Author's note: Crappy editing. Sorry. Enjoy.
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I could not get him out of my head.
No matter how hard I tried, I just couldn't.
If I laid in bed and stared at the ceiling, I would start imagining that he was curled up on the floor in a pile of blankets again, hiding from the storm outside. I would start thinking about how he's always looked at me in awe when I came down there to lay next to him, how he looked at me like I was a saint when I told him that I wouldn't let the storm hurt him. And then, after the remembering, I would start to move down there, to lay with the boy I so desperately missed. But then when I realized he wasn't there, I would just drag all of the sheets off of my bed and lay in the pile of blankets that I wish he had made instead of me, because he seemed to be so much better at those kinds of things, and try not to think about anything at all.
If I tried to draw, my pencil would only sketch the lines of his smile. And then of course his nose would come in to shape above it, and then the eyes would become his, too, and my paper would transform into a memory of his life, frozen in cheap paper and expensive pencil led. If I tried to draw something else, it would turn into a butterfly, something which I guess I've started associating with him- Frank was the butterfly in my stomach, he send my insides tumbling into mayhem every time he smiled. The curve of his lips would become that of the pattern on the burtterfly's wing, and after that, not much made sense but the butterfly and his smile.
If I tried to sleep, I would dream of him. Most of the time in my dreams we were back in the diner, still just friends, not touching but only smiling and laughing. And then I'd always do something stupid- touch his hand or brush my ankle against his, by accident- and he'd run off before I could even speak his name. I would wake up crying and gasping for air, and once I think I woke up with the syllables of his name starting to form in the back of my throat.
Eating to distract myself only resulted in throwing up on the bathroom floor, struggling to keep my hair out of my face and trying not to loose too much fluid, seeing as I wasn't exactly drinking enough, either. Sometimes I don't think I'm even throwing up because of the food- I think my emotions have started to take a physical toll on my body. Thinking of him made my eyes water, thinking of his touch made my fingers tremble, thinking of his voice made my head hurt, thinking of his rejection made my stomach churn.
I've thrown up four times in the past fourteen hours. I'm so dehydrated that I'm surprised I'm not dead yet, and the last time I had something to drink was about sixteen hours ago.
I rolled my eyes, realizing how horrible it would be to die of thirst.
I wonder how long it would take to smother myself- instead of letting my lungs go dry, I could just stop them from working all together. That'd be a much quicker, much easier death.
It was already getting hard to breathe, laying with my face pressed into my pillow. If I just pressed a little harder and held my breath, eventually I would run out of air.
It's been four hours since I last left my bedroom, four and a half since I last threw up, and three since I last stood up. It's now been five days since I've touched another human being. Four since I've spoken. Two since I've allowed myself to say his name in my own thoughts.
I've been laying on my stomach for two hours and seven minutes, I've been laying with my hands under my pillow and my face pressed into it for four minutes and eighteen seconds precisely.
If I just pressed my face down a little harder...
Someone started knocking on my door.
I ignored them, just like I've done every other time.
