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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sometimes, they win.

Submitted: June 03, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: June 03, 2016



The minutes of the day sway by too fast. My head hurt from looking at the clock too much, waiting for the day to end. Waiting go home. Waiting to start my daily routine.

My daily routine consisted of boring and almost chore-like checkmarks. I would wake up, drunk. Go to school, hung over. Go home, stressed and ready to cry. Study, while drinking. Sleep, for a few minutes, dreaming of a better world for my next life.

I did this for a year straight. I completely forgot what it was like to laugh and fully mean it. I forgot what it was like to smile, and feel the butterflies in your belly. I forgot what it was like to get a good night’s sleep. I forgot what water tasted like, because I filled my body with nothing but the chemicals of alcohol. I forgot what it was like to wake up and dread every next step you take. I did this for a year straight.

I didn’t know when it hit me. When everything actually started to crash. Maybe it was the fact that school was over, and I lost that structure, that comfort of a routine. I didn’t know what made me spiral out of control. I didn’t know what made me so emotionally cold. I hated the way I felt inside. But when I was out, doing things I should have never done, I was warm again.

I hated the way it felt. I hated the feeling of alcohol in my veins. I constantly dammed myself to hell for it. I hated the way that my brain would take a step back with every shot. I hated the way I had to close myself off to have a good time. I hated the feeling that a smile was scheduled. I hated that everything I thought was death.

Death was comfort in this time. The time where I had no hope, nowhere to look for but an end. Death was like an old uncle that you always go to for a shoulder to cry on. Death had this undeniable attraction. Death loved me. He visited my life often. I would great him hello with another shot, or another joint. We talked a lot. He often convinced me to be with him. I sometimes agreed to another date, just not now; it wasn’t in my schedule. He would nod and smile, and say “see you again”. And he would always be back next year.

I hated the way my body felt. My youth was gone. By the time I was 14, my body had been tainted with the worst of sin. It had been burned and torched to a crisp of this scarred individual standing in front of me. I would wave to the reflection, but all she would give me is this horrifying empty stare that haunted me for months. Her body was often bruised, and shaking. I don’t know why she shook so much, she said she was scared. I asked her what she was scared for, and all she would give me is that empty stare that I dreaded.

I hated her. I hated the way she followed me around. When I would look at a bottle, and feel no attraction, she would rip it out of my hands and down the whole bottle, and the empty stare would come. I hated the way she would take the life out of me. It seemed every time I smiled, she was there to turn my cheeks in a way that would make me frown. I hated how she would deny everything I offered. When I offered an end, she would deny it. When I offered basic human needs, like food, she would push is away with her toe, and curl up in bed, staring that empty stare at the wall.

I hated how she drowned me. I hated the way that every time I looked at her, I felt tired. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. She looked like she was in so much pain. I hated the way she had to cling to me because she couldn’t find anybody else to hold on to. I would always look at her with the most sorrow I could muster, and she would look away. She didn’t talk a lot, but when she did, it made my heart slow down and my ears ring. She didn’t mind the silence; she had a wild imagination. She would bounce ideas off the walls, but when I asked what they were, they were caught in her hand, and she would curl up in bed and stare the empty stare at the wall.

I hated how she hated me. I hated the way she would look at me with pure disgust. I hated how I would laugh, then see her looking at me with the most hateful expression. I hated how she loved what I didn’t love. I hated how she didn’t see the good in me. I hated how she treated me.

It took me a full year to realize that this girl was the one looking back at me in the mirror.

The black and blue bruises on her tummy were the ones scarred on my tummy. Her trembling hands were held by my hands that trembled even more. Her thoughts were cradled by my cranium. Her dislike for me was liked by me. Everything I hated about her, I embraced with every step I took.



When the year was over, and the seasons changed, so did her mood. She still looked at me the same, she disliked and hated just about everything. But the scars faded. She didn’t hold that dark and empty stare that would haunt me every time I closed my eyes.

I wish I could say that this just came over time. That over time, she didn’t have the scars. That she moved on all by herself. That she didn’t look at the alcohol bottle as an escape. That she didn’t look at other people and figure out how to use them. I wish I could have said that I was strong enough to help her get off the bed, shower, eat some breakfast, and maybe watch some tv together. No. Instead, she was too damage for me to help her. I couldn’t get to her.

I couldn’t get to her the way he could. When his deep voice would sound, her spine would shiver with tingles from little fairies that tickled her heart, and I could smile without an empty look from her. He didn’t just hold me, he held her too. Made her feel welcome, made her feel like the only escape is him, and she was right.

She loved everything about him. Every ounce of self hate was poured out into love for this man that loved her. This man that held her, so close. He didn’t push her away after one night together, he didn’t ignore me when she tried to talk to him. Instead, he pulled her closer after a night together, and listened to her when she talked. I never saw her smile, for the 15 years I’ve known her, she’s never smiled. And every morning, she would be the one to pull me out of bed in the morning with a smile and pick out the preppy outfits that I wore everyday.

She was so happy. Smile lines that never appeared, finally worked their way on her face. She never talked to me as much as she did then. Before, when we would talk, it would be quiet murmurs about how she needs an escape. Now, it was 3 AM and she would be thinking about the next time she could see him, what clothes she could wear tomorrow, she was ready for the test tomorrow. I’ve never seen her so happy, and that made me happy.

She stopped using people and substances maybe two months after we started dating. She told me that he was like her own drug. I smiled and agreed, I loved him too.

But the thing that pushed us over the edge was sleep. He never slept, he thought it was a waste of time, I guess we did too. But we didn’t sleep for a different reason. The night terrors for those two months were very light, they were nothing like the ones that occurred in the year in hell. Instead, they might have been something about him not texting back. They scared the hell out of her, she though it was a sign that he didn’t love her. But in the year prior, they were much worse.

That year, my dreams were tainted with her thoughts. I hated her for it. Red was mostly the only thing I could see when these episodes would occur. Almost every night, they would occur. Getting high, or drunk, wouldn’t stop the images that would flash our minds at night. But sadly, these episodes were what made us.. us. These images would keep me up at night, and her too. She would cradle herself in the corner of my room and whisper things to herself that I couldn’t hear. I would beg her to come back to bed, that I’m tired. But she didn’t want to sleep, she was too scared of the images. Because of this, I only slept for a few minutes every night. The hours in the night were spent counting the cracks in my ceiling and her quiet cries in the corner.

I never told him about that year. And never about the night terrors. I was open to him, more than I was to anybody else in my life, but she didn’t want me to. One night, she was scared to sleep, she was sick of the images. So, she drank. She drank until her eyes were blurry and she called him. They talked, she told him she was scared to sleep, she never said why, he never questioned. She fell asleep later, only to wake up moments later and cradle herself in the corner.

The week after, marked three months of us dating. The night terrors stopped. I asked her about how she felt about it. Her eyebrows would knit together and her mouth would pout. She would tell me she doesn’t know how to feel. She was quiet in that third month. When he would hold me, he no longer held us, he only held me and she would sit in the corner and watch.

When it was nearing four months, I grew sick of how quiet she was. She yelled at me, cursed me even. I didn’t understand it. She should be happy that somebody has promised to be a constant in our life, it’s never happened before. When I mentioned this to her, her eyes closed and a tear came down her cheek, and she sank to the floor. She cried in a fetal position for an hour. She wouldn’t talk to me. I didn’t try to touch her. When she arose again, she told me that I have to leave him. She couldn’t believe how she let somebody get so close to her, it only left room for him to hurt her. She was petrified of him leaving, just like how everybody in her life has. When I tried to hug her and comfort her, she pushed me away and fell to the floor and cried.

That night, everything fell apart. I didn’t sleep for three days. I was scared of night terrors again. I was so confused. Those three days, she didn’t wake up and come to school with me. Instead she cradled herself and cried to the wall for those three days. Oddly enough, the lonesome without her overpowered the happiness with him.

Eventually, I did sleep. The night terrors didn’t come oddly. This made her look me in the eyes for a few seconds, which she didn’t do in a while. She told me she just wanted to be alone for a while. So, I left. Thinking it would make her feel better. When I returned home, it had been done. She left him. I remember that night, that was the first time she had ever called me a cunt. I hated the way she made me feel. I hated how she cursed me with these commitment issues, trust issues, and a whole list of other disorders. 

He didn’t go to school the next day. I went home early. When I arrived home, she was sleeping. She slept for a week. She never talked to me. That is, until I kissed him again.

She cursed me. Saying that she broke up with him for us, for our happiness again. I cursed her back, saying he makes me happy. That night, she vowed to constantly make me hate him. And she did it.

The few months after our breakup, I kept a close relationship. This was due to the commitment issues and fear of people leaving me combined. It angered her in ways I’ve never seen. I hated the way that he made me feel. I felt so confused all the time. I hated the way I felt. I hated the way that I felt that I had sinned.

She started drinking again. I don’t know why, we had no night terrors and he still talked to us. She told me that I’ll understand later. She never talked to me again after that night. She just drank, and got high. I didn’t understand, he still laughed with us, and held our hand, just like if we were still his. She would roll her eyes and chug.

It happened on a Monday. It happened three days after my birthday. It happened at the worst time. He left us on a Monday. He left us three days after my birthday. He left us at the worst time. He told us over text. I lost it that night. I cried the whole night. She wasn’t there to help me. Instead she stared at the wall with that cold empty stare and cradle her legs.

The day after, I went home early from school because the site of him with another girl was too much. My heart jumped in my throat. The alcohol and zero hours of sleep I got last night hadn’t helped. I went home. And that night I took painkillers to stop the heart ache. Something was different about this time. She wasn’t the one to take the pills, she wasn’t the one drinking. Instead, she stared at the whole time, in that cold empty stare.

Unfortunately, not every story has a happy ending, and that’s okay. Not all stories are a love story, not all stories are ones of a resolution. Some stores just end, and so does this one.

He didn’t visit me in the hospital. He didn’t text me, or call me. Or ask how I was doing. He spent his time admiring the new girl in his life. The girl who doesn’t have commitment issues, or the trust issues, or the night terrors, or the year in hell, or the other demon half of her. He had a damaged soul of his own, and he couldn’t accept me for mine

He doesn’t talk to me much anymore. I don’t talk to him much anymore. I don’t talk to her much anymore either. She sits in the corner and cradles herself in the corner of my room when the night terrors occur, which started two weeks after he left me. I don’t ask her to come back to bed anymore, instead, I just stare at the ceiling and pray for a better next life and curse the chemicals of alcohol coursing through my veins at that very moment.


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