PAIGEDamn it, I’m such an asshole. How could I do that to Jay? I did give a fuck, I did care! But but, he was dying and there was nothing I could do about it. How the hell was I supposed to cope?
Tears escaped through fingers over my eyes, dribbled down to my chin, I hated this, I hated being so weak. I had never left Jay before, never allowed him to wallow in misery by himself.
And why was I just sitting there in the dark instead of helping him through it? Because I knew that if I was in there, I would lose control, say things that I didn’t mean, and crush what was left of the Jay that I knew. We both needed time to cool off, time to recover. So I got up and left the back yard, found the keys to the car, and drove off.
JAY
Woke up. Paige not there. Paige isn’t there, Paige was never there... Did I imagine him? Did I imagine all of this? There were traces that he had left behind, but those weren’t enough to construct a person, a lover.
I ran to our room, grabbed his pillow, and tried to recapture what I had felt when I was with him. Shoved my nose into the fabric, trying to smell HIM, but he wasn’t there, he was gone, he had left last night, said that I was all alone. Surely there was something in the pillow that would bring him back?
Nothing.
Not even a hair, but then again, it wasn’t like I wasn’t looking through eyes weary from days of crying my fucking eyes out.
I threw it against the bed and sank to the floor. There was no way to get him back without him physically being back. And I...I wanted him back... So bad... Mind muddled again, I couldn’t think straight, I hate myself so much, why am I so fragile? I should be able to just walk away, I should be able to forget him. Why can’t I?
Stomach hurt again. Needed to feed the rampaging beast, even though it felt like nails puncturing my abdomen, even though food was the last thing on my mind right now. It just was something to do that wasn’t worrying about Paige or feeling sorry for myself. Paige knew why I ate so indiscriminately, he joined in sometimes, but after a while he just watched and shook his head sadly. I didn’t give a fuck, even though I didn’t want to gain twenty pounds, I didn’t want to become a creature utterly dependent on food to deal with problems.
But as I started licking the spilled salsa off the floor, I realized that I had. Everything in the kitchen became fodder for my self-destruction. Even after my stomach quieted, and my mind was clear, I still kept on cramming it in. Finally there was no way that anything else would fit. I sank to the floor and started crying again. Why the fuck couldn’t I stop crying?! I never ever did it before, never wanted to, always suppressed it, just managed to keep a leash on it. Please don’t say that this will last forever, I have to be strong, I have to get Paige back. What if he doesn’t come back?
Glass. Oh gods, glass. It’s in front of me, it’s empty, I can break it, I can use it...it’s so beautiful and clear. Hands reached out for it, caressed it, why didn’t Paige pack this up? Never mind that, who cares about Paige?
Smashed it on the floor, it shattered. Now I need it so bad that all the food in the world couldn’t suppress the urge. Rubbed my hands gently over it, it felt so perfectly jagged. Asymmetrical. It wouldn’t look right, but it would feel so good. It hadn’t cut my flesh yet, I was so grateful for that. I didn’t want random cuts, I wanted huge gaping wounds. Huge gaping wounds like the one that I lived in, the one that Paige had made for me.
Picked up an uneven triangle, the sides were so rough, it would be hard to avoid cutting myself. This was what I wanted. This was what I lived for. I held it to my thumb, then pressed into the flesh. Pain, blissful pain, somehow different than I imagined. Blood spilled out, I saw those fair colors again. It tasted so good. I turned to my forearms. They needed to feel this too. Started with the right, since the left has the tattoo, it hurt like fuck, but it was the kind of hurt that I needed right now. The all-encompassing hurt was gone, replaced by a localized one, one that I could control, that I could stop if I wanted. But I didn’t want it to stop. It had to keep going forever.
PAIGE
Hesitated at the door. Would he still be alive when I opened it? I tried to steel myself for the inevitable, that he had taken my outburst as being what I truly felt and gone off and killed himself. I turned the key in the lock, the door swung open and...nothing.
No blood spattered across the walls, no prone form lying in the hallway, no messages scrawled in blood that had spurted up out from his neck as he whispered my name as his last word. Just quiet.
Then noise. A rustling or something in the back of the house. Jay? Or had the flies and maggots already descended onto his decaying corpse. Damn it! I’m not supposed to feel like this, I’m not the one who’s sick. He’s infecting me with his depression.
Kitchen. Remains of his binge. It’s not even like he was bulimic or anything, he just ate when he felt bad. I didn’t think much of it, since I do the same thing. But this was so much more than his ordinary intake. The whole kitchen was ransacked, empty packages lay strewn about as if a great battle had just taken place. But where was the victor?
There was a red trail leading from the kitchen to his downfall.
He laid in the middle of the hallway staring straight ahead, the most piercing smile I had ever seen on his face, just beaming. The carpet was red...his arms looked like shit. Slices criss-crossed them, some shallow, some deep. It seemed like he was trying for a pattern, but the artist’s mind was so fragmented that it didn’t come across in the work. The instrument? The piece of glass next to him. I knew he was alive, he was lucid enough to look at me when he heard me come closer. Then his eyes grew terrified and he tried to move away. “It’s...it’s not what you think! I didn’t do it...it just happened!” he screamed, scrabbling to move away on the carpet. I stopped him easily.
“Jay...” I began, pulling him into a sitting position. He kept on moving his hands like he wanted to pick at his arms, but didn’t have the courage to. I noticed that he had cut his thumb. That had been where it had all started. I shuddered.
He had had a really awful day, I don’t even remember why, but he just picked up a pair of scissors and jokingly ran it over his thumb. It cut. When I noticed he tried to pass it off as a paper cut. But under closer interrogation he admitted it. That was what started the drugs, the therapy, the crying fits...
“Paige, it’s not my fault, it’s really not my fault.” he kept on mumbling, clutching me frantically.
“Jay, I’m not going to send you away.” I whispered. His eyes grew wider and he hugged me with all his strength. “It’s all my fault.”