Black Gives Way to Blue

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Song Lyrics  |  House: Booksie Classic
It's been written in journal style. Black Gives Way to Blue is a song by Alice in Chains written about the death of precious Layne Staley—the band's former frontman and best friend. This short story/journal entry is just my own depiction of the song taken to another level. It's a beautiful song, and if you haven't heard it I highly recommend you listen.

Submitted: August 30, 2012

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 30, 2012



April 1, 2010

The world around me is forever moving. It won't even stop for me to catch my breath. I sit in this chair always because I know there is no place for me anymore. I've become cynical without you to hold my head up. Oh, how I love you. 

I will never understand how the world is still functioning while there's a soul so broken by grief. I tried to accept, I did. My friends would gently coax me into going for a walk outside or catching a movie. But if I ever did agree I'd always find myself observing those around me rather than the task at hand. They laugh, they smile, they play. But without you here how could they even find the strength to wake up every morning?

Our friends live everyday as if it's their last. I find this petty because, well, how can they enjoy anything without you in it? You've faded in their minds and it enrages me. It's only been a few years. A few years can't make a lifetime disappear—it can't erase one's existence. My love for you won't let you dissolve. Somehow, I almost wish it would. 

I hurt. I no longer wish to feel anything, because everything I feel is emptiness. If I could let this go, or just accept and move on, I might be okay. Yet I cannot sleep out of the dread knowing that the next day will be just as desolate as the one before it. I am consumed by my sorrows and by your costly addiction. 

As I glance around the room I feel sick. I can see the sleeves of your shirts and jackets jutting from your drawers. At this time of night I can catch a glimpse of the glass of water you left on the nightstand on your side of the bed. Time has passed and, like your presence, the water in your glass has evaporated and disappeared. It's just an empty glass. When it empties I tend to refill it to the water ring left inside, and I make sure to put in only one ice-cube—as it was the night you left. For some reason, though, I have yet to fill your glass again. 

When I walk into our room everyday I am hit with the fact that I won't see you again. It hurts me now just as much as it hurt the first night. I sit in this very chair every night, placed in the center of our room. And when I sleep it is on the floor, for I do not wish to disturb the lines and patterns in the blanket—they have stayed the same since your last time making the bed. I haven't even touched the duvet. Sometimes, though, I smell your pillow in hopes of catching your familiar scent. I haven't been able to distinguish it in over a year. 

As I glance at our picture on the nightstand across the room and study your strong features I realize that you are no longer flesh and warmth and smile. 

You are bone. You are rot. You are dead. 

Without you, I cannot go on. I won't. 

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