Proud

Right okay so I have like 18 more imagines to write but I had to take a break as everything I've written lately has been lovey. Like, before hand my 3 fanfictions weren't really. The first one Dan had cancer, the second the main character was an alcoholic and in the last one...well, the last one was completely romantic and lovey dovey but still, the main female died in the end. But my mind went into blergh and I felt like if I kept trying to force myself to write love stuff, I would vomit rainbows. So I wrote this. And I am proud of it, despite the ending being rushed and jokey. I did that to make it a bit less serious and a bit more light hearted. I like it though

You’re walking back and forth, pacing the length of the living room, the activities of that night still raw in your head. You stop by the window and stare out, your eyes glassy with tears as you spot the Starbucks just down the street where you first met. You would never be able to set foot in that place ever again. You turn around and spot your reflection in the mirror opposite, your face looking drawn and extremely pale. You step closer to the mirror, your eyes are bloodshot and heavy bags fall beneath them. You haven’t slept a second since the moment it happened. You keep walking towards the mirror, staring at your reflection, wishing to go back to a time where you were happy, preferably a time when he was in your life. You punch the mirror; the glass shattering into thousands of pieces and falling to the floor. You stare at your clenched fist which is now covered in your own blood, jagged shards of glass sticking out from your bent fingers. Serves you right, really. You turn around, looking for something to hold to your hand, to stop the flow of blood, and you spot his hoody – his university hoody – and rush over to the sofa, grabbing it and holding it against your hand. You are surprised at how painful it is and you wonder why you aren’t crying out in agony. But then again, you’ve spent most of the past month or so crying tears of pain, tears of heartache and torture, that you don’t expect there to be much left. ‘How am I still alive?’ You question yourself. You haven’t eaten since the night in question; stuck to drinking water and coffee. But the coffee sends you mad, makes you do silly things, sends your brain into over drive. You haven’t spoken to anyone since the night; the front door remains locked and the phone is out of its sockets. Your mobile – and his – are both off, buried at the bottom of his wardrobe. You look down at the material in your hand, his now blood sodden hoody making you queasy and you throw up there and then, down your top and on the floor. You sigh, leaving the room and heading into the bedroom which remains dark; the curtains drawn and the lights off. You fumble around in the dark, grabbing a random shirt from the floor and changing, chucking the one you had been wearing into the bin. You head back out into the living room, your eyes glancing over the closed kitchen door. You hate going in there. That’s where it happened. But you know that it won’t be long until you have to get another drink. “Why bother? Why don’t you just quit. Quit drinking as well as eating. Then you’ll be with him” You murmur to yourself as you start pacing the room again, nothing else really to do. You see his face wherever you turn, his face of innocence and eyes full of lust. You see his beautiful features right before it happened; right before you wacked him over the head with a frying pan, killing him instantly.