomorrow; let off some steam, and focus my energy on recuperating so I can get away from all of this and back to war.
War I know. War I get: there's a method to it, but there's none to this madness.
War is less painful.
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A/N:
Well, Eddie didn't take that well, did he now?
Can't say I blame him.