Monday, 9 July 2012
12:15:41 PM (GMT)
One bloody text.
That's all it took.
I don't know how long I'd been staring at it... Oh, wait... My screen's gone off.
Must've been for longer than a minute.
'Hi. It's Kian txting from Salems phone. Hes gone. Wont reply anytime soon. Or
ever as no ones telling me anythin. Dont reply 2 this'
I fell over, I think. Onto perfectly ironed sheets. Someone unimportant pushed me
off onto the floor, and I left the room. I think people were shouting at me.
Swearing. I didn't care.
Something smudges the screen of my phone, and there's a choked coughing sound.
Crying. But why the smudged screen? Oh.
I pull my knees up to my chest, tucking myself into the space between the spare
I don't know why I bother. No one will find me. No one will come looking.
A sharp, bitter pain hits me, and I open my eyes, seeing a smudge of red. My nails
aren't even that sharp... Oh. I wonder when I picked that up...
I drop the knife and apply pressure to the deep cut, swallowing. What would it
matter? He might never come back. I won't matter to anyone else. I let my hand
drop, allowing the blood to trickle into the crook of my elbow. Who cares?
I close my eyes and rest my head against the wall, letting it happen.
He doesn't care. He might never come back. If he left.
But he might...
I silence the thought quickly, counting multiples of six, until I realise that it's
just making me cry harder because he's the one who told me to do that.
A door slams somewhere, and there are fast footsteps, and my hiding place is covered
"Shit... shit Aiden, what've you done?! Shit..."
"Lea' me 'lone..."
"No! Aiden are you mental?!"
I don't answer, recognising the voice as Frankie's as he takes my arm and presses
hard. It hurts, but I don't complain. Nothing hurts as much as him leaving.
"What in God's name possessed you to do this?!"
"Salem... Salem's..." Why am I telling him?
"Shit.... It's alright, mate-"
"I'm not your mate."
"You're not mine."
He sighs heavily, muttering an irritated "Whatever", and cleans my arm up with my
jumper, sticking a plaster on. As if that'll help.
I don't know what the date is. I don't care. Shut up. Leave me alone.
I can't call you an idiot.
I stare at the pills for a long time. Anti-depressants. That's what the doctor
They won't do anything. They can't make me happy. They can't fix me. That was his
job. He told me it was. That night, after Hamish had tried (and failed, miserably)
to explain the importance of friendship and love and soulmates. I'd stopped replying
to him, and Salem had kicked him out of our flat and sat next to me. I remember
lying on the settee, my head on his lap. Because it didn't matter. He wasn't mine,
and I wasn't his. We weren't soulmates. Never could be. But I'd written his name
where I had none, and wore a gold ring anyway. Maybe we weren't official soulmates,
but he was the only person... He was my exception. I remember lying there, telling
him that love was boring, and that I had more important things to worry about, and
that I didn't need anyone else.
He'd sat, fiddling with my hair, and shrugged. At least, I think it was a shrug.
Hard to tell upside-down.
"I'll teach you."
I must have fallen asleep after that. I wasn't well.
I haven't been very well lately. Not properly since Salem left. My appetite's gone,
but Hamish insists on force-feeding me every day. He comes up to the flat every day,
and looks after me. He cut my hair the other day because it had got to the point
where he was holding it as I threw up. The headaches are more constant now, and the
doctor's sending me to the hospital on the 27th. I don't know how far away that is.
I'm going to get a brain scan.
Hamish keeps telling me to keep my mind active. To look for distractions. So I
write. Poems that don't rhyme, words that don't mean anything. I post them on the
internet, wondering if he's reading them... Realising what he's done. I don't think
this is what Hamish means by distractions, but I refuse to leave the flat.
He might come back, and if I'm not here, he might think I don't care.
Well, I don't. Not for anyone but him.
I still play music. Things he likes. But Hamish tells me that the sad tunes have
stolen the happy ones' emotion. I tell him to shut up. I compose, too. Duets. The
second part may never be played, but I can hope.
Hamish has taken all my knives. Won't even let me cut food. Or fingers. Other
people's, that is. Experiments.
I smoke, when I can be bothered. And I overdosed once. Although I don't remember on
He said that he'd teach me how to be human. How to be loved. How to feel.
I can feel now.
I don't know why he ever thought it would be a good idea.