Skinny Love ≫Aleksandr Marchant

.09; "Fall Down Seven Times, Stand Up Eight"

Chapter 9 "Fall Down Seven Times, Stand Up Eight" 

        I stared. I gazed into an imaginary universe, out into nothing, it seemed like. The sky was painted gray; vacant, uncanny, somber. The ill-faded shape of the clouds intertwined themselves around the small apartment, covered up the last remaining pieces of sunlight there had been. I put my hand to my stomach, held it there. Nothing. There was nothing there. There would never be anything there.

        Seven days. It's been seven days since Aleks last called. I spoke to him very softly most of the time, very scarcely, however, and held terror in my voice. The discrete voice of Aleks sent chills up my spine -- now, at least, and sent my stomach into a frenzy of nauseous endeavors. He had done it; he had raped me. Why did he do it? Was he on drugs then? Perhaps his mind just wasn't in the right place?

        But none of that mattered. What mattered was that he purposely raped me, and it was wrong. It was wrong and inhumane and completely and utterly repulsive. Was he even in love with me? It was all wrong; all at fault.

        Looking back now, back before he got on those methamphetamine's -- would he have the courage to look me in the eyes and say that he had deliberately raped me? No, he wouldn't. He couldn't -- because everyone knows that you'd have to get so unbelievably wasted to ever say something like that. You wouldn't want to remember such a thing.

        Time just keeps going. I can feel terror rising in my gut. There's something not right here, there's just something off. I'm getting sicker and sick each and everyday, waking up with an upset stomach or a aching fever or migraine, and each day the symptoms just add on. I started taking some over-the-counter medication, tried to calm my nerves, tell myself it was just some stomach bug that was going around. But nothing worked. I've been taking this stuff for months.

        Again, the thoughts twist and turn in my mind; make some sort of working wheel that just doesn't halt the concerns. I'm not pregnant, I never will be pregnant. I'm being over dramatic. There was just no way that I could be pregnant.

        And I do guess that I wasn't. I mean, let's be completely honest here; Dexter and I never had anything too serious going on for anything like this to happen. And Aleks? Well, it was one time. One time couldn't do this much damage . . . could it?

        

        

        So I sat down at my desk today, and stared writing again. It's been years since I last picked up a pencil, looked a blank sheet of notebook paper, or even thought about putting my ideas and thoughts to use. I never truly imagined just how lost I had felt without the flowing of graphite on a clean slate, because what I felt never really mattered -- not until now, at least.

        My writing quickened its pace. Soon just one page of poetry turned into three or five pages of endless sentences and words and lyrical meanings that could so easily grip the edges of someone's mind and pull them right into the depth of my repression.

        But -- but how could someone so carelessly consider that the cure of depression could be found deep within the remedies of a first aid kit? 

        I felt my emotions burn deep within my stomach; twisting, turning.

        How could they so open-mindedly cast upon your every-waking catastrophe and strike upon it with such finesse? Do they not understand the destructive forces that they will soon cause? 

        Soon, there was the realization of a concious flame burning inside me. It would not leave. It could never leave now. My words were twisting, spiraling into nothing but air and dust and debris.

        And how could someone so recklessly whisper to you their passions, their devotion, their paroxysm, and turn it all into insouciance, dullness, and apathy? 

        I skipped a few lines on my paper, made a new place for the words that would soon shape the rest of my existence.

        But someday, these pictures will become photographs. And these words will be engraved into our tombs, for all of the world to read. And everything that you will do, all that you will say, all that you will accomplish and all that you will fail -- it is engraved in your entirety . . . and darling, it will never leave.

        I feel that my life solely revolves around two dumb guys. It's as if they're all I can think about. Day and night. I'm insane.

        I am, in all literal meanings, insane. I'm a kill-you-for-money, foaming-at-the-mouth kind of insane. I swear I can barely control the real person that I used to be.

        Used to be. The old Hailey. But is the new any different?

        

        But as much as I think about my past life, I realize that nothing every truly changes between the person we once were and the person we are now. Looks, maybe, but loves will never waver. You waver yourself, you know? The part of humanity left inside of you is the only thing that will ever waver . . . the rest . . . well, the rest is up to you.

        Friday. Today is Friday. I started going over to Aleks' house, but stopped myself, and instead, swung by a coffee shop on my way back home. It was decent, lacking a bit of inspiration and color, but decent. I was never really for the bland side of things, but everyone else seemed to enjoy pastel colors. And I guess I never really knew such a thing, not until I bumped into grey-eyed girl by the name of Iris. With her, she carried the promise of curing my solitude once and for all, and I obliged.

        Iris said she had a thing for helping hearts who were more broken than her own, and when asking what she had meant by that, she only replied with "It's a hobby nowadays,"

        

a/n:

OH MY GOD

I HATE THIS BOOK

THIS BOOK SUCKS ASS

IT LITERALLY IS SO AWFUL WHY DID I WRITE THIS IM A MISTAKE GOODBYE

ugh kms .-.

-song: a frame per season- surface of atlantic-