Chapter Text
I listen too my emo shit. My headphones blasting the entire world away. And all I can think about is you.
I primal scream into my pillow. And all I can think about is you.
I take my daily dose of serotonin. Even though, the hypothesis of serotonin deficiency as a genesis for depression has been thoroughly rebuked. And like I've said in group therapy 'there's probably more serotonin in your shit than in your brain'. I don't actually know if that's true. But I feel like a suave bad-girl™ for saying it. Though I'm - hopefully in secret - a total fucking nerd who happened to read some article on how there's 90 times more serotonin in your gut compared to what you've got in your brain. Disregarding that, the pills work. I'm so much less of a sad-girl on them that my trademark "don't care- goth-vibe" feels forced. Almost at least. The pills don't grant me any immediate relief though. They don't do shit to keep me from spiraling. So yeah. All I can think about is you.
I down two diazepams. Like a champ. Even though it was months ago that my therapist stated she would call my psychiatrist and talk to her about canceling my prescription. I figure she forgot. And I sure as hell, won't tell. I'd bless and praise any diety, phenomenon or thing that reared Razzs' chaotic mind into forgetting that call. I feel no anxiety. I feel no emotion at all really. Nothing. All's sort of gray (ugh, just like your last name). I think this might've been the permanent state of things if I were to ever get over you. That thought conceptually scares me. I'm incapable of physically achieving any adequate emotional response to accompany my current emotional state, or lack thereof. I kinda wish I'd had a proper panic attack instead of this. Non-caring. This void of indifference inhabiting every part of my being. I attempt to fill the hollowness, but all I can think about is you.
Hours later. It's three am. I down the last of my third beer. I'm approaching a properly drunk state. On a workday. Great. All I can think about is you.
More specifically you, as in you over in Brightmoon. As in you're at Uni. As in you leaving without me.
I head over to your socials. Pictures of you and some girl. Fucking lots of them. I wish it didn't, but that shatter something deep within me. There's one where she looks at you fondly. She's basically heart eyeing, yuck. Another where you wrap your arm around her waist, and no. I'm not currently involved in an elaborate game of choking myself to death in an attempt to force back my tears. In another you're in pj's, sprawled out over too small a couch. Legs intertwined. It looks like she's giggling. You look infuriatingly smug. I might regretfully allow something whimpering to escape me. I don't know. But you used to look at me in the same way. Ugh, I.. what does that even mean? I can't dwell on it. As by now I'm downright sobbing. Pathetic.
The worst of it all. She's nothing like me. At all. We're about the same hight but apart from that technicality we're seemingly polar opposite of one another. She's posh, like her parents probably pay everything for her. She wouldn't need to work, not even between semesters. She wouldn't even know what a scholarship is, or student debt for that matter. They probably pay her rent for her, or rather they've probably bought her an entire apartment. While my piece of trash foster mom booted me before I even graduated. The day I turned eighteen I was thrown onto the streets to fend for myself, effectively forced to rely on the pity of my few friends and their crappy* [really lovely, but I'd never admit that] families. I'm a leech. How can I even try to compete?
And that's just scratching the surface of all the ways in which I'm anything but what Adoras' looking for in a girl. I'm always clad in black, top to toe while this unnamed girl holding Adoras hand while they're throwing themselves off a pier into a lake in nothing but their swimming suits, is draped in all kinds of color. Mostly on the purples and pinks side of the spectrum. And yes. That picture's potent enough to shut my brain down completely. I drop my phone, luckily - please be broken - 'cus I'm positively convinced that if I ever lay my gaze on such a picture again I'll go into cardiac arrest, full throttle.
Arguably that would end whatever 'this' is. Like really, how bad would it be?
I slowly reach for my phone, slight tremble to my hands. Naturally it survived the tumble onto my bedroom floor. Of course it did. This is the reason as to why I resume scrolling further down into this disastrous pit. The continued mental flogging of myself has nothing to do with once more laying eyes on the picture of Adoras gorgeous body in a - quite frankly - scandalously well fitted swimsuit. Nothing at all.
Unlocking my phone I don't find that, but instead a picture of this fucking girl dressed in some gown or dress or some shit. They're in a fitting room and the image's accompanied by a text saying "All hail thou, my fair Queen!", a wink emoji, followed by a crown emoji and a silly face emoji which none in their right mind would ever think to put into print. Classic Adora. She's just the worlds most precious dork. The image also serves as a reminder of just how far from Adoras type I am. So what if we both have a bit of a 'femme fatale'-vibe. Where I'm obviously going for the deep, dark and mysterious, she's... Sparkly? Like candy-floss with diamond edges? It's an eerie sight. She seems positively lethal. And yeah, as the damn cherry on top there's just no way in hell that my skinny ass can compete with that girls. She's got some proper curves. Where I... Well, good for you Adora.
I force myself out of my quickly escalating spiral of negative intrusive thoughts by chugging the remaining two thirds of my forth beer in one consecutive gulp. Cracking open my fifth one. First I move, then the world follows. OK. I bury my swollen red-eyed face in the palm of my hands. This isn't... Great. I give the clock a quick glance, and you don't have to be a fucking genius to realize that on the unlikely occasion that I'm, come the morrow, in any state to make it to work on time, I'll still be thoroughly under the influence. Guilt. Hits me like a steamroller. I slump to the floor by my bed tucking my knees under my chin. Why do I always have to ruin things?
I do find some odd solace in that. In moments such as this one. Like I am what I'm meant to be. I'm the absolute trash of - her - expectations. At least I'm successfully living up them. Or, her lack thereof. I guess that's a matter of perspective. Razz would have some profound shit to say about that. She'd probably bake it into a pie metaphor. She always does. I figure I should call in sick. Tomorrow. Probably. It would be the reasonable thing to do.
Fuck.
Fuck.Fuck.Fuck.
I pry my eyelids open. The sun's bright. I'm sprawled on the floor, on the thick rug. I feel more comfortable than I should. Only a little stiff in my joints and next to me on the floor's an open bottle of beer. Fallen over, but not quite empty. And everything's damp. I wish this was a low point for me. It's not.
I hurry. I shower quickly, at a positively frigid temperature. I put on new - non-beer soaked - clothes. I'm not that drunk. It's a relief, and a bad sign. My shifts started hours ago. My alarm never went off. I can't believe it. The betrayal.
I check my phone. I have seventeen missed calls. SEVENTEEN. All are from the same contact: 'Horde-yuck'. The boss. I'm panting, starting to work up some anxiety. We're not exactly on the best of terms. And I don't really know where to go from here. I absolutely can't afford to lose my job, but I'll be so lucky to keep it. I feel that my chances of that are very slim. 'Last night I was unfortunate enough to set my weekend alarm, instead of the one for weekdays. So sorry. That's why I overslept.' Great fucking excuse. 'Oh, and by the way boss. I might be a little drunk. But we're cool, right?'. As if on cue. The phone starts ringing again. I'm out of luck. They're calling for the eighteenth time. I let it be.
Eventually I return the call. Shifts over. I hope they sorted it, I really do. Then maybe he'll go soft on me. He picks up, and from the first moment of the call I know the outcome can't be anything but bad. He's yelling. Telling me I've disappointed him, that he thought that I was different. Better than this. My throats all clogged up. I couldn't speak even if I wanted to. His ranting come to an end. And apparently I've failed him for the last time. At that I flinch back to my senses. Ok. I can play, throw a drunken rage or something like it. I yell back at him, for how long, who'd know? I end my shouting rant with, 'and you don't need to bother firing me' cus I fucking quit!'. I can hear him sigh. And then he says 'Well then. Best of luck, Katrin.' And with a drawl 'you'll need it.'. Before I can respond he's hanged up.
Just what have I done?