Some Things Are Meant For Other People.

Some Things Are Meant For Other People.

[Trevor]

The night was dark as usual and the sky was misty. The window was foggy and steamed by the running radiator in the apartment. The ash of the cigarette fell gracefully onto the music sheet paper and sprinkled it’s self over the words of the song. He blinked back into consciousness. Bewildered by the sudden zone, he looked around. Only seeing candle light on the wall. The flickering fire licked the candle beautifully and he watched intensely. Giving the fire more attention than the song, he licked his lips to speak.

“I can’t do this.”

Smashing the butt of the cigarette he pressed down on it hard. Wishing it was his mind he could stub out. He sat back in his chair and swallowed. Feeling less and less human, scratching the torn skin near his jaw line vigorously, digging each fingernail deep and past the flesh, dragging more and more skin with him each time. Ignoring the pain and guilt flowing through his mind, he moved his lips to speak. “I can’t do this.” He said once again. He thought he’d never get past this. He finally removed his fingers from his throat after rubbing the redden skin after a while. Blinking slow, thinking about the tasteful substance that would preoccupy his mind for a little while longer. Maybe even perhaps build an imaginary landscape for him to feel welcome on. Something more real than reality, something that’ll get him away from the feeling of guilt and the thought of being alone. He continue to think to himself, but we all come into this world alone, we all die alone. Isn’t this what everyone thinks once in their life? If they die alone or not? He begin to scare himself, standing up and pacing around the apartment. Stepping over sheets of music and crossed over lifeless instruments. He began to fiend. To crave to get his mind off these thoughts of death. He reached into his pockets feeling nothing, rushing over to other pair of jeans that decorated the door to the bathroom, dug into those. Felt nothing, reached into the pockets of his coat. Breaking out into a sweat when he found his prize. Pulling out a thing slip of plastic, peering closely into it. Seeing a tiny bit of sparkle dust. He poured it onto the skin between his thumb and fore finger, clenched into a fist. He broke his silence again.

“I can’t do this.”

And then he rid himself of worries.