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Johns room was dark except the dim yellow light radiating from his lamp on his bedside table. His phone was laying there, plenty of missed calls and texts from his friends, but he couldn't bring himself to answer them right now. If they even were truly his friends. He didn't deserve them.
Why would anybody want anything to do with him right now?
He knew this would 'pass', he just didn't know when. Part of him wishes this was a manic episode, at least he would feel something other then the anger that was fueling him. Perhaps the depressive episodes were better. No.. both fucking sucked.
He was like a ticking time bomb, just waiting to explode. It had been building up all week, as much as he tried to push it down. That was part of the reason he didn't want to see anybody, he didn't wanna explode on them. Especially the ones who didn't deserve it. He had a bad habit of doing that.
He hated feeling like this, it reminded him of the day he lost Lemar. It was like everything went black. He shakes his head, not wanting to think about it. He wasn't nearly as fucked up before that, it just seemed to be the topping on the cake. He would love to know what exactly was wrong with him, other then the obvious PTSD and depression. He knew he really needed to get into therapy but opening up like that with someone was scary. He didn't like feeling...vulnerable. Even then, his go around with the school counselor didn't go as planned either.
Man, fuck him.
''I mean technically I’m supposed to validate your feelings, but your feelings are kind of wrong. You’ve got this idea that you’re a victim, that you’re abandoned, that you’re not at fault… I guess sometimes it’s easy to fall into that, yeah?''
I'm not fucking wrong.
What a great fucking counselor.
He gets up out of his bed, sitting there for a moment and taking a deep breath before walking to the bathroom. He stares at himself in the mirror, his eyes blank and dark circles around his eyes. He hadn't been sleeping right all week; he couldn't even recognize the man looking at him in the mirror anymore. It was his face but-
Who was he really?
He turns the cold tap on the sink, leaning down to splash some cold water on his face, trying to keep himself regulated but he's just thinking back to that conversation with Marc. Thinking about what the fuck happened- the Bob and Frank bullshit.
I was abandoned though. I got ghosted for over a week. I knew this shit would happen. It always fucking happens. Nobody sticks around; they only talk to me when they want something. When they want my attention. I'm not even at fault. God fucking forbid I talk to one person who promised me he wouldn't leave. I didn't even hook-up with him. Can I not hang out with someone now after you fucking go MIA ? What did you want me to do? Sit and mope the whole week?
Fuck him. Fuck him.
How the fuck am I the bad guy? I didn't do ANYTHING. What do you mean you have no reason to believe me? What do you mean you have nothing to say other then 'sorry? You don't wanna talk about how you fucking left me and then immediately came back to accuse me of cheating? That's it? What was the point of anything at all? Why did I even TRY with you?
He doesn't even realize he's raising his fist to punch the mirror until he feels the dull ache in his knuckles and sees the shatter of broken glass all over his sink. He can feel blood trickling from his knuckles but he doesn't do anything to stop it. He just closes his eyes and rubs his eyes with his other hand, feeling the blood drip down his skin until droplets fall onto the white marble of the countertop.
Why was I like this?