My boyfriend won’t stop killing himself with these things. Pills, powder, liquid, gas. Any form will do for him. Anything to get away from himself. I ask him “why?” one night, as he downs another shot. “Why not? The world is fucked so what’s left then to be fucked along with it?” He slurred.
I never understood it, but I couldn’t leave. We were living together, and without me to clean up the mess, he would have been worse. That’s what I would tell myself at least. Truth is, I couldn’t afford a place on my own, and he brought in support from doing god knows what. I never asked. I never wanted to know.
He would come home high at 3am and snuggle beside me. He would press his chapped lips against me, layered in the smell of smoke and alcohol. Before becoming unconscious he would always drop a roll of cash by my side. I would eventually fall back asleep once I adjusted to the new atmosphere. The next day I would go and buy food and pay the bills. It was about two years of this, until his body gave up. I could remember the day I found him. Sprawled out on the living room floor. It took me about 5 hours to realize he wasn’t just sleeping off a bender.
I managed to move on, but a year later, on my seventeenth birthday I saw how it had changed me. All the children my age were still enjoying their youth, living and growing at the average speed. Breaking up with their boyfriends or going on first dates with the cute guy from class. I couldn’t do it anymore…I had grown up too fast, and lived far past my age. I didn’t want meaningless bullshit and fun, random teenage excitement. I already felt the need to be established and settled down. I was so young and innocent until that moment. That moment in the living room when I realized that youth is a precious thing and it had blown past me like Damien’s final breaths in this disastrous world.
In Response To: Weekly Writing Challenge: Golden Years