I hear myself scream, in my mind—and in reality.
I want to scratch my eyes out because the images don’t vanish.
I scratch with my fingernails over my skin.
I need to feel pain.
I need to numb whatever is going on in me.
My heart is pumping into my throat as I get up.
I run out of Central Park, stop the first cab, and am at my studio twenty minutes later.
I race into my studio and find it in complete chaos.
I don’t care.
It could burn down, and I wouldn’t care.
I head to my closet and get my equipment.
I need adrenaline.
Steal something.
Feel like me again.
I turn, and then my eyes fall onto the wall next to my bed.
Written in red.
I’m sorry I messed up your place.
Why would she be sorry?
Why would she leave me a note?
Why would she do this to me?
How am I ever going to be with her again?
I am rooted to the spot as I stare at what she wrote.
Unable to move.
Unable to act.
Unable to do what I have always done.
18
REID
PLAYLIST: JOURNEY (READY TO FLY) – NATASHA BLUME
Iunlock the door to my apartment and enter. I am as tired as a person can be, and when I close the door behind me, I lean against it for a moment with my eyes shut.
Too much happened today.
