'Contstantly', Part IV

You don't sleep much, for the fourth time that week. Although, for the first time that week, the rain doesn't wake you up. It doesn't start raining until the afternoon that day.

It's like you're in a whole other realm. You can't figure out what it is you're feeling, you can't describe it even to yourself.

Things are weird. It may just be you, but it seems as though you two have not as much physical contact as normal. She acts like everything is normal, almost as though the day before never happened, and you can't believe it, but you're too confused and scared (scared still?) to say anything.

Other than that, normal day.

When you have a long break during rehearsal, you go walking around the school a bit. You normally love any excuse to get away from campus, but when it's raining, you absolutely adore walking around there (although, it seems to only happen during your more emotional times).

The sun has set, and as you walk, you begin to think how awful this is. You've never felt so indescribable in your life, and you just feel so off about that day. Why didn't she say anything? You get that she needs time to think, that maybe this is just her way of dealing with it, but still, although she was still her typical loving self with you, you somehow thought she would be slightly moreso after what had happened, and she wasn't. Not at all.

Maybe it's not right.
When it's between someone you've been talking to for a week and someone you've been talking to for almost six months, you'd think that if it were right, the choice would be obvious.

But maybe you just feel this way because this has never happened to you before. You've never experienced anything like this – you've never been this close to a relationship. And the whole thing thus far has felt like nothing else you've ever felt, so who's to say this part isn't the same?

You start to walk back, a heavy blanket of light rain falling on you, the wind pushing the cold through your body. You go to your "spot" behind the theatre, the spot you've always bolted to when you've needed to cry (a spot you've used more times than you wish you could say), and squat down against the building, trying to protect yourself from the cold, and although it's not helping much, you don't care. You don't cry, but you think – nothing more than more of the same.



You're texting her still, she's still taking the long pauses, and then she just stops, no reason at all. It's not unusual for her, but still, it bugs you.



Later that night, her facebook relationship status is now "in a relationship".

You have a doubt for two seconds before one of her (your her) good friends posts a comment, "is this with who I think it's with?!", to which she responds, " yep ".

The rotten bitch didn't even care about you enough to tell you to your face.
Your "episode" is just how it has always been, except it progresses into worse territory this time.
You're pacing back and forth in your cluttered room, your subconscious thinking one hundred percent clearly, your conscious clouding up with thick fog, and your body speaking in fragments about yourself in the third person.

The bitch.
How could she do this?
How could she not at least tell you?
Tomorrow, when you see her, if she comes up to you all nice, you'll tell her to go to hell, and if she acts surprised, you'll tell her that she should really go on facebook more often.
If she tries to hug you, you'll tell her to never fucking touch you again.
But what if people start to wonder why you aren't friends anymore?
Just tell them you got in a fight, and you don't want to talk about it.
Tell her that if she has a decent bone in her body, she'll do the same, and not tell anyone anything you said.
Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck. All that was for nothing. All the excruciating, humiliating pain you went through to telling her everything, of crying your fucking eyes out while holding her by the windy sea, was for nothing.
Whatever. That's what you get for actually telling someone something for once.
You just weren't meant to be loved.
It's okay. It's just... not meant to be part of your life.
Don't be sorry.
Nobody loves you. And nobody ever will.
That's just how it is.
Okay.
It's just how you are.
You fat, lazy, stupid bitch.
Fat stupid stupid ugly mean worthless bitch.
It's just how you are.
Everyone would be better off without you.
You know this.
But you'll never get rid of yourself.
You're so selfish like that.
Just like mama always says, selfish selfish most selfish person in the world
She calls you lots of things
But mostly selfish
You stopped feeling things after awhile after she called you so much
But still
You put it in your phone once, so you could keep track of how many times she called you what
But you forgot about it and deleted it
It's just like Hamlet says
Why the fuck do we bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
the whips and scorns of time
the oppressor's wrong
the proud man's contumely
all the bullshit of "life"?
Because we're too scared of what comes next, after there
(or the lack of anything coming next)
We're all nothing but cowards
If you believed in God, you'd do it in a second.
But you doubt you'll ever believe in God
Because no loving God would put you through this pain you've been through, pain beyond the norm, pain you know nobody will understand, pain everyone will just try to relate to themselves, and go "oh, it's not that bad", when really, they have no fucking clue.
It's an odd thing
Being suicidal but having absolutely no chance of ever killing yourself
It's been an odd thing for these past few years
You've even thought of how you'd do it
With a gun, in English class
You don't know why English, exactly, you have nothing against anyone there, but for some arbitrary reason, it's the only place where it would feel right
But lately you haven't been satisfied with the gun idea
You've been thinking of changing it to a knife to the guts
Maybe you'll be able to get that thing, whatever it is, that thing that you always feel in your abdomen when you get that awful feeling, out.
Oh, dear.
Don't be sorry.
This isn't all because of her.
I'm not that pathetic.
She was just the little ant that finally made the leaning tower of pisa fall.
Well, a big ant
But still
I'm a crazy crazy crazy
Nobody will ever understand me
Anyone who says they love me will just pretend, they'll leave me someday
I'm not made for love
No matter how much I want it
I'm a crazy crazy crazy
But it's okay
It's been a long time coming


You suddenly remember that painting you had been painting so long ago, before any of this, the painting inspired by her, the painting you were painting for her.
You find it and bend it the second you grab it.
Fuck getting canvas panels anymore, man.
It takes a bit of man power, but you finally get the canvas separated from the cardboard, and start tearing away.
You get a knife to try to help, but it doesn't help much.
You just rip.
And rip.
For about an hour straight.
Nothing going through that cloudy conscious.
Until there's nothing left but centimeter-wide pieces of canvas and cardboard.
You grab the knife and start in, stabbing, cutting the large groups of small pieces, making them even smaller.
Finally, you're done.
You think of what to do with them – you want them gone for good.
As in non-existent.

A fire!
When could you get to a fire?
You could go to the beach in a few days...
but you don't want to wait a few days.

Oh, shit. You can't do a fire anyway.
It's been raining all week.

Rain.
Rain.
Rain gets rid of everything.

You go outside, the rain paused but the ground nice and wet.
You grab the shovel and dig a wide, shallow hole, distribute the pieces, and bury the dirt back on top.
It takes longer than you think because there are more pieces than you think, and you have to dig more.
You know the cardboard will disintegrate soon enough. The canvas you're not so sure of, but you don't care. You never look at that side of the house anyway.

Just like you're not going to look at her anymore.

Your back hurts like a bitch when you come back inside.
She is causing you so much fucking pain.
God, fuck it all.



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