[30-day writing challenge] haze
haze
a/n: this one drabble a day thing isn't actually working out ha ha ha. warnings for attempted suicide, implied self-harm, depression
"let's play a game."
your eyes are glossed over with tears, the haze of pleasure from one too many cans of beer, shrouding clear brown. eyeliner is smudged around the corners of your eyes, black bruises over the purple shadows under them. it's waterproof, you'd said to me as i'd watched you carefully apply it. waterproof but not tear-proof, it seems.
"babe?" your lips are still shimmery pink with the remains of your lipgloss. i think that i might want to kiss you. it would be nice, i think. you'd taste like malt and fruit and nicotine with an undertone of stomach acid and despondency. there is a smear of pink at the corner of your bottom lip. i reach over and rub it off with my thumb.
"okay." i say, out of indulgence more than anything else. you wrap trembling skeletal fingers around my wrist; smile. it looks like a grimace under the sickly glow of the streetlamps. i think of glinting silver razors and red-spotted sweater sleeves and the ladders of crimson half moons curving into the crooks of your elbows. i think about the countless times we'd spent, my arms thrown around your bony shoulders as i gently traced the raised lines of your scars. the number of times i'd rummaged through your room and disposed of your razors, the colourful post-its left behind on your pillow and bathroom mirror screaming out "stop" and "don't do this to yourself" and "you are beautiful" in block letters. but really, who am i to help you when i can't even fight off my own demons?
the game is simple, really: we lie down on the road side by side, facing away from the traffic direction and waiting for a car to drive down that particular street. the last one to get up before the car swerves or hits them is the winner. i remember the way you'd laughed when you outlined the game to me. broken, choked up, hollow. "remember, babe," you'd whispered to me as we lay down on the gravelly tar. "the only rule is that you can't pull the other person up or away, no matter how close the car is."
this, is a game of chance. a game of calculation, of speed and reflexes: if it takes you an approximate of ten seconds to drag your drunk ass up and off the road, how close can you get to the car's front bumper without being run over? you were always the winner of this game, the best at calculating the risks taken. the sight, the feeling of death just within your grasp was always exhilarating, left you breathless and wanting more, or so you said.
"and what about you?" you'd asked between inhaled lungfuls of gaseous poison. "you didn't have to play along with me." i didn't. still don't. but then again, i have nothing more to lose, do i? after all, you're not the only one dealing with scars and self-hatred, darling. the difference is that whether it shows, or not.
tonight, the game is no different. the gravel and bits of leaf and twig dig into my back through the thin material of my t-shirt and denim shorts. i wonder how much worse it is for you, wearing just an oversized tank top and leggings. you tangle the fingers of your left hand with my right. turn your head a little to smile at me. small, sticky globs of mascara clump your lashes together, and you still look like you're grimacing. but then again, maybe you are. maybe you are.
it's not long before the low rumble of a car vibrates along the length of the road, barely-there tremors beneath the weight of our bodies. i blink up at the night sky. there are no visible stars tonight. too much light pollution. i think of the jar of folded paper stars sitting on my dresser, one star for each thing or person that has made me smile. i think of the hundreds of paper stars with your name scribbled in them. the tremors are stronger now. my eyes haze over with fear and a sick sort of excitement.
i count down from ten. i can almost taste petrol and exhaust on my tongue. ripping my fingers away from yours, i jump up, staggering to the roadside. the silver renault megane is two feet away from you and you're still sprawled over the road, eyes closed and short dyed hair splayed out around your head. from this angle, it makes you look like you have a halo, a crown of sorts.
one heartbeat passes. two.
you're not moving. i snap forward and haul you away from the road, dragging you by the wrists and not caring when my fingertips dig into the ridges of your scars. the car narrowly misses your leg, and the driver rolls down the window, screaming out a fierce "crazy bitches!" at us.
i ignore him in favour of turning to you. "were you going to just die there?" your head is tilted towards the ground, shoulders hunched over so that your tiny frame is compressed even more. you're trembling, and your skin is cold and clammy. i'm not sure whether i am angry, or relieved, or just desensitized to seeing you wanting to take your life. "what the fuck is up with you?"
one heartbeat passes. two.
you lift your head, staring straight into my eyes with your own deep brown ones. your face is scarily blank, the ruined make-up making you look like half-demented. "you broke the rule." calmly, softly, as if you hadn't just been a heartbeat away from death.
and then you turn, starting to walk away.
in retrospect, i should have ran after you. should have grabbed hold of you and given you a hug, like usual, and told you that "i love you i love you i love you". should have held on, period.
instead, i stand there by the now-empty roadside, watching your gradually fading figure from behind the haze of tears clouding my eyes.
a/n: this one drabble a day thing isn't actually working out ha ha ha. warnings for attempted suicide, implied self-harm, depression
"let's play a game."
your eyes are glossed over with tears, the haze of pleasure from one too many cans of beer, shrouding clear brown. eyeliner is smudged around the corners of your eyes, black bruises over the purple shadows under them. it's waterproof, you'd said to me as i'd watched you carefully apply it. waterproof but not tear-proof, it seems.
"babe?" your lips are still shimmery pink with the remains of your lipgloss. i think that i might want to kiss you. it would be nice, i think. you'd taste like malt and fruit and nicotine with an undertone of stomach acid and despondency. there is a smear of pink at the corner of your bottom lip. i reach over and rub it off with my thumb.
"okay." i say, out of indulgence more than anything else. you wrap trembling skeletal fingers around my wrist; smile. it looks like a grimace under the sickly glow of the streetlamps. i think of glinting silver razors and red-spotted sweater sleeves and the ladders of crimson half moons curving into the crooks of your elbows. i think about the countless times we'd spent, my arms thrown around your bony shoulders as i gently traced the raised lines of your scars. the number of times i'd rummaged through your room and disposed of your razors, the colourful post-its left behind on your pillow and bathroom mirror screaming out "stop" and "don't do this to yourself" and "you are beautiful" in block letters. but really, who am i to help you when i can't even fight off my own demons?
the game is simple, really: we lie down on the road side by side, facing away from the traffic direction and waiting for a car to drive down that particular street. the last one to get up before the car swerves or hits them is the winner. i remember the way you'd laughed when you outlined the game to me. broken, choked up, hollow. "remember, babe," you'd whispered to me as we lay down on the gravelly tar. "the only rule is that you can't pull the other person up or away, no matter how close the car is."
this, is a game of chance. a game of calculation, of speed and reflexes: if it takes you an approximate of ten seconds to drag your drunk ass up and off the road, how close can you get to the car's front bumper without being run over? you were always the winner of this game, the best at calculating the risks taken. the sight, the feeling of death just within your grasp was always exhilarating, left you breathless and wanting more, or so you said.
"and what about you?" you'd asked between inhaled lungfuls of gaseous poison. "you didn't have to play along with me." i didn't. still don't. but then again, i have nothing more to lose, do i? after all, you're not the only one dealing with scars and self-hatred, darling. the difference is that whether it shows, or not.
tonight, the game is no different. the gravel and bits of leaf and twig dig into my back through the thin material of my t-shirt and denim shorts. i wonder how much worse it is for you, wearing just an oversized tank top and leggings. you tangle the fingers of your left hand with my right. turn your head a little to smile at me. small, sticky globs of mascara clump your lashes together, and you still look like you're grimacing. but then again, maybe you are. maybe you are.
it's not long before the low rumble of a car vibrates along the length of the road, barely-there tremors beneath the weight of our bodies. i blink up at the night sky. there are no visible stars tonight. too much light pollution. i think of the jar of folded paper stars sitting on my dresser, one star for each thing or person that has made me smile. i think of the hundreds of paper stars with your name scribbled in them. the tremors are stronger now. my eyes haze over with fear and a sick sort of excitement.
i count down from ten. i can almost taste petrol and exhaust on my tongue. ripping my fingers away from yours, i jump up, staggering to the roadside. the silver renault megane is two feet away from you and you're still sprawled over the road, eyes closed and short dyed hair splayed out around your head. from this angle, it makes you look like you have a halo, a crown of sorts.
one heartbeat passes. two.
you're not moving. i snap forward and haul you away from the road, dragging you by the wrists and not caring when my fingertips dig into the ridges of your scars. the car narrowly misses your leg, and the driver rolls down the window, screaming out a fierce "crazy bitches!" at us.
i ignore him in favour of turning to you. "were you going to just die there?" your head is tilted towards the ground, shoulders hunched over so that your tiny frame is compressed even more. you're trembling, and your skin is cold and clammy. i'm not sure whether i am angry, or relieved, or just desensitized to seeing you wanting to take your life. "what the fuck is up with you?"
one heartbeat passes. two.
you lift your head, staring straight into my eyes with your own deep brown ones. your face is scarily blank, the ruined make-up making you look like half-demented. "you broke the rule." calmly, softly, as if you hadn't just been a heartbeat away from death.
and then you turn, starting to walk away.
in retrospect, i should have ran after you. should have grabbed hold of you and given you a hug, like usual, and told you that "i love you i love you i love you". should have held on, period.
instead, i stand there by the now-empty roadside, watching your gradually fading figure from behind the haze of tears clouding my eyes.