fINALe

They texted me about getting to a club. But I didn’t answer.

I just watched as I walked up to the doors; my movements felt weird, like there was something filling up my joints, making me jerk and twitch as I walked. I faded in and out of consciousness.

I remember it being dark, lit only by these flashing strobe lights. Beams of green and blue and pink and purple shooting everywhere, making everyone seem like some moving, dancing court of technicoloured ghosts or gods or fairies, sweating together in the dark.

And then I watched myself at the bar, downing shots of who-knows-what, knocking them back as some people I’d never seen before threw money to the bartender. 

And then I was washing down pills with my last shot, little gumdrops of pink and white and orange. Now, everything was shaking, wobbling. The music was louder, deafening. My clothes felt weird on my skin. I suddenly became aware of how hot it was, and wondered why Capricorn hadn’t bothered to take off my jacket.

And then I was grabbing a rubber goat mask from some strung-out shivering addict in the corner. I watched as my hands turned it over clumsily, inspecting the pockmarks and the tiny rips and tears around the edges. It was eerily realistic, like someone had cast a severed goat's head in foam.

And then I was walking by the dance floor, looking through the narrow eye-slits of that mask, when some girl grabbed my stained jacket by the front, pulling me over to grind, or something. Still shocked, I guess, my body was pushed against a pillar, and she moved in closer. I tried to scream, tried to do anything. But I wasn’t able to; I was just a passenger on this ride. 

My hands shot out, and Capricorn grabbed her head. She giggled nervously, not understanding. Her skin felt hot and clammy in my palms, her hair slick with sweat. 

Her hair became slick with blood after Capricorn slammed her head into the pillar the second time. Her eyes bulged out of her head, a choked gasp trying to escape her throat. But Capricorn slammed again. She made a dull thumping noise every time she hit the pillar, almost in time with the bass that filled room. I felt something give under the pillar, and Capricorn let go as soon as he picked up on the faint cracking noise. She crumpled; a red, pulpy mess trailed down the pillar as she slid to the floor. My hands were warm again, covered in blood instead of sweat.

And then...

And then I was cold again; outside. Some alleyway we’d passed on our way to the club. I was conscious long enough to look down and notice the drug dealer’s corpse I was sitting on; the gore-spattered pipe discarded in one corner; the little case of needles, open on the pavement beside me.

I was conscious long enough to feel another needle enter my arm, stinging-

wHyy arre yU wrritng ththisss dowwn??

OH GOD

iItt sssEemMss sssttrrrrnge tto kkeEep a Rreccorrd off Wwhtt we’vve done..

YOU DID THIS NOT ME I NEVER DID ANYTHING

YyOUu llett ME iiinn..

I...That was a mistake, that was a huge fucking mistake, I don’t know how I was fucking stupid enough to-

Bbuttt Iii dDo..

YuU lEtt ME inN Beccaussse itT fFellt gOoD..

NO, NO-

iIt ffElLt Bettrr ththAn HOw yYoU fFeeelL nNorrrmALLy..

IiT ffElT bETtrr ththaN SsSlOwLy ROTtng aWayY..

itt ffeLT beTerrr tHAnn dYINg..

You killed-

ShSHeE gRRabbED USS..

THAT WASN’T-

WHAT ABOUT THE OTHER-

HeHE wWaS goiNnG tto hhUrrT uS..

BeSsIdEss..

ItT wWasn’Tt tHee fIrrstT tIme..

wha-

YyOuRR fFATHErr TrrIED to HuRRt USS tOO..

hE wAss So AnGRRy..

sOo manNy bOTTless..

you’re fucking lying, you’re-

YYoU rreMEmbER..

It wAs BloOdd.. Nott dRRool..

hE waS DEaD, nOT lyyng doWN..

YOU’RE FUCKING LYING TO ME-

chCHEckK ththe bbackckyarrrd..

i’Ll waait..

loOKk unNderr THe shOvvelll..

oh god

oh god i’m 

oh god dad 

i’m sorry i’m sorry i’m so fucking

no, i’m not going anywhere.

i’m not fucking moving.

i’m going to call the fucking police.

i don’t care if they don’t believe me, you’ll be locked up. i don’t care if i have to be locked up too.

i’ll fucking kill myself if i have to.

YOU ARE NOT GETTING OUT OF HERE ST-

EeNnOugh..

tHE ttumorrrs FilL YoUR jjoINts..

yU cAN’Tt mMovve wITHOUTT my SSayso..

thISs vessElll ISs mINne nnoW..

thE OlLD mANNN waaass ttoo feeBle..

thThe OnnLyy goodD thThiNng hE cCoUlD dDo WAss PpaSssS ME alonng..

HE chchoSe yYU..

tHthe llEsseR chchild..

tHE reJeCT..

thThiNKk abboutt THat whIle yu WaTTchCH..

YuU wErre alWAyS llivvng likke yU werrrE dYINg..

NnOw iItT’sS My TurrrN..

Aannd Iii amm ddone with DyyIngg.

Losing It

I’m losing it I’m losing it I’m losing it I’m losing it

it’s just a voice in my head it can’t talk to me i just hear thoughts and my brain puts a new voice on them right? they’re still my thoughts but why do they feel so weird and different

WhEn do thoughts talk to you? when do command you to do things? when do your thoughts argue with each other? when does your body just start listening to the other thoughts even when you’re arguing?

except all my thoughts are in my voice, i can hear my thoughts in my own voice

that’s not my voice

it’s broken in odd places; it fumbles around certain words, drawing them out, extending them. It’s all over the place, this harsh, almost grating sound that fluctuates between cold and angry in all the wrong places

i aamm nott tHOUGHts

WHAT THE FUCK NO STOP I TOLD YOU TO STOP YOU CAN’T MAKE ME DO ANYTHING GET OFF THE FUCKING KEYBOARD

I AAM NOTT thOUGhtss

SHUT THE FUCK UP you’re just a voice in my head it finally got to me all the stress from everything, I guess I really did care about my grandfather I guess him dying in front of me was trau

AGDHFBHDJ

OH GOD OH GOD NO

 Ii aMm nnot ththoghtts..

FINE YOU’RE NOT THOUGHTS JUST STOP PLEASE just stop

What the fuck are you?

A piECE..

A fucking piece of what? 

“aAnd i Lookkkd Ndd BEhOlllD aa PalE HORrrrRSe”

What the fuck does that even mean? I’m going crazy I’m just fucking going crazy-

sSsOmme kkall Mee CAaPRICccORrrRN.

WHAT THE FUCK DOES THAT EVEN MEA-

XCAAN YUuU NNOTT FeEEEeL theM WrITHE InSIDe Yu?? 

caNn yu nott ttel frrrm thE sOuNNNd oFf yOUrrr ownn sscccrrrreams??

yyOU knknoww mE..

QqUieT nnow..

what the fuck was that what the fuck are you doing to me

SaVinG Uss..

how the fuck is this saving me 

IiI aM ThE onLY thinng prrrventtng THoSE tumOrRs frrm Grrowing and SpRREding

HOW THE FUCK DID I EVEN GET THESE TUMORS WHAT DID YOU-

OhH llookkk YouRrrre sKKrrreaming aggan..

STop sPazzzmng..

sssTop bllleednng..

iIiI diDdntt LeTT it BlLOomm Ttooo deEEplly..

nNoW..

DOYUU wAnntt TOO ennD Up llikke tHE OLLD MMANNN??

no

iIii Diddnnt THthINkk sso.. 

what do you want

Tto lliiive..

yOu’Re Gooooinng tto gGo Outtt..

no. 

Hhmm??

No. No no no no NO NO NO NO. 

Iimm ddonnne Ttaalkkng.. 

Yyu wiill gGo.. 

Iim lletttng gGoo nnowW..

what the fuck does that mean?

...hello?

Where the fuck did it go.

Oh god, I’ve been fucking typing this whole thing to myself haven’t I. This is proof. This is proof, I’ve finally lost it.

My face feels weird.

What’s-

No.

No, that’s not.

Not my face. Not my face, not my eye, no.

STOP MAKING IT GROW IN MY EYE NO NO NO

Please, please...just make this stop. I’ll do what you want just please make this stop make it stop PLEASE MAKE IT STOP

Alone

I know what I’m going to end up like, where I’m going to end up; I’ve seen it all before. And nobody’s going to know why or where or how because I’ve written it all here, and told nobody else. Dr. Rosenthal isn’t going to be checking up on me, anymore. I stopped going to those sessions right before Randy’s. It all fell apart after the dream thing; she tried to talk to me more about it and I flipped out and...

I’m all alone.

The voice is quiet. I...I know this sounds fucking crazy, but I swear I can make out its’ discordant, disjointed laughter in the silence, though, as it watches decay blossom inside of me.

I think even the dreams of granddad were better than the fucked-up blurred Rorschach tests that all my memories of the gaps in my memory have become. The party has become endless loops of broken record-scratching laughter. 

Spreading

I found another lump.

I took adderol and felt focused then went to dinner and locked myself in my room after so I couldn’t get out and fell asleep...

...and when I woke up there was another lump. In my armpit. It hurts to keep my arm down all the way.

I found another one in the back of my knee. 

And another one, in my wrist. 

The lump in my shoulder feels like it’s bigger now, but I haven’t looked at it. It’s wrapped up tightly in I don’t know how many layers of bandages, disinfected and gauzed. 

Whatever was in that needle was what probably allowed me to cut so deeply without passing out from the pain; it hurts now.

I prefer the hurt to the icy strain I feel against my skin as the tumors push outwards, growing and festering and writhing and twisting, little spots of concentrated death. Festering. I can feel them growing, and I know that’s not fucking normal, cancer patients don’t feel their tumors moving and pushing, right? But I feel them. But I feel them moving and it hurts so much

Breather

I...I was at Randy’s, last night, and things were going great. There were a lot of people, even more than usual. A few drinks, a few songs later, and I’m sitting with Leena, Jessica, Randy, and a few other people, basically at peak feel-good mode. 

And then Randy’s punk friend pulls out a baggie with these little capsules, glowing bright baby blue under the blacklights. Randy pushes a wad of bills over the table, and his buddy starts doling them out.

I’m all for having a good time, but drugs have always scared me...It’s probably no big deal, or stupid, or something, but I’ve never crossed that line. I figure I can ruin my liver all I want, as long as I don’t start fucking with my brain at the same time.

But...but this sudden...something welled up in my brain, and I was taking them. I was picking them up, and scarfing them down quick as I could, like a starving man in a famine. I tried to stop but I couldn’t let go, I couldn’t just put them down, and soon everything had this weird filter on; people’s features were distorting, and the colours were constantly shifting and taking on wrong tints and everyone was laughing and I was laughing too and moving even when I didn’t want to move-

I don’t...I don’t remember much, after that. I think I blacked out. I must have blacked out. My head still hurts. Randy called me, and I tried to talk to him, tried to ask him what I’d been on, but he was confused. 

“It’s not like that was your first time, man; you did the same at Jessica’s.” I ended the call after that. 

I...I think I’m going to take a break from partying, for the next week, at least...I’ll end this here, my shoulder is really hurting...

I woke up half-dressed today. My pants were about my ankles, and I’d  put on the sports jacket I always wear when I go out halfway. I went into the bathroom, put some cold water over my face. My jacket’s got these gross stains from I-don’t-want-to-know-what, so now I have to wash it.

There are...there are bits and pieces coming back to me...A lot of loud noise, standing over someone drooling on the floor, something warm running through my fingers...It’s a pretty vivid sort of dream.

But don’t worry, the rest of the day only got worse. 

I staggered into the kitchen to find a small black box waiting for me on the table. A note from dad lay beside it, informing me that “coming and going at such early hours is unacceptable” and that “it’s time for you to deal with it”. 

So I lifted up the lid, and I found this little leather-bound book. The same one that I’d always seen clutched in mangled hands for three long months, when it wasn’t being defaced by nearly illegible scribbling.

My grandfather’s journal.

I can’t deal with this, I’m not dealing with this, it’s fine, I’m fine, I don’t need to keep thinking of him I see him every night in my dreams when I sleep I don’t want to sleep anymore FUCkcKC HTIS

That voice at the back of my head is telling me that I need to go out and I’m done fighting it I need to get away from here

Aftermath

My shoulder is fucking killing me. It’s bad enough that I can barely stay in my bed, but now I’m sleeping wrong when I don’t get up? 

Totally fucking spoiled my morning. Jessica’s party was great, too; she had these amazing drinks there, I forget what they’re called or what was in them, but I seriously underestimated how potent they’d be. I lost a whole fucking hour there between the third and the fourth round. 

As for feelings, doctor, I’m really not doing so great with those. I swear dad’s drinking more than me, because he got mad at me for staying out too late. I got home at 12, dad, lay off. That’s a fucking generous time, too, since I guessed that I’d probably here it from you if I stayed out any later. He’s screeching about 2 am, when the stove clock said 12:14 when I got in. 

I don’t really remember it well, alright? I was fucking tired, I don’t even remember crawling under the covers. But I woke up in my underwear, so I clearly went to sleep. 

You can stop lecturing me about what granddad would fucking want, dad, that’s not doing fuck-all. You’re making such a big fucking deal out of his death when he never fucking paid attention to me until three fucking months before he died, okay!? I was never the favourite grandkid, please fucking deal with that! I’m fucking managing, so why can’t you?

Well, would you look at the time. My brain’s telling me it’s time to get away from this bullshit for the rest of the evening. Think I’ll pay attention.

Not A Dream Journal

Oh my fucking god Rosenthal, I think you might need to prescribe me some Benadryl, because your fucking hippocratic bullshit is giving me allergic fits!

The whole fucking premise of making this stupid blog was, and I’m going to fucking quote you on this, “...to create a safe space where you can air your thoughts and express your feelings”. Could you please fucking tell me what part of “safe” includes bringing things up in therapy that I’ve fucking written here?

Let me fucking sum up my sleep-walking dreams for you:

I’m at the hospital again, waiting for dad to arrive so granddad can go to his appointment two floors down. Everything smells like death, even through the surgical mask. He’s lying there in the bed, literally wasting away. I’m sitting beside the bed, trying to read, when he grabs me. The chemo destroyed his fucking skin; it’s shedding and coming off in flakes. There’s barely any colour in it anymore. The covers fell back a bit when he reaches over, and I can see the fucking tumors, little angry lumps of rot pushing at the skin. They broke through his bones once it spread inside them. So here’s this dying, misshapen, literally shattered old man who used to be my granddad clutching my arm, but it hurts. He’s strong again, like he used to be, somehow. His fingertips are digging into my arm, and his face is twitching and a steady trickle of drool and blood is leaking from his mouth, but those yellowed eyes are fucking locked on me. 

And the only difference between the dream and what actually happened is that in my dreams, he doesn’t then let out a shuddering gasp and collapse, letting me break free and run into the hallway. I have to sit there, frozen, until I wake up to find myself somewhere in the fucking house doing something stupid.

Ask me about my dreams again, read my blog again, and I’m going to cancel our fucking sessions.