I had a really weird dream about Rich kissing me, and his mouth being all... cold. It was horrible. It was like he was a corpse, I could feel the texture and the damp and the cold... and I woke myself up gagging and gasping for air.
I'm hardly sleeping. I wish he wouldn't bring people back here. I can't help but torture myself. This is why it's easier to just throw myself at him instead. That is so pathetic.
I made him some soup when I was making myself some, buttered bread, set it up all lovely, feeling like his fucking mother or something, and he looked at me like I'd just given him a plate of shit. "Eat, just eat." And he did, a bit. I don't think he can even taste anymore with so much smoke in him.
He's looking so frail. He's going to end up like Christian Bale in The Machinist - I was watching that today, and feeling disturbed by how it was almost close to home.
So, I went out for a walk, nice weather. An old lady told me she liked my hat, and I think it was the first time I've smiled in ages. I called James, sat outside talking, I told him 'I'm so worried about Rich. I can't do this on my own, I'm not his only friend you know, please, you need to help me, I'm drowning here.'
He said what I've known all along. "It's not your responsibility to look after him." But who else is going to do it? He sure as hell isn't going to. James isn't a good influence, anyway - he drinks too much, himself.
I called Rachel - we're going for lunch tomorrow, she said I need to get away from him, have some sort of life outside worrying about him. I know she's right.
And when I went home, he was curled up on the sofa, asleep, mouth slightly open, eyelids fluttering, looking so innocent, vulnerable, fragile. I crouched down beside him, realising how much he looked like himself when he was sleeping. The happy, smiling youth - the pure, innocent boy who used to be so passionate about everything - I look back through photographs - the beach in spain, going snorkeling and kayaking during the day, eating tapas and drinking wine into the evening, laughing - concerts, dancing, singing along until your lungs give out - going to the rugby, facepaint and BBQs on a Saturday afternoon - taking a little road trip into the country, and sending everyone a postcard even though we were only the next town over - christ, he doesn't even want to go to the cinema or for a coffee anymore, there's no LIFE in him.
A hand in my hair, and a soft murmur. "Hey, why are you crying?"
And I should have told him. You. Who are you? What is going on with you? You're killing yourself, and you're making me watch you die. You're killing me, too. Let me the fuck in!
"I'm not crying, it's fine. I'm fine." |
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