SO COLD (18+) currently editing

Chapter 21

CHARACTER VIEWS DO NOT REPRESENT MY OWN. Please be civil in the comment section.

I puked enough to fill a small teacup, yellowy and chunky, splattering over my shoes and the kitchen tiles. Irvin jerked back, grossed out. "Uh..." he started, stuttered and stopped. He was trapped in the invisible lines of friendship and queasiness, I made it easy for him; trampling on the lines of our friendship with my sullied boots. I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, closing my eyes and falling on a kitchen chair. "Go. Just go, Irvin," I added, resting my head on the table: "Please."

I wanted to sleep against the wooden table despite it being uncomfortable, I wanted to squeeze myself into a corner and fall into a slumber. I'd rather hallucinate than live an actual nightmare. My headache only got worse, thrumming, thrumming, thrumming, just behind my eyes, and my left eye twitched, blinking like the flutter of a butterfly's wings, hoping to whisk away the pain. Cole stayed for the freak show. I paid him no mind, too absorbed in trying to dispel all thoughts from my mind, I wanted a clean ground, an empty field where not even the wind whistled nor the sun shone. Empty and vast. I could get lost in there. In a blackened out room with no source of light, just lying on the ground, arms crossed across my chest as if I were dead, just slowly breathing. In and out, without a care for the world.

I could feel Cole moving around, and then the scrape of the chair opposite me, he sat down heavily, hummed softly. "Get revenge."

"What?" I didn't open my eyes.

"Get revenge on your Dad, your aunt. Instead of feeling sorry for yourself, get up and hurt them."

I made a noise that vibrated in the back of my throat, aggravated, and pissed, I snapped. "Get out of this stupid shitty gangsta world you're in, Cole, for Chrissake! Hear yourself. What are you, fúcking five? You can't just put a gun to someone's head every time they annoy you. This isn't some adult playground. I can't push someone over because they wouldn't play House with me." I had raised my head, giving him an angry stare. I was a hypocrite because right now I wanted to reach over the table and just thump him on the head. Just once. Beat some sense into the fool. Perhaps twice: another one for pleasure.

He taunted, his lips twisted into a sneer, "Right, little Miss Goody Two Shoes. What are you going to do? Cry a little bit more? Puke? Be pathetic? You're already doing that, and while you're at it your family don't give two shits about you. Seems like they're happy and content without you."

The fight left me, I deflated like a car tire and my body stopped, my head was too heavy to hold, my forehead smacked against the table and I mumbled tiredly. "You're right. They don't care."

He seemed surprised I agreed, and paused, grabbed back his spitefulness and threw. "Stop pitying yourself. It's deplorable and unattractive."

"Get off my dick...Actually. You know what I'm going to do, Cole?" I glanced up, drunkenly-tired and sober, and said, "I'm going to go jump in front of a moving train." I stood, about to leave and go upstairs so I could a) go to sleep and b) get away from him, he was doing my damn head in. He rose too, snatching my arm.

"Don't be stupid." He was angry, father-like angry, like he had caught his daughter sneaking in past midnight and wanted to shake some sense into her. He was glowering deeply, ticked off. "You–"

"What?" I locked gazes with him, challengingly.

He dropped his head for a second, and then sighed in a quick, short irritated huff. "Stop being so depressed. Snap out of it. What are you, some sort of fúcking emo?"

"Oh, it's easy as that, is it? I didn't know I had a switch on my depression. You're a hero, Cole, I'm cured." I tried pulling back my arm. "Take your hand off of me."