I sit in a dark corner, the Offspring blaring into my ears on full volume, “Spare Me The Details” stuck on repeat, my face, chest and thighs, all soaked through.
‘A fool in love is a fool indeed’. I repeat the line during the lull in the music before the singing begins, tapping the words upon my tongue to the opening beat before drowning once again. It is quite surprising how much water can come out of your body without passing out. I have been sat here for hours now, the stream has stopped for a single moment as I stare into the ground in the darkness, I don’t even notice my eyes blinking to allow another heavy cascade every minute or so.
Music has always had a song that can relate to how you feel, your situation, have some kind of therapy to help you through. But it is never that easy, if only it were, then I wouldn’t feel this way. This song felt like the right one, even if the words were slightly off, the mind can readjust things to help it be more suitable. Ignoring the part about the girl getting drunk, she didn’t need any alcohol to let him fuck her. I feel so dumb and worthless. I just wasn’t enough for her, right?
As the battery runs dry, I take the ear phones out and let them hang from my shoulders and neck, forced to listen to myself. The less desirable sound to wallow in the darkness with, I sob, gulp down air and sound like I am laughing, silently. A hand presses to my chest and fingers claw at where my heart should be, where the emptiness is instead. That hollowness that I try to dig into; ripping open my shirt and clawing at my chest desperately, like a dog trying to dig up a bone, my nails tear at my flesh, cutting small lines and incisions into the skin. The blood is little relief to the agony that overwhelms my physical being, the numb, sharp throb of a migraine behind my chest.
“Why?” I scream at the top of my breathless lungs, howling into the night.
Nobody is listening, nobody is there. She is gone, she is fucking another man. Any other man but me. I am lost and helpless, a stray dog, unable to find his bone and lacking any reason to exist, sitting down an alley, cold, dirty and dying, slowly. It is odd, to hope that someone might take me in, nurture me and care for me like someone would a stray and desperate animal, but aren’t we all just animals in the end? Is it wrong to hope someone can come and help take away my torment, my agony?