I'm Dying To Live (Rewriting)

Chapter 11

Just remember guys, don't read this if its gonna make you feel like shit okay?

Jack's POV

I opened my eyes. It was dark and the room was smoking. I swore fairly loudly, scrambling to get up and nearly falling back down at the crippling pain in my knee. Fuck. For once I was glad we were poor, because if we could afford to keep replacing the batteries in the smoke alarm it would've beeped itself off the fucking ceiling.

I pulled myself towards where what was left of the pasta was burning (I thought I'd turned it off to be honest) and turned the gas off before slumping back down to the floor. It was more comfortable there, and the cold tiles were soothing the ache in my leg. I must've twisted it falling or something. I'm sure that was the least of my problems.

I frowned, feeling myself dozing off. Maybe I just needed to rest. Maybe I'd feel better in the morning. Maybe my whole life was a fucking terrible dream. The footsteps coming down the stairs were telling a different story.

I opened my eyes with a gasp. I felt like I was drowning, and the sharp pain that had just spread around my ribs was enough to squeeze out a tear.

"Why are you crying, get up and grow a pair." Get up and grow a pair. My existence was annoying him. That wasn't surprising. Maybe instead of growing a pair of balls like he was insinuating, I should grow a pair of tumours and have them rest in my lungs until I can't breathe and start spitting blood everywhere. The result of that sounded peaceful. The finality of it all sounded peaceful. Maybe I should work on that.

As his footsteps faded out and the door eventually slammed, I let myself recollect my thoughts. The first, most consuming thought I got was 'how close were the knives' but that was rapidly pushed aside with 'how badly am I injured' which was pushed aside even faster with 'shit I didn't get back to Alex's last night and he's going to tear at my last shred of emotional strength until I tell him what's going on' and if that didn't fill me with absolute dread. I wasn't ready for that. I never would be. But then I doubted never would be an option.

I lifted my head, before feeling a strong wave of nausea and dizziness passed over me and let it fall again, not even acknowledging the dull thump of the base of my skull on the cold lino flooring. My arm moved out slightly to balance myself and I felt something wet and sticky, stumped for a few seconds before realising I was probably lying in a pool of my own blood; it wasn't uncommon and it would explain my foggy brain. Doesn't that sound dark.

I rolled onto my front, cringing at the pain I'd just put myself in, and slowly lifted my hand to feel at my head, mentally nodding when I felt the source of my problems. It didn't help much though, it's one thing knowing the source of the problem, and another thing fixing it, and I had no way of fixing it. I probably had severe concussion, and I couldn't move without my intestines wanting to throw themselves out my throat, let alone make it up the stairs and into the shower. Maybe lying there until the concussion killed my mind was a good idea. Mistakes are always made.

My phone rang. I sighed as heavily as I could without hurting myself more and reached to answer it, not even looking at the caller ID. It was obviously Alex, no one else called me anymore. That was my own fault though. I didn't answer anyone else.

"Jack, you never came back and I didn't know if you were alright, I text you and you never answered." His breathing was heavy and I bit my lip and shut my eyes. I even cause my best mate to have panic attacks over me. What was my brain doing? Like seriously. Sure everyone can grow up having a cute family and going to work and having kids, but why the hell would I wanna do that when I can't handle myself? Why would I wanna do that when I can't even look after my best mate.