His body shook violently, feeling the void. It was painful but he couldn't escape this absent feeling. It was something that no one could escape really, any one looking at the gaunt boy could tell he was unhealthy and would eventually start feeling that void too. And it wasn't his fault, or so he kept telling himself over and over again. He knew the truth though, and he knew telling the truth would ultimately end this emptiness but he couldn't do it.
He was slowly withering down to nothing; sitting in that dark corner, rocking back and forth. He just wanted to feel that high again, because this sobriety was definitely taking a toll on him. His eyes closed and then he was flood in memories, memories he only wished he could escape. When he tried to escape though, he felt as if he was being pulled down. No, being held down, chained down by some unknown force that wanted him to feel even worse about what he would not admit. When his body finally let him open his eyes, he made a vow to not close them again because if he did that was sure to happen again.
This couldn't be heartache, because then his heart would have to be broken and it wasn't. It was more like something was blocking his heart, and the blood just stopped. Feeling like something wasn't trying to jab his heart, but instead was hitting the veins around it just to cause a pain that was ten times as dreadful. No. It couldn't be just heartache.
It could have been classified as regret, that feeling in the pit of your stomach that just won't go away. The billboards that constantly remind you of the pain that you pretend isn't there. It felt like being in a car that was rushing at a wall at one hundred miles per hour, knowing damn well that the brakes don't work. It was something that you could try to hide, but it would sooner then later be written across your forehead like the fool you are. Yeah. That's what it was.
Regret.
If he admitted this guilt and regret it would all be over with. Sorry was forbidden to him though. He didn't know what apologizes were. So he was stuck in that dark corner, wishing and hoping and dreaming of the day when this pain would finally subside and he'd have him right there with him. He messed up. Can't he forgive him?
"Pete. Come on, answer your phone. It's been two weeks, and I'm really worried about you." The phone played another message. He had been ignoring the phone for so long that now it didn't even sound like it was ever ringing, but it was always ringing. Someone was always calling, but not the person that he wanted to talk to. Maybe if he had called he'd bring himself to answer the phone. Maybe if he had come to the door, he'd drag himself to answer that too. But he never called, never visit, never emailed, didn't send a postcard. That would've been nice, a little postcard, even if it was telling him how much of a jerk he was. He would've appreciated him opening up to him because it seemed he had never done that.
"I can't do this." He told himself discouragingly. He was never one to actually believe in himself. That's what he was there for. He was the one that made him believe he could. He tried not to tear up, but in the past few days it was kind of hard to do that. He was losing, losing everything and there was nothing he could do about it because his body wouldn't move from that spot until he heard his voice.
"Pete, it's your mother. Won't you please pick up?" Another message played; just another unimportant message. He didn't want to talk to his mother though, sure he loved her, but she would just tell him all the wrong he's done. How he should repent his sins because what he had done was the ultimate sin.
Another sigh escaped his lips as he grabbed his knees, bringing them up to his chest. He sat like that for a while until he realized he needed to use the washroom. So he pulled himself up and walked through his dark bedroom and then down the hall of the small apartment that now seemed huge without him.
When he was done doing his business he washed his hands and looked in the mirror. His usually tanned skin was now pale from not taking his medicine, and barely eating. He looked physically sick, and maybe he was. His long black hair was all over the place, making him look like a mad man. Then there was that look in his eyes, that deficiency. It made him realize he was sick.
