A/N I'm sticking with the 'post-everything even if you probably shouldnt' rule.
The whole apartment seemed to be going through a drought.
Every nook and cranny that once held life now reeked of death, reeked of him, and I couldn't stand it.
How dare this place have the audacity to remind me of him? To stab me in the back with the harsh message: he's not here anymore. How dare he leave me like that?
With no warning, no last farewell; poof he was just gone. He disappeared from my life and didn't have to face any of the consequences; I was breaking into a million pieces and no one was around to help me pick up the shards of my heart on the floor.
He had been gone for weeks now and I still got angry at the thought of it all.
Just this morning I saw those stupid houseplants I used to complain about all the time. "They add a nice touch of greenery" he insisted. But now that he was gone, there wasn't anyone to water them, they had shriveled up to become the driest, most depressing plants I've ever seen. Kind of like me.
It hurt to look at them, it hurt to look anywhere in this wretched place. I hadn't done as much as washed a mug or picked up after myself since 'the incident'. I was living in my own filth, I was destroying myself.
I was angry. I was angry at him and his cheeky smile that would haunt my dreams while I was alive and even haunt me in death. I was angry at everyone else, because they could go about their daily lives without him. They could carry on without even knowing he existed, without being touched by his beautiful soul. I was especially angry at the universe, for not doing anything to help him, to save him.
All that pent up anger seems like so much, like it was enough to take over my life and crush me to the ground. The sad thing is, all that anger didn't even cover half of it. More than anything I was mad at myself.
I was mad I didn't tell him I love him every chance I could get. Now I have to live with never being able to tell him again. I was mad that I got angry at him and yelled sometimes. Mostly I would get worked up over something stupid and release whatever stress I had built up inside of me, I would lash out at him. Thirty minutes later, I would hate myself for doing it, but he forgave me.
He always forgave me.
He would have forgiven me for the recluse I had become, for the damage I had done to our home. He would have told me to move on, to learn to love without him. He would tell me that it would be okay, we would be reunited someday.
He wouldn't forgive me for what I had done to myself.
I tortured myself at night, ripping myself to shreds at the thought of him. I would subconsciously wrap my arms around the empty air, expecting him to be there, and I would claw at my arms when I couldn't soak into his warm body. I would see a picture of him and break down, falling to the ground, unable to hold back tears.
Everywhere I turned, something held a memory of him. I made an impulsive decision.
It all needs to go.
I tore through our bedroom, pulling all his clothes out of the closet and throwing them to the floor. I didn't care that I was ripping the threads as I pulled them off the hangers. I didn't care when I took that picture frame he had made out of popsicle sticks and glitter glue as a kid that held our wedding photo and smashed it to the ground. I didn't care as I walked across all the shards of broken glass, they might as well have been shards of my broken heart. I didn't care when I went to the kitchen and grabbed the largest bottle of vodka we owned because 'the bigger the bottle the better it can drown your sorrows'.
I didn't care enough when he was here with me. I didn't cherish and love him like I should have, like he deserved.
Now he was gone, and I cared too much.
It took for me to consume enough alcohol to pass out before I realized what I had done. The mess I had made was irreversible, just like the mess of I had made of my life.
I just sad amidst the chaos I had created and let myself drown in my own tears.
If only he was still here...
