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He slammed into his car door, as though fighting with an invisible force. He didn’t close the door, letting in the frosty, bitter air into the not so different inside. His brain worked on a slower motion, slopping around in his head. He supposed it wasn’t so different as to when he was sober. He shuffled on the seat, turning himself enough for his hand to reach deep down, awkwardly groping for a bottle-shaped object. His clammy fingers closed around the top, fluidly pulling back his head and chugging the rest of it.
He rested his arm to the side of him, laying down for long enough for him to let go of the bottle, which was supposed to still be in his clutch. The small amount of liquid spilled onto his seats. He rubbed his face, tired and out of it. Too broke for drugs, too tired to work. He supposed that was why he had never made it out of highschool, of course though, he didn’t have highschool in mind when sketching out his future.
Years slump together and make a mess out of itself whenever you live like this. Birthdays, holidays, anniversaries, days that taunt you. You don’t remember them; not because you don’t want to, but because there is an ache of normalcy when you remember it. The type of blandness that wasn’t for him. People with families, money, any sort of situation where there is even a sort of resemblance of a soul, that was what that was.
A person like him? They have no reason to remember dates. It’s just waiting until you get shot, that’s your reminder. Days are based on the probability of when you will die, that’s how you remember. That fiery feeling inside of you that tugs you to self-preservation are the fabrications of your old life. That voice in the back of your mind that forces you to push yourself forward hates you, because it wants you to live. Akin to a brutish cancer, the self-hatred that you hold for yourself envelops every move to the point that an act of a bullet penetrating your skull is more of an act of mercy rather than having to slug on for another day.
He sits up, leaning against the window of his car. Maybe, just a small part of his repulsive, selfish , mind, bargains to that part of himself to just stop. To not whisper the hauntings of his past that feel like home when he sits atop of a building's ledge, not to flinch when the gun clicks against his head after a bad gamble, to just grant him this mercy of being left alone.
…
He inches to the other side of the car, where the door was still left open and shuts it closed. Laying down on the seat, he covers himself with a thin sheet of cloth he found. He closes his eyes, as his dreams shift into the gentle waves of the ocean as the smell of the sea fills his senses.
The reminder of home rots with the smell of beer and blood. Yet, even with that crawling sensation, he can’t help but want to sink into the comfort into the falsehood that his mind creates. His hands slither across his torso, tightly holding onto himself in the form of an attempt to pretend as if he still had a family to even consider himself to be human. He felt reminded of his mother, chastising him for not wearing a coat outside, making him finish his dinner.
He sniffed the air, and for a moment, he could pretend as if it was his mothers perfume so bitterly entering his senses. His digits roughly pushed onto his skin, he twisted into himself when he could differentiate the feeling between his smaller hands, and his six-fingered brother. He forced himself to imagine, a part of him knowing that this was only doing more harm in the longer run, but he didn’t bother with it.
People like him wanted to pretend that they were loved. Living in a fantasy where everything had ended up right for themselves, selfishly ignoring everyone else's wants for their own.
That was why he was so alone.