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'you know it's not the same as it was...'
▹ ◃
LIFE CAN BE ANYTHING but bliss. As God intended it to be, perhaps so a fair fight for all, but life was everything but.
You remember when you were happy. Cold, crisp sheets of blinding white that hovered over your head like a burning star thriving billions of miles away in the galaxy. It stared you down like prey on predator before sinking deep into your skin, the shape of your child-like body outlined by your new sleek, silky skin. You remember the frantic giggles that let slip from your chest as you tossed and thrashed, causing havoc and disruption to the peace that had once settled around you.
You remember back when everything seemed perfect when the world made just even the slightest bit of sense. Now it was as though yes there was a puzzle, and each piece fit perfectly. But they had been shrewd across the table in a burst of blinding anger, falling out of place and out of reach. Now you realize your puzzle may never have the chance to see completion.
A simple memory of being a child lying in crisp white bed sheets had lulled you off to sleep at Peter's bedside. Everything was changing, the taste in your mouth had turned sour and your tongue had fallen rough against your gums from hours of grinding your teeth against it in angst and anticipation. Being patient had never been one of your strong suits. You were always the fidget, the one who could never sit still, thumb twiddler, hair chewer. Nothing could keep you satisfied enough to stay still even for the shortest of moments. Seconds had felt like hours.
But now, in your adult life, you found yourself falling back into those moments when all hope seemed to have flown across the pond waving goodbye with one angelic hand and flipping you off with the other, laughing at your misery as you stared into the abyss. Remembering what it was like when all you had to worry about was passing the time.
All had seemed lost for those moments. As you raced the ticking clock, challenging it daringly as you paced in the hallways. You counted the cans in the vending machine twice every hour, re-starting each time one disappeared among purchases. You tested out almost every chair in the small room you had been acquainted with and narrowed your eyes on the fallen body that lay in the same room with you. You weren't sure if you could ever bear to look at him in this state.
Lying in the same clothes that he'd been wearing that evening, the stench of rainwater still soaked into the fabric. You bit your lip every time you saw his breathing halter and stutter. For a while you dreaded even coming close, fearing if you took so much as one step too close to his bedside he might implode. As if, in some way, you blamed yourself for what had happened to Peter.
Alcohol poisoning.
The quiet that had fallen between you during those few days apart.
