Buried Hope For Better Days

She was just sitting there in the centre of the freezing cold room, naked, staring at the knife she was holding in her trembling hands.

“What the fuck are you doing Lauren?” I asked her. No reply, a shock to nobody. Looking around the rest of the flat it was easy enough to realise that she’d been in this kind of mood all day. Her clothes were strewn about the place in an even more chaotic state than usual. Her suitcase was once again only half-full and neglected in the corner. Pills, scattered across the floor, a lone needle amongst them, unused. Mason clearly wasn’t here, nor had he been; there was no smell of beer or empty bottles anywhere. I told him to check on her today, but I didn’t want to go blaming him for this. He had more important things to sort out. She shouldn’t have needed a fucking a minder. Not then, not ever. Throwing aside my bag I walked over to her, stooped down low and tried to get some eye contact with her, even though I already knew the outcome.

“Lauren, look at me.” Nothing, not a goddamn thing. A sharp gust of wind suddenly ripped through me. Turning around I saw the window was wide open, despite explicit instructions to keep the fucking thing closed. Being a waste of space is one thing, actively hindering me is another. I walked over, slammed the thing shut and turned around to her again.

“Lauren! Look at me, now!” Still nothing. Just staring at her reflection in that obscenely clean knife. “Lauren I swear to fucking god…” Finally, she lifted her head up towards me. She stared at me through those watery eyes of hers, as blood started trickling down her face. Then I realised what she’d done. Her hair was draped over where she cut herself, but it was unmistakeably there. I didn’t move though, I was still waiting for a proper answer from her, even though she clearly believed that showing me how stupid she’d been would be enough. It wasn’t, but I wasn’t in the position to try and get blood from a stone.

“I’m sorry Fisher.” She whispered. She was literally incapable of being on her own. Pathetic, and not worth the hassle.

“Oh come on don’t go and start feeling sorry for yourself, you’re no fucking good at it.” I strode over and snatched the knife out of her hand, tossing it into the kitchen. “You’re not cute, or brave, or interesting acting like this you know? You’re just sad. You’re making me sad.” She put her hands over her face and started crying at that point. She could fester in her own bad choices. I had to make sure that the flat wasn’t at the temperature of an abandoned grave as I kicked all the radiators into life. With every clunk of the heating croaking into life, her cries grew louder. As insufferable as the situation was, it was never nice to see her cry, nor was it something I wanted echoing around me whilst I was sorting out the mess she made.

“Being miserable all the time is a blessing you know.” I said to her, as I came back into the room and kicked her suitcase away. “At least you don’t need to mourn after the good times.”

“Then what’s the point?” she asked. Instinctively I slammed my fist into the wall. Something about that attitude from her, whilst under my roof, whilst under my watch.

“For fucks sake Lauren, get a goddamn grip or fuck off!” Looking over to her I could see that she was looking back at me again. Not crying this time, but cowering. Ideal really, it meant she was paying attention. “I cannot be fucking bothered to deal with this kind of shit okay? You need to make a choice because I’m not going to help you find the answer.”

Silence.

Looking at her I saw there was a small cut on her neck, and a few faint marks on her arms and legs.

I walked over to her again and stood above her. She understood and stood up herself. I entertained the thought of giving her my jacket for the briefest of moments, before grabbing one off the floor and giving it to her. It was one of Masons I’m pretty sure, too large to be either of ours. She put it on in an almost ritualistic fashion, wrapping it around her tightly and inhaling deeply as she did. Then she collapsed on the sofa, seemingly falling to sleep as well. I wanted to wake her up, to get her to help me clean up her mess, but I knew that trying to wrestle her into a state where she can actually help in any way would be more trouble than it was worth. As I started grabbing and tossing her clothes back into my room, I heard her ask me something.

“You never cared about me… did you?” It caused me to stop working for only the briefest of moments.

“No, not really.” I don’t even know why she kept most of this stuff, most of it was either ugly or ruined anyway. She called out to me again.

“We’ve had conversations like this before you know… more than once.”

“Yeah, and remember what you said back then? You said you wouldn’t do it because you didn’t want to hurt the people who care about you.” I turned around to her, again making a point to look her square in her eyes. “Well you don’t have that fucking problem anymore do you?” I could tell my words would stick with her, be a part of her forever. “You want actual advice?” I said to her, picking up the unused needle I was walked back over to her. “Take this, and bury your hope for better things. It’ll choke the life out of you.” I couldn’t see her eyes anymore as she just stared at the needle that was now in her hands. “Oh, and when you do die, I want you to think of me.”