Page 8 of Eternal

AZRA

“Forever” by Labrinth

Past

L et it all out . All. Out.

A vodka bottle thuds onto the mattress beside me as I stare out the tiny window, watching the world still turning behind the glass.

While I’m inside, not thinking at all, wanting to die…

I’ll probably try again. Last time, I used pills I got from one of the dealers who sells them to kids in high school.

He said they were strong enough to kill, he probably didn’t know they were for me, that I hoped it would actually work and kill me.

But instead of dying quietly, I woke up crying silently, him on top of me, burning me with his cigarette.

“You can’t die right now,” he said. “Wake up. I need more fun.”

I wish I could. Die right now.

I really miss the stars.

I never stopped drawing them on the ceiling, with a pen. They’re not really visible from afar, but it was like him and Brittany knew they were there, they just didn’t want to take them away.

They wanted me to remember that I was only allowed to see them like this and dream.

Twisted sadism, hatred, control. I don’t really know. But they let me have this.

So I keep drawing them there and try to focus on them when I can’t think straight.

I prayed for God to help, I begged, cried, sobbed and on my way home after school the next day I saw a small iris on the street growing up among other flowers. I saw it and I cried more because I thought it would end.

Like God had replied.

Like it was a sign that things would change. But then, that day, he said he’s coming tonight.

With friends.

Maybe they won’t talk to me.

Maybe they will, maybe they’ll laugh and ask if I’m ready. Maybe they’ll press the pills into my palm, pour the poison into my mouth, until nothing makes sense again. Until I forget I’m sixteen. Until I forget I’m even human.

I never knew you could be this tired at sixteen.

Not just tired, empty.

Like there’s nothing left but skin and the sound of my own breathing.

It used to confuse me, the way my mom would drink until her body stopped moving, until she forgot her name. I understand now. I’m drinking for the same reason.

Because remembering hurts more.

I put on the thing he left on the bed for me, short, cheap fabric, tight where it shouldn’t be. It smells like sweat and old cigarettes, my fingers tremble, but I do it. I need to do it, because I have nothing left to fight for, nothing left to wish for.

Brittany walks in, eyes glassy, she looks me up and down, nodding, like she’s checking inventory. “You know he likes it that way,” she mutters, then adds, “Wait for him downstairs when you’re ready.”

What if I’m never ready? What if I never was ready to begin with?

My stomach drops, I try to speak, I want to tell her I don’t want to go. That I remember what’s downstairs, the small, stained bed, the dirt, the smell, the fucking silence.

I want to scream. I want to cry until someone finally sees me. Until I choke on every wound I swallowed just to stay alive, but nothing comes out, only silence. Because fear built a home in my throat, and I think… I think I forgot how to be heard.

When I get there, the lights are already dim. I hear their voices before I see them.

Laughter. Bottles. Footsteps .

He smiles when he sees me, wide, disgusting, and pushes me onto the bed like I’m nothing. My hands are tied before I even think to resist, the cuffs bite into my wrists, the mattress is cold and sticky.

I cry, quietly.

Not the kind of crying that begs for help, the kind that already knows it won’t come.

I think of Alexei, the way he was before he vanished. I think of how he used to tuck me in, how my little brother smiled with missing teeth and sticky fingers. I think about how far I’ve fallen from that little girl.

And then everything blurs, because he makes me take the meth.

The moment it hits, I know why they use it.

It steals the fight from you, it makes you quiet while they use you.

Makes you forget that you were ever something more. And that’s what I am now.

Something less, something ruined.

And then I close my eyes, hoping they won’t ever open again.