Trigger Warnings : 

Self-harm

Breaking things 

Mention of blood 

ONE

Dark smoke filled the room, fogging the glass windows. Tiny, clear water droplets rolled down the window, leaving glistening trails as they all puddled on the floor. The air was unbreathable. Unbearable. Too cold. Yet, sweat crept down his olive skin, from his wet hair to his lashes, and trailed off his cheeks. His pecs flexed, and the muscles on his arms contracted as he took another puff, groaning. Eyes bloodshot, hazy, drunk body lying down on the cold messy floor. 

I swallowed down what seemed like pain, watching his every move. How his eyes gazed outside the window into nothingness, the cigar that threatened to burn his fingers, the tremble of his lips, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple as he’d swallow, the veins that throbbed at his temple. 

He jerked up quickly, throwing the cigar away that left soot on his fingers.

“AGH!” He dashed over to the desk and slammed his fists on it, causing a dent. The lamp fell, breaking into pieces. The light still flickered. 

His eyes flooded with tears that now trickled down his face, and with another yelp, he smashed the room. 

“WHY?” He hit the bookshelf. My breath choked. 

“WHY?!” He threw the books and tore a few apart; he threw a few over his cupboard and some on the window. The glass shattered on his body and the rain poured in. I shut my eyes. 

“WHY?” He picked up the hockey stick from the corner of his desk and began hitting the wall, making holes in it.

He was enraged, growling with each hit. Then the stick snapped. Maybe this angered him more because he began kicking the wall now. Throwing whatever he could reach. Demanding answers to his pleas; damaging everything, damaging himself. 

He was bleeding now. My breath slowed. 

I sprinted over to him and clutched onto him, weeping, begging, pleading him to stop. But he didn’t, he didn’t hear me. He didn’t see me. He didn’t feel me. That caused a hole in me. A void.

“WHY?” Final hit. He fell back on his butt, and he sobbed. So many “whys” were still on the tip of his tongue, but he couldn’t utter them out for the world. So he brought his knees up to himself and buried his face between them. 

I sat beside him, resting my head on his shoulder. I glimpsed at the room. Thousands of every feeling raced through me. Everything was cluttered: broken bookshelves, lamps, fragments of wood, a chair, and the hockey stick. And his blood: dried, damp, dark.

I hugged and snuggled his arm. He was unfazed. Didn’t even look at me. I pouted and threw my arms across him, pulling him closer. I nudged my nose against his skin. He smelt like burnt ash. But I didn’t mind. I leaned my face over his shoulder and closed my eyes. Soon after, I tasted salt on my lips and a weak chuckle escaped through my throat. 

My gaze fell and tears escaped my eyes. But then I pushed past his arms, sat on his lap, and caressed his hair, his tight cheeks, and sharp jaw. I trailed the metal of his locket and the rings hanging on his chain. I put my palm on his chest, taken aback by how cold his heart felt. There was nothing left. No movement. He was giving up. 

I panicked. I panicked, and I ran around, trying something, anything. I needed him to wake up. I needed someone to come save him. I ran out of the door, down the stairs, around the kitchen, to the front of the TV.  But as I run, I realise it’s useless. Because no one can see me. I am just a shadow. A wandering soul.

I am Dead.

I cannot do anything to save him. I sulked back into the room. My eyes widened as I saw him sitting on the floor, looking out the window as if he could see through all the smoke. 

He pulled up a new cigar. I took notice of his hands, black soot smudged on his skin. Which one was it now? I lost count yesterday already. There are at least seven or eight packs of this cigar somewhere beneath all the mess. But I managed to sit beside him, on the bed. I too pulled my knees up to my chest and watched him watch outside as I oscillated back and forth.

Then I heard a sniffle, and I felt my chest tightening. 

One tear trickled down with a choked sob. Others followed with a deep breath. Then his chest tightened as he tried to hold it back. His face was red, eyes barely open. But then he let go. 

He wept. 

Loud. Breathing and rushing more puff into his lungs than he can and coughing. He cradled on the floor once again and gasped for air. Bleeding, crying, scratching at his skin like he wanted to crawl out of it. I lifted myself down on the floor. 

My heart was wrenched. I wanted to vomit. But I am just a soul. I finally let go. Cuddling up on him, I intertwined my hands with his, and tears that threatened to leave, finally escaped. I kept my gaze on the ground. My vision blurred, I would have stained his shirt. All I could hear were his fears, his sorrows, and our tears. We sat there for what felt like an hour. I embraced him, kissing his hands.

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry…please, please, I’m so sorry,” I pleaded. My voice was inaudible and I struggled to keep it even. I don’t know what I was pleading for or to whom. To God? To let me live once again and embrace this man in front of me? To give me another chance at life, and I’d promise to live it to the fullest? 

I do not know. 

His hand jerked, and he grabbed the closest bottle of beer and chugged down quickly: coughing, choking, drowning. 

“Arlo!” I called out. I held his head and rubbed his chest. 

“Arlo..”

Then he lied back down. His chest rose and lowered quickly. His breaths were sharp as gulped down whatever he felt and finally shut his eyes. His quickened pace of breath calmed down slowly. His mouth opened to let air into his lungs, and his body rested on the floor. Cold sweat was on his body. Cold blood was on the floor. But he slept so peacefully. 

My heart warmed as much as it pained. 

I twirled his hair. It was a soft, beautiful color of strawberry blonde. Some of the strands are dyed in a deeper pinkish shade. Hesitantly, I stroked his arms. His body is lean but buff. Shirtless or in stretched shirts, he usually seems muscular. My fingertips brush past his torso, lining his stretch marks.

A flood of memories seep into my mind. "Look at my thunder strikes," He roared as he flexed his arms and abs. Then jumped onto me, crushing me beneath his weight and scent.

I chuckle at the memory. I miss this man. Then I move my hand up to his chin, stroking his jaw with my thumb. He didn't shave yet. My gaze shifts to his lips, and I sink my teeth into my own.

The bell rings and I huff in panic. "Strawberry never tasted this good before," he remarks and his words send my heart flying out of my body. His voice is raspy and tongue-demanding as he explores my mouth.

I swallow hard and pull my hand away from him. God, what am I doing?! I hop up and walk around the mess as I fan my face. You're dead, dumbass, and you want to kiss him? How- why- How will you even do that? I smack my forehead.

I then step on an old broken glass frame with a photograph still inside it. My breaths slow down as I pick it up. It's ours.

Tears crept down my hands as I cupped my mouth.

"Come here, you!" He grabs my wrist and pulls me back.

"A-arlo!" I yelp in protest but he shoves me towards himself and cups my mouth. His scent is so strong as I inhale. "Take the photo!" He booted. And then everyone else just smiles and cheers as I nag him and stomp on his toes and he looks at me, cocking his brows. An annoying smirk stretched on his lips.

I blush as I lean against the bookshelf.

The strawberry boy smiled so beautifully. Even his eyes grinned. It was a picture taken from our date in an amusement park. Behind us was a roller coaster. It was a full picture of us with our friends, but he cut it down to us standing in the middle. Smiling, holding ice creams. I sobbed at the memories. 

I clutched the picture to my chest as, now, I cradled myself against the half-hanging bookshelf.