hondajournal

[hondajournal]

I hold so much hate in my heart for myself it's unreal

I can't believe so much went into my healthcare just for me to piss it all away

[hondajournal]

The car ride itself was uneventful- some peppy country singer was playing over the radio, turned down to a whisper as to not interrupt the snoring teenager in the passenger seat.

Near the back of the old van sat Caspian. His excuse to sit so far away had been that he was tired, and wanted to sleep during the four hour drive to Bennington. Thankfully it worked, but even with the granted solitude he still couldn't force his brain into silence, so sleep didn't come.

The pain was starting to get to him. His throat ached, it felt like every muscle in his body was on fire, and the longer he sits ruminating the more he realizes he really does not like country music.

A strange feeling bubbles up in his chest, electric yet empty, and he does his best to squash it down. A not small part of him wishes he had actually died in the hospital. It would've been simpler. A quick goodbye with no messy feelings. Well- at least on his part, but then it's not like he'd be around to see the aftermath.

Now.... who knows.

He absent-mindedly pulls at a loose string sprouting from the cuff of his sweater, ignoring the stinging of his eyes from tears begging to spill over. It was strange, the feeling of giving up felt so calming. The idea of not going anywhere ever again.

A pothole causes the van to lurch, wrenching Caspian from his thoughts. With a defeated sigh he leans back against the headrest and closes his eyes.

#cas

[hondajournal]

Sticky arms and a sticky face. Cleaning clumps of skin from of my nails. Purple knuckles, red hands and bathroom lights. Breathing in and choking on blood, inhaling warm and wet. Puddles of drool and spit on the floor, pacing, slipping. Repeating circle of guilt and the all consuming unidentifiable feeling that craves escalation. Sloughing scabs and misprinted scars, never deep enough for anything more. A machine of anger just beating the shit out of itself. There's some grand fucking metaphor somewhere in all of this but here I am in the thick of it too pathetic and tiny and blind to see it

[hondajournal]

Remember, deep breaths.

Smell. Rotting leaves and salt water scented the air, the familiar flavor of fall.

Touch. Cold, wet gusts of wind that pierced his skin and permeated his bones. While grateful for his thick scarf, he still wished he had grabbed a coat.

Hear. Gulls screech nearby, impatiently pestering the men shelling crab on the docks. One of the workers lobs a rock towards the birds, causing them to startle and fly off in a loud fit.

Taste. The bright taste of iron coats his mouth- without realizing it, he'd bitten down onto the tip of his tongue. Lovely.

He wasn't ready to open his eyes. The rest would have to do.

#cas #writing