D A M A G E D • HS

53

TW: drug use,
mentions of death

ARLO P.O.V

White powder coats the table in perfectly unified lines of dust. A bill rolled neatly lies next to the powder eager to be covered in its glory.

The white powder that is sorted into thin lines shines against the black surface. The stark contrast makes the desire bubbling inside of me to glow brighter.

The pseudo burn of the white powder taunts me to no end. My throat feels tight, dry like the Sahara desert. It's begging to be hydrated, but the hydration doesn't come from the clear liquid that fills about sixty percent of the human body. The hydration comes from the soft white powder, with chemicals floating in every speck of dust.

I shouldn't, I've been clean for so long, but I can't get him out of my head.

Cold skin, lifeless eyes, soulless cheeks, purple and blue lips, and a pool of rich dark blood consumes my every thought.

For days, all I could think about was the man whose life I stripped away with a small knife. A man who didn't deserve it, even if he did.

I tried to convince myself that it was self defense which makes it okay, but when red stains white, it turns pink. It may not be as dark as before, but it will never be the same. It's still tainted in the end.

I can't close my eyes without seeing his face. I can't think without my thoughts drifting to him. I can't eat without wanting to throw it up. I can't look at myself in the mirror without seeing the eyes of a killer.

I'm a killer

I'm a killer

I'm a killer

You're a killer Arlonza

I haven't left my bed since that night. The days pass by in a blur. I'm not sure if it's only been a day that's passed, or if it's been a week.

I can't move, I can't sleep, I can't think. I can't do anything. I've reached my breaking point after having my seventh panic attack. They won't stop.

One after another my guilty conscience has a tight grip on me, not allowing me slip away from its strong grasp.

How does one move on from something like this? How do killers pick up their day to day life like they didn't just take someone else's?

Miller keeps calling and texting me, but I don't answer. I physically cannot do anything besides stare at the wall, and replay that night over and over again in my head until I explode into a mental breakdown.

My thumb is raw from stroking my cross necklace nonstop like it will magically make everything go away, but that is not how life works.

That's not something a killer gets to do. They don't get to wish upon a shooting star, begging for their guilt to go away. There is always a price to pay with actions that are not right. It may not reveal itself until later down the road, or in the afterlife, wherever that may be, but no matter how far a person can try and run, karma will catch up to them, and will bite them so hard in the ass it leaves a scar forever.

I need to escape, even if it's just for a moment. I can't handle another panic attack. I can't handle another sleepless night. I can't handle my own mind.

I stare at the white powder that I used to know all too well. The white powder stored in my special purple box is laid out, ready for me to take.

I don't want to take it, I don't want to be that numb anymore. I don't want to have to depend on the white powder to get me through the day, but I can't take it anymore.