The Playlist of Us

f o u r

A U T H O R S   N O T E

Hey guys, hope you are enjoying so far, I'm really excited to share whats to come and the rest of this story with you. 

If you could help support or keep that excitement alive with a vote or comment here and there or every chapter if your feeling generous that would be amazing.

Thank you all for reading so much :)

- Lula

F O U R

Immediately I know exactly what I am looking at. I don't need a second to ponder it. I have already seen it so many times.

Technically, I am looking at the back of my eye lids, I am sleeping, I know that but that doesn't mean I can just easily, on command wake up.

No, I may be looking at the back of my eyelids but in front of me is the void.

My void.

The one that consumes me.

The only thing that does consume me most days.

They always start like this. The dreams.

Just a big bottomless pit. The sight of it not nearly as scaring as the understanding that this is me.

I can lie to myself and say that this is just what's inside of me and doesn't effect me any other way which is what I prefer to think and it's easier to explain to those who ask.

But here, when it's right in front of me, there is no opportunity for denial.

This is me.

They say it's what's on the inside that counts, it the inside that makes you, you; our true colours. Well all I have is this endless, inky abyss, which I guess means that's all I am.

I am black.

I am a chasm.

I am nothing.

And there there's no escape.

I'm always alone in my void until of course the hands. Stained, heavy hands touching, caressing, prodding, more like a sting then anything possibly consoling. A swarm of bees whipping, whirling and buzzing in and around me and with each point of contact, a piercing sting.

In my dream I no longer resist, it does nothing. It is easier to just give in. Easier to just give up. So I do, I let the hands advance. I let the bees swarm. After all they are one and the same.

Then the screaming starts.

Not my screams, I am voiceless here, nothing more then a plastic bag caught up in the sweep of the wind; forgotten or maybe just never missed.

No, these screams belong to Wes which only makes it all the more painful.

The guilt surges through me.

I can no longer fight, I plead to him, hoping my eyes say it all.

He keeps screaming. Keep fighting he urges. Don't let go.

But it's too late and I fall.

Away from the hands, the bees, Wes.

I don't wake up when I fall like most people.

I just fall.

The lack of air resistance and the sound of the wind rushing past me making it all the more eerie.

I never reach the bottom; I never stop falling.

This is not a tunnel. There is no light at the end.

This is my void

It is bottomless. Empty

So I fall.

Never stopping.

There is no end.

I ease back into the waking world. There is no sudden jolt, I simply slip from one place to the next.

The cold sweat casing me reminds me I'm alive. Reminds me that maybe I shouldn't be.

I look at the bowl of soup. I'm not hungry, just in need of a distraction.

I get up from the floor and grab the liquid, no longer desirable for enjoyment. There is no warm tickle as it runs down the back of my throat, there is only cold and that's fine with me.

Cold soup doesn't feel that cold anyway when all you are is empty and icy.

I finish the soup and put the bowl to the side. I lay back down, my hair mingling with the carpet. Not daring to close my eyes for more then the standard blink.

I stare at the ceiling. And that's all I do. I don't think, I don't speak, I barely even breathe.

Hours pass until finally the soft glow of sunrise peeps out from underneath my curtains. Day brings the promise of denial.

I turn my head to the side and see my phone. I think back to yesterday. I was right, there was no point in listening to those songs. I only have to close my eye to be reminded of that.

No matter how many beats, lyrics, or strums I hear I'll still be me. I'll still be a void.

In those memories, I am so confident, bubbly and determined, remembering and reliving them will only remind me of how much I've changed. Of how much that night damaged me. Of how broken I am.

Of how much I am not worthy of Wes.

My mind casts back to a week ago, when Wes said that I saved him once.

I guess I did in a way. He wasn't dying but he wasn't living and he seems to think I brought him out of that.

Maybe I should give him a chance. He said he wanted to save me. That it was his turn. Maybe I should just call him. Maybe I should just go with it.

If I was the me in all those memories that's what I would do.

But I'm not that me anymore.

That Maya was full of life, she was joyful, persistent. That Maya is not this Maya.

I don't think I can get back to that point.

But then I don't know if there is absolutely no chance either.

I haven't sought out any professional help. I don't even know why I'm like this. People seem to think its post traumatic stress but I wouldn't know.

I haven't asked for help.

Maybe the least I could do is listen to that damn playlist. It might be the easiest way to reconnect with that old Maya. She did make it.

I shake my head. I've only listened to two so far and I'm already thinking these thoughts. That I might recover. That there's a chance. That sounds an awful lot like hope.

It sounds like trying.

These thoughts, this playlist is dangerous.

But then again, falling for Wes could have been considered dangerous. A lot of people think falling for anyone could be dangerous.

I definitely prefer that falling to the one that haunts me.

Maybe I should just give it a shot.

Maybe I could try.

For Wes.

For the old Maya.

Maybe.