I'm not okay (I promise).
“Guilt is the price we pay willingly for doing what we are going to do anyway” - Isabelle Holland
It had been months since he'd written in it, but when Logan had found his old green journal tucked under the bed (right between the handcuffs from their first Halloween fiasco and a copy of Easy Rider he'd swiped off the bookshelf), he had instantly found himself needing to document the last month of his life in it. It wasn't a happy month either, and it read like some sort of twisted drama. Part day time soap and part Lifetime original movie. All he needed was to knock someone up and get into some sort of drunk driving related incident, and he'd have all the basics covered for an after school special.
It sat discarded now in the sand, laying open just beside Logan's bare feet. Stretched out on his back, he looked like he was trying to tan... Though the sun had set hours ago, and the only thing lighting the beach now was the moon. Beside him sat a half empty bottle of rum that Han Solo of all people had so generously given him when he'd shown a little interest. It was nothing like what he'd drank back home, but on the island one couldn't really be too picky. And though it burned the back of his throat and left him feeling a little sick, he'd knocked it back until his head had started to spin.
As if the booze wasn't enough, there was also the matter of the lit joint between his lips. The tightly rolled spliff bounced up and down as he spoke around it, singing softly to himself. It didn't matter that he didn't know the words, it was mostly incoherent mumbling anyway. There was nothing melodic or soothing to it, just sounds twisted between puffs of smoke that were barely audible over the crash of waves.
Taking a deep pull, he held the smoke in his lungs until they burned and his eyes watered. Never mind the fact that they'd already been damp with tears... Logan didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about anything, actually. Not his empty hut, not Neil, not the mistakes he'd made lately and not... And not the fact that he suddenly found himself faced with the harsh reality that maybe this was it for him. Maybe he really didn't get that happily ever after ending that everyone kept telling him would turn up one day. Maybe he really was going to die alone and miserable. Just a pathetic rum soaked loser.
Linus dragged a large stick over and dropped it in his owner's lap, yipping and then bouncing from side to side as he waited for Logan to throw it. Sighing, Logan simply pushed it away, ignoring the pup's pathetic whines and cries for attention.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. ...Why am I letting it matter?" he babbled softly, turning his head and blinking at the ever growing pup. "You should have gone with him," he told the golden dog. "I bet he still plays fetch."
(Open to all, find him anywhere on the beach.)
It had been months since he'd written in it, but when Logan had found his old green journal tucked under the bed (right between the handcuffs from their first Halloween fiasco and a copy of Easy Rider he'd swiped off the bookshelf), he had instantly found himself needing to document the last month of his life in it. It wasn't a happy month either, and it read like some sort of twisted drama. Part day time soap and part Lifetime original movie. All he needed was to knock someone up and get into some sort of drunk driving related incident, and he'd have all the basics covered for an after school special.
It sat discarded now in the sand, laying open just beside Logan's bare feet. Stretched out on his back, he looked like he was trying to tan... Though the sun had set hours ago, and the only thing lighting the beach now was the moon. Beside him sat a half empty bottle of rum that Han Solo of all people had so generously given him when he'd shown a little interest. It was nothing like what he'd drank back home, but on the island one couldn't really be too picky. And though it burned the back of his throat and left him feeling a little sick, he'd knocked it back until his head had started to spin.
As if the booze wasn't enough, there was also the matter of the lit joint between his lips. The tightly rolled spliff bounced up and down as he spoke around it, singing softly to himself. It didn't matter that he didn't know the words, it was mostly incoherent mumbling anyway. There was nothing melodic or soothing to it, just sounds twisted between puffs of smoke that were barely audible over the crash of waves.
Taking a deep pull, he held the smoke in his lungs until they burned and his eyes watered. Never mind the fact that they'd already been damp with tears... Logan didn't want to think about that. He didn't want to think about anything, actually. Not his empty hut, not Neil, not the mistakes he'd made lately and not... And not the fact that he suddenly found himself faced with the harsh reality that maybe this was it for him. Maybe he really didn't get that happily ever after ending that everyone kept telling him would turn up one day. Maybe he really was going to die alone and miserable. Just a pathetic rum soaked loser.
Linus dragged a large stick over and dropped it in his owner's lap, yipping and then bouncing from side to side as he waited for Logan to throw it. Sighing, Logan simply pushed it away, ignoring the pup's pathetic whines and cries for attention.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered to himself, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "It doesn't matter. It shouldn't matter. ...Why am I letting it matter?" he babbled softly, turning his head and blinking at the ever growing pup. "You should have gone with him," he told the golden dog. "I bet he still plays fetch."
(Open to all, find him anywhere on the beach.)