The Playlist of Us

o n e

A U T H O R S   N O T E - PLEASE DON'T SKIP 

I'd just like to make it known that this story does not accurately depict mental illness or PTSD and I am aware of that. I did do some research  but because of goals in length, plot and characterisation this is not a true telling. I would like to apologise if you view this to romanticise mental illness at all, I genuinely hope it doesn't or if so doesn't do it majorly so. 

With that aside I hope you are still willing to give my story a try and enjoy :)

. . . 

O N E

"THIS ISN'T YOU MAYA!" He screams, the desperation ripping through the chocolate brown of his eyes. I look away; eye contact is hard enough without all that emotion, and with it, and the knowledge that I caused it, well it's excruciating.

Why did it end up here?

"YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE THE ONE EVERYONE CAN LEAN ON. THE ONE THAT DOESN'T LET A DAY SLIP BY WITHOUT GRACING IT WITH A SMILE. THE ONE THAT JUST TAKES EVERYTHING AS IT IS. THE ONE THAT WORKS FOR WHAT SHE WANTS AND UNDERSTANDS IT CAN'T BE ANY OTHER WAY. THE ONE WITH A SONG ALWAYS IN THEIR HEAD AND IN THEIR STRIDE. THE ONE WHO LIVES IN THE MOMENT AND IS ALL ABOUT THE EXPERIENCE."

I sit there silent, curled up eyes scrunched as he takes a deep breath.

"You're supposed to be the one that loves me."

Another irreplaceable chip falls from my heart. I imagine it falling forever, down the bottomless void imprisoned beneath my ribs.

He puts a hand on my shoulder, resting it gently, however not gentle enough as I flinch. My eyes flash with a blazing white and my body clenches at the memory of those hands, those heavy, tainted hands all over me.

I look up at the man now kneeling behind me and I know he can see it in my eyes.

"Wes," I mutter his name.

He sits down in reply pulling me into his embrace, my back against his chest, his arms circling me and his head on mine.

A cool, salty tear falls from cheek down onto my top.

He holds me like that for a while and I wish that with every second that passes I could just let it go, that I could just ease into his protective arms, close my eyes and never think of that night again.

But of course wishes are only muttered whisperings of false hope, and so, my muscles stay rigid and my mind alert in the most horrible way.

"I'm so sorry Maya,' he murmurs into my hair.

I look down at his hands, clasped together in front of me.

They are so different. The hands in front if me are so soft, warm, and trustworthy. The ones from that night though were rough, and nauseating, and devious. Yet Wes is the one apologising,

Wes is the one caring for me here; giving all he is and has to fix me.

But I am unfixable. There is no hope for me and the sooner he realises that the sooner he can move on with his life.

"You should stop," I rasp barely audible, "I can't give you anything anymore, I have nothing to offer you."

I feel his jaw tensing, not unlike my muscles.

"You said it yourself, I'm not Maya," I continue, gaining in confidence but not enough to turn around and face him, 'I'm not who I used to be and you deserve someone like that... not someone likes this."