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A collection of short stories about the chemically altered mind of young people in modern society.

Thể loại: English > Original Rating: T Hoàn thành: Không
Phân đoạn: 2 Độ dài: 1761 từ Đọc: 4409 lần Phản hồi: 0 Yêu thích: 1
Đăng: 12 Mar 2008 Cập nhật: 12 Mar 2008

stranger in my life bởi Sinne
A/N: Okay, this is pretty weird. This was written with "Stranger" by Hilary Duff on repeat. For some reason I'm quite taken with that song. It just screams 'psychopath' at me. All the signs are present. However... uh... this piece of writing has not much to do with the song itself. -__-;;

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02. stranger in my life


Because you are a naïve, useless girl. Because you are unimaginably trusting and too fucking busy minding your social life.

Champagne and speedballs and Black Label and Vicodin. You smile and slink off to the bathroom every fifteen minutes, him always hanging on your arm every step you take. Your eyes blurred with shades of gold and red, you smell the tangy smoke lingering on but not from your lips. You think the cognac burns like fuel in your throat and the cocaine burns like ice in your nose, and you think you have never flown this high in your entire life. You think he shakes his head with a half smile on his lips –

“You are killing yourself, babe.”

Isn’t he?

Have some X, you say. Have some Valium, he says. Come up here, you say. Come down from the high, he says. Sleep it off, before you OD on this golden bathroom floor of this glamorous party. He says all this with a half smile on his lips, and you want to slug him in the face more than ever, except your body feels too heavy and too light at the same time to move.

And then you find yourself in a far too white hospital bed, with tubes sticking out of your arms and a hospital record that says, OD on Ativan. You didn’t know one could OD on Ativan. The doctor says you downed eighty-seven tablets, with half a bottle of vodka. You say it was a suicide attempt because attention is all you need, but in fact you know it was an accident. Wasn’t it?

And then he comes to visit you at the hospital with a perfect bouquet of red roses and the same fucking perfect half smile. As if he is congratulating you, “Honey, you’ve graduated Fuck-Up 101, now as for higher education…”

No fucked up lifestyle can ever be complete without a trip to the hospital after overdosing on a bathroom floor. It’s like the highlight of a prom night. The highlight of a fucking love story. Romeo and Juliet, trying to up each other with the vile liquid they drink, overdosing on poison on the floor of the mausoleum.

And then, news flash, you’re in another bathroom of another glamorous party celebrating the two-hundred and fiftieth re-marriage of money and sex again. And, news flash, he’s there, hanging off your arm again with the everlasting half smile on his face.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

You ask him why he is here, and the answer is the same as always.

“It takes one to know one, sweetheart.”

Lather, rinse, repeat. Then you learn to act your role according to the script. Your character says, you are a naive, useless girl. You are unimaginably trusting and you are too fucking busy minding your social life. Too busy with your friends named Cocaine, Vicodin, Cognac, Vodka, and Ativan.

And then one hung-over morning, the sun bleeding into the house red streaks of dark light, you realize it is actually late afternoon and he is lying dead on the floor of your living room. Dead, like how dead should actually be. The autopsy record says he OD-ed on everything you had the house. Everything. Ten fucking grands of everything. All you’ve got left is a small bottle of Valium, baby blue 5mg pieces of nothingness, a bottle you hid under your pillow as comfort food.

It’s just like Romeo and Juliet, each trying to up the other with the poison they drink.

He won.


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