What Now ⇔ Muke ✓

[18] The bar

LUKE

Life really isn't so grand of a place, when you get down to it. All these bodies walking around like mechanical corpses, steel eyes and icy veins, a brain functioned only to analyze the surface of the skin, not the bloody, flesh heart throbbing beneath. The world is quite grey, all pale and dark. The sun comes out and so does everyone else, all mixed emotions and careless phrases being tossed like pennies out into the open air all day long, until the moon rises and the sky fades into darkness, and the realization that Earth is a living hell sets into place. Earth is more of a punishment than anything else really. Being forced to share the same oxygen with human beings who barely share a second glance at you. It's a prison. It's a restraining chamber, no way out unless you drag a blade across your neck. The afterlife must be better than whatever it is we call life here. If there even is an afterlife. Perhaps there isn't one, and we all just fool ourselves into believing there is one. Maybe once we die, and our blood runs cold in our veins and our skin turns transparent, maybe we don't go anywhere. Maybe we lie lifeless as a frozen body under layers of thick clumps of dirt, stuffed into a coffin that some poor soul had to pay for. Maybe after the funeral that no one actually wants to attend, after they all stare at the cold headstone with a pointless scripture that nobody actually knows the true meaning of, after they leave flowers too bright for the situation at hand, maybe once they leave, you are left there in the ground. Slowly decaying into nothing but a skeleton that nobody would recognize if they dug you up and looked at you again. Slowly becoming forgotten, a thing of the past. Finally crawled out of everyone's hair and quit being a burden to everyone around you. Maybe that is what happens when you die. I don't know, nobody does, but I find that I don't really care.

I feel numb. My arms are frozen at my sides, my eyes losing its color and fading into a pale grey, my skin a sickly insipid color. I have stopped trying to keep myself looking presentable, since I have locked myself in my room with no intention of coming out. I have sat on my bed, occasionally getting up and getting a drink of grainy water from the faucet and staring at my deadly body in the mirror. I have stared at the dark circles under my eyes and my messy hair, fallen in blonde strips across my forehead. At one point, I actually worked up the courage to get in the shower. I stood there, the scorching water burning my skin, for a dangerously long time, not even reaching for the soap or shampoo. I stood there in the intensifying heat, letting the moisture build up in the air until there was more water droplets than oxygen, and my vision started to get black spots and my head went light. My heart had stayed at a steady pace, not really caring if I passed out or not, as I fumbled for the shower handle, slowly turning it off until I was left shivering in the empty shower that isn't even mine.

That is the most I have done since the lilac boy was dragged away from me, jammed into the backseat of a police car with a pitiful look in his eyes. It wasn't his fault this happened. Maybe I should blame his dad. Maybe I should blame Ashton. Maybe I should blame the police, hell, maybe I should blame myself.

I can't really figure out how much time has passed since I was left screaming at my own mind in the gravel, tearing up my skin and leaving a terrifyingly large amount of blood that I wasn't aware I lost on the driveway of my cousin's house. I don't know if it was a few hours, a few days, a few weeks, I have no idea. All I know is that Ashton regularly drops off a meal or two at the door and says some encouraging words that I don't bother listening to on the other side of the door. I never actually eat any of the things he drops off, unless it is something small, like an apple or a granola bar. I just haven't been hungry. I know I'm skinnier, my cheeks sunken in and my lips dry and cracked. My ribs becoming unhealthily more prominent against my skin, and my hipbones protruding sickeningly. I'm even uglier now. I doubt Michael would even love me now if he miraculously came back.

I have no idea where they sent them. I don't know if he is in Sydney, or Perth, or Adelaide. I don't know if he is even in Australia anymore, or if he has been shipped off to America or the United Kingdom. I don't know. I don't know. I don't know, and I am slowly dying inside.