*Jenna's POV*
Have I mentioned how much I hate Jack Barakat? And how much I actually like him. How much I actually love him. I lie in my bed, staring at the clock in pure devastation and anger. 4 o'clock. On one hand, I want to cry. I want to cry and scream and sob into my pillow. I want to cry so hard my eyeballs dry up. I want to weep bitterly on the couch whilst stuffing my face with chocolates and tequila and watch The Notebook. And then I want to kill him (not really, but metaphorically) and I want to yell at him and tell him that I love him but I'm so pissed off at him. And I want to do the same for her. I want to metaphorically slit her throat. So the only option right now is to cry silently and angrily, cradling the half-empty bottle of tequila in my arms.
Pull yourself together Jenna.
But I can't. I know I can't. Normally I cannot stand people who cry over stupid things like movies or boys. But here I am, crying over a boy who broke my heart without even knowing he had it in the first place. Pathetic. And the sad thing is, I am supposed to be happy for him. If you love someone let them go; that's what's supposed to happen. I am supposed to be happy because he is happy. But I'm not happy. I am the furthest from it. I have a selfish desire for my own happiness burning deep down in my heart. And I am not ashamed or humble about it.
I shouldn't have helped him.
Don't be stupid Jenna, helping him brought you closer to him.
"Yeah, closer to him. Which only made my situation worse." I mutter angrily to myself. I take a long sip from the tequila bottle and a few more tears escape my eyes. In my mind, I replay everything I ever said to him, every second we spent together. Until it gets to this morning. Until she's got her tounge down his fucking throat. I feel like I am a flame that's just been dosed with petrol. I spend the next few seconds screaming into my pillow, in hope that if I make enough noise, I'll die from super sonic sound waves. I am so angry. Angry at everything. I am so angry that I hit my bed so hard that my hand begins to ache.
Why me? Why him? Why her?
I sound like some depressed dumpee. But that's how it feels I guess. Now I'm angry at myself. I shouldn't be angry at him. I did this to myself. So I drink and drink and drink until I feel sick and completely wild. And then I cry and scream and hiccup until I need to be sick. And so I stumble to the bathroom and retch. I sit on the bathroom floor, drunk and devastated. Then I open a bottle of whiskey. I cry some more. Then I sing 'I'm so lonely' to myself, though I cannot find words amongst my slurred speech. I'm too drunk to think, and so I don't. Along with my speech goes my judgement and my sight becomes blurry. Before I know it I'm wondering around in the car park, and then I'm knocking on Jack's door.
"Open you little fucker! Ha-open! Jaaaaa -hiccup- cckkk!"
