I'm Not Ready For This [Entry #5]

I woke up that morning, without a heart it seemed. I felt nothing. Not the tingles shooting down my spine, nor the chill of the morning air that always seemed to seep through the closed window. I didn’t think as I rolled out of bed and trudged down the stairs. Ignoring the mirrors littering the walls, for fear of what I would see. I probably looked disastrous, considering the lack of sleep due to my troubled mind. I couldn’t stop thinking about him - about that night.

Soon after I had acquired my morning coffee, I wandered aimlessly around the house; touching everything in sight. Before long I had found my way to a closed door. I knew what would be waiting for me once I opened it, and I knew I wasn’t ready to face that yet.

I backed up to the opposing wall of the hallway and sunk to my knees. The door stood tauntingly, mere feet from my reach. I could probably touch it with my toes if I stretched my legs out flat against the floor. Why can’t I do this? It’s just a fucking room.

In the few minutes it took for me to stand up, I thought about everything. That night in the hospital, the weeks leading up to the calamity. The look of significant pain on his face and the screams. The screams were the worst part; echoing in my head for months afterwards. The helplessness and guilt clouding my brain. There was nothing I could do for him. I couldn’t make him comfortable, I couldn’t save his life. And I think he knew that too.

With a deep sigh, I finally pushed myself up. Bounding over to the door and throwing it open before I had the chance to think and stop myself.

My mental walls were demolished then, and I suddenly broke down into tears.

Taking a small, careful step through the doorway, I took everything in. It was the same as how I left it a year ago. Like a small time capsule hiding; forgotten in our house. Well, forgotten by everyone but me, that is.

The bed was still unmade; the covers laying bunched up at the foot of the bed. The picture frame still lay broken on the floor next to the nightstand. Jack had accidentally knocked it over that morning in search of his glasses. I hadn’t bothered to clean it up. Clothes littered the floor, and random papers were still coating the small desk in the corner.

After wiping my eyes with the back of my hand, I stumbled over to the large closet and grabbed one of his shirts off the hanger. Not even glancing at it before I brought it to my nose and inhaled. After all this time.. it still smelled like him. If I thought I was crying before.. it was nothing compared to the sobs that racked my body now. Heaving, unable to get any air to fill my tired lungs, I threw his shirt over my own and grabbed as much of his possessions as I could before tripping and falling into the bed. I scrambled to get under the covers, and clutched his things to my chest.

Before I got comfortable, I reached over the end of the bed and grabbed the picture from the floor. It was of the two of us together a few years ago, when Warped Tour came to Baltimore in 2012. My pink hair stuck out from underneath a black baseball cap, his styled up in his usual skunk faux-hawk. Smirks plastered on our faces, sunglasses protecting our eyes from the harsh rays and my arm was slung over his shoulder. I noticed a few tears fall onto the flimsy paper when I realized; in that picture, we couldn’t have been happier.

I’d give anything to talk to him again. To see him one more time… tell him everything I never had the chance to before. I need him to realize how sorry I am, how much I love him, and how I wish it would be me six feet under instead. I stared longingly at his spot next to me. Silently hoping that next time I blinked he would be laying there, hair disheveled with soft snores spilling from his lips and filling the room.

I had so much to say.. and no one to say it to. I even wrote a song right after he died. He would’ve loved it. I would imagine it would pain him to know I haven’t touched my guitar or sang in months.. I had no reason to. He used to sit and wait on the bed until I came and sang to him. Almost like a dog, if he had a tail I doubt it would’ve stopped moving. He was always so eager, never one to stop talking. Except when I sang to him. Somewhere In Neverland was one of his favourites. I was his better reality, I always had been. Ever since we were kids we were inseparable, never leaving the other for a minute.

It’s been 10 months since I saw him last. I went to his grave every single day after his body was buried. This went on for 2 months, until it finally became too much. I couldn’t handle it anymore.. I wanted my baby back, not a stone marking where he’ll stay for eternity.

Even with this, I recognized that this was the first anniversary of his death, and I needed to visit him again. So after a feeble attempt to stop my tears and slow my breathing, I moved his things and rolled out of bed. After stripping out of my clothes, I slipped on his black skinnies, the black tee with red letters that spelled out ‘Boner’ that he adored so much, and his grey Glamour Kills hoodie and walked out of the room without glancing back.

After looking around for a well-used notebook with a cracked leather cover, my acoustic guitar, keys, phone and shoes, I slipped on my converse and ran out the door.

Once I arrived at the black gate signalling the end of the drive and the start of the walk to his plot, I realized one thing:

I’m not ready for this.

Notes

I got an extension day, and note that it is before midnight in my time zone.

xoxo
~TBW