Big thanks to TeamBella23 for agreeing to look this over, and also for pointing out that I use too many semicolons. I know she's no beta, but she helped a lot. :)

So, without further ado, here's the fixed version! (I tried to fix as much as I could.)

(Thanks to Pink, The Script, Band of Horses, Bon Jovi, Switchfoot, Lifehouse, Nicole—I love you!—TeamBella23, Blanca, and all of you guys)

"Losing you tonight takes me from heaven to hell. Dying is to find a farewell." Vanilla Ninja

He pushed me too far tonight.

I stare at the white calm-filled lovers that sit laid out in a pile on my bed, white, rectangle shaped loves. I contemplate what I could do with them; I could do so many things, all resulting in something very bad—I don't care, though. As I said, he pushed me too far, and I'm teetering over that edge right now, in between love and hate, wanting/needing and not giving a fuck, and giving him something to mull over. My mind drifts back to earlier tonight, and his words repeat like a broken record.

"I despise you," he said quietly, looking down.

He was eerily calm, and it scared me, but I wouldn't tell him that. I keep quiet, knowing that he was not finished.

"You're like a . . . a murderer—a killer to my fucking heart!" he said, now looking at me.

He advanced toward me, and I didn't move to stop him; I didn't care if he hurt me physically, because I welcomed it—it would be better than this emotional hell I've been in for years.

"You enjoy it, don't you?" he asked, but I know I'm not supposed to answer, so I didn't. "You know how you affect me, yet you continue to leave—causing me to go back to them!"

He was referring to the drugs—his real love in his fucked-up life. I snorted, not bothering to keep quiet anymore; I'd had it.

"Please—you do this to yourself," I said, looking him directly in the face.

"You're the one that leaves every time we argue—every time we fight, baby girl," he said, smirking.

I shook my head.

"You're wrong, but you've never seen that, and you're probably never going to," I said. "I hate you. I hate you for what you've allowed yourself to become! You've let yourself become to immersed in this in senseless way of living, and the drugs are your one true-real love. . ."I laugh. "Yeah, I hate you for that! I hate that I lost my best friend to this."

I wasn't just talking about him, though. No, I was speaking about myself as well.

The white loves burn into my eyes, and I can just feel the effects of them and they're not even in my system—yet. They would feel so good once they took effect; calming, relaxing, I wouldn't have to worry—and maybe, just maybe, I would take enough of them to be able to shut off my stupid too-far-gone-for-this-world mind for a little while.

"You say you hate me," he said, pressing and caging me against the wall. "Yet you're still here."

His eyes are cold, and the hate that I've felt grows a little stronger seeing how gone he looks. I hate this, and I despise it with every part of me; but he's right—I'm still here. Why? I have no reason to be, except that I'm weak.

He said that I'm a murderer, but he's half-wrong; we're both murderers. We're like Bonnie & Clyde, out to kill in a ruthless manner; out for blood with a thirst so strong, and wanting to play a game so dangerous that we're bound to get caught. It's going to end one day. They—Bonnie and Clyde—were caught, so why should we think we're invincible? We aren't; not by any means. Things start splitting at the seams and now, tumbling down . . . it's a horrible, but oh so lovely, way to go.

A taste of his own medicine is what he needs the most, but a part of me thinks it won't help. He'll apologize—if I made it that is—and say he'll get better, try to be better, but we both would know it wasn't true and would never happen. I'm sick of living like this—it's not even really living; it's more like waking up, getting through the day with this weight on my shoulders, wondering what's going to happen, what his mood is like, and where it'll go at any given moment.

The loves bore into me from the bed they rest on, taunting me; it would be so easy just to give in. I'm not strong, I'm fucking weak. I'm just like him in ways. I play my part and he plays his games—a game where there aren't any winners, just losers in the end. I grab the cup that sits on my dresser and down some of its contents: Mountain Dew and downers, who would have thoughts? It's almost laughable, really, as I take two of the whites in my palm and lift them to my mouth; I'm trying to forget, to calm down, yet I'm drinking one of the sodas that has the highest amount of caffeine. Caffeine is a drug, technically, so I guess I'm addicted to that too. I swallow the loves and shiver, but it's the good kind—the kind where I know I just did something wrong, but I don't care. Don't I deserve to forget, even for a little while?

The white loves have taken effect, and even though I'm calmer than I have been in a while, it's not enough—it never is. Music streams into my ears from my earphones, Pink's so damn relatable lyrics shooting into me and lifting me up like nothing else.

When it's good, then it's good, it's so good 'til it goes bad; 'til you're trying to find the you that you once had; I have heard myself cry "never again", broken down in agony just tryin' to find a friend.

Is this what he feels like when he goes for the drugs? Free, no pain—well, almost. It's kind of intensified but in a whole other way. I can ignore it because it isn't pressing against my chest like a wrecking ball made of fire. Still, two aren't enough, and I grab another two, downing them without a second thought.

Four.

I glance down at the small pile of lovers, which are growing smaller; I think about playing with fire, and I do. Without a second thought.

Five.

I can feel the five loves I took an hour ago taking their full effects as I make my way downstairs, into the kitchen to refill my cup. I might as well take the entire bottle of Dew with me, no? I'm really not too keen on falling down stairs because I can't see or walk straight. I get back into my room with no injuries or accidents, and set the 2 liter of MD down onto the carpet. I glance around the room; the walls are painted a royal purple, and the carpet switched for a thistle purple—I loved my room, but I'm beginning to hate it now. It has him all fucking over it. My bedspread is thistle colored with deep purple flowers on it—he bought it for me as a sixteenth birthday present.

I grab another two pills and quickly down them, one of them sticking in my throat for a moment, and I momentarily think that maybe it's a sign that I've made a big mistake, that I'm going to die. Death would be so sweet, though. I've been trying to balance on the ledge of life and death for so long, and I'm dead inside anyway—death would be sweet justice. Maybe it would get him to feel what I feel; it would coarse like a never-ending fire through his entire body, and he would dive deeper into the drugs and bury himself six feet under—the only problem is that we'd meet again. I'm not naïve nor am I blind to the fact that people who take their own lives don't get into heaven. That's the biggest battle I've fought with, and have been too afraid to even cross the line of. I'm afraid of rotting in a pit of all consuming, never-an-end-to-it, fire.

The whites go down . . . this time with a second thought.

Seven.

The effects are heavy and I have a hard time staying awake. A song by Lifehouse plays, but it sounds drowned out, far away. Something about an open book . . . a broken clock and how it comforts him. I'm laying down, trying to stay awake. I'm a little afraid now, but I try to shove it aside because I know that there's nothing I can do short of calling 911, and I won't do that. I deserve this. A different songs fades in and out as I try not to lose consciousness.

We're smiling but we're close to tears, even after all these years, we just now got the feeling that we're meeting for the first, time.

The song disappears as my eyes fall closed and I allow heavy and empty darkness to pull me in; it feels so lovely, so wonderful, to finally be able to be calm, no weight on my chest and shoulders.

It's a horrible, but oh so lovely, way to go.