post

Jean practically knew the ceiling fan better than the back of his hand; he’d stare at it after his 5 hour-or-so long naps. Its light switch always bounced off of the metal part, a sound he never seemed to take into account. Melanie’s voice would drown it out. Her sweet, lively voice. Lively; a word no longer compatible with her. He would stare and stare at the fan whilst the ambience went through one ear and out the other. Sometimes he stared at it so much that the spinning motion of the blades morphed into her face on the day when everything fell apart: She was unrecognizable, like something out of a horror game. Jean remembered every last part of it, and he hurled whenever it spilt on his mind, leaving a large stain unable to be removed.

At 12:51 p.m., Jean-Claude went to the bathroom to piss and nothing else. At 12:59 p.m., he went to the kitchen to get a croissant and- despite being drawn to the kitchen knives- nothing else. At 1:05 p.m., Jean admired Melanie’s photo on his bedside table. There would be times that he would chuckle while thinking about all the funny little things she did. And then he’d cry and maybe even scream a little before crawling into his bed until the evening. Sometimes he would hug his pillow, pretending it was her; it was warm and soft and lovely like how she looked in bed in the morning. Jean would often wonder: how could such a beautiful, sweet angel like her be taken from this world? Stolen, even? Ripped to shreds like a pillow at the hands of a vicious dog? Who the hell would commit an action like that? Fucking piece of shit, Jean thought, digging his fingernails into the fabric. Stupid fucking fuckfuckfucksonofabitch - - I’ll kill that asshole.

But what good would it do to wish death upon them? They might as well already be dead; murder is not redeemable. If you finally got out of prison for murder, nobody would even look at you the same way. Or even look at you at all, in fact, maybe they’d be scared of you. Even if you plead to never do such a thing again, to never pick up a weapon again, you’ve already done so in the past, so it’s too late. Killing somebody means killing your own reputation. Couldn’t that be a form of self harm?

Jean let go of the pressure gripping his pillow as he thought. Thoughts: they spiraled down his brain like an endless stairwell. He’s gone down it a few times, but he’s never made it to the floor, probably for his own good. Good! That is good. Melanie wouldn’t want him to do that. Melanie always looked out for him; he should be paying her back a favor!

But you wont‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ You prick

‘Cause hes stupid?

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Stupid and worthless

Get out of that bed‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Get up

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Get up

Shes dead and its all your fault

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Get up‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Gone‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Forever‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Because of you

‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ She always hated you ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ We always hated you‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ Gone

Get up!

Jean’s eyes drifted to the alarm clock: it read 2:07 p.m..

Dont look at that Why are you still in bed

He rolled on his back and observed the ceiling fan. Her bloodied mangled face watched from above the drywall.

All Jean wanted to do was properly bid her adieu. He couldn’t find the strength, in these moments, to do so. It felt almost as if she was mocking him for being so selfish; for not protecting her like she did to him. Like a way of revenge. A way to drag him down with her.

Disgusting selfish prick!

Would it be the best idea‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Do her a favor

And end It.

To give in this time?‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎

To become one with the steel of the knife‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

And pay your debts to her?‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎

Jean-Claude whispered: “Yes.”

But the almost ear-piercing doorbell rang as if to yell, “no!” It had practically drowned out everything else like a factory reset. He rose from his bed almost in the way a vampire awoke in the night and was hesitant to check the front door. On rare occasions would he ever gain a visitor. It usually wouldn’t even be for him, it would be some friends or family members of Melanie. Something he barely even had.

After aimlessly eyeing the hardwood floor of his bedroom he finally crawled out of bed and pushed himself to the living room. The front door had these neat little intricate carvings implanted in it, which was there seemingly before both Jean and Melanie were born. It was nice to look at… sometimes. Sometimes the specific way the carvings formed branch-like shapes would put him on edge. He even remembers being convinced that it was cursed for a while.

Taking a long, deep breath, Jean held the doorknob for a second—almost to contemplate what the hell he’d even say to this visitor—and slowly cracked the door open, peeking out of it like he was expecting the worst. Not the worst, no. But at the moment? Probably.

“Hey Jean. I uh, I wanted to like, check up on ya, y’know. I’m—I’m really sorry that had to, uh, happen.”

Jean stared at the visitor in silence, the blinking of his eyes somehow breaking it without making any sound at all. Carrie Alderman, Jean’s best friend since they practically both started walking, looked him in the eye with genuine concern: Carrie had known his friend had problems this whole time, it was blatantly obvious, but at the moment it was so clear how fucked up he was that it kind of pushed him back once the door opened. The sun reflected onto Carrie’s long blonde hair, contrasting with the darkness that surrounded Jean.

Carrie sighed. “I know you probably don’t want to talk about that right now and that’s completely okay man, I just…“ He took another good look at Jean, noticing how ashy he’s gotten since the tragedy. Jean kept staring, listening to every word but not having the confidence to respond. Carrie put on a sympathetic smile.

“Call me when you get the chance, ‘kay? I’ll see you around.” He took slow steps towards his car parked in front of the house, still facing Jean, slowly turning to face the vehicle. Jean shut his door with relief - - and a hint of guilt for that relief, as well. Isolation felt nice at the time, but realizing the only friends that have decided to stick around this whole time may start to hate you felt even worse. Like a stab to the gut. He probably deserved it, though.

The kitchen knives glimmered in the sunlight peeking through the blinds. Jean-Claude’s heart pounded out of sync with his slow, heavy breathing. He needed to make himself bleed.

Jean seemed to black out while stumbling to the kitchen. Shaking, he pulled out each knife one by one. Not sharp enough. Not sharp enough. Not sharp enough. He cried out with impatience and snagged the one appearing the most sharp - - it was one of those longer knives, but he could not remember the exact name for it. Jean dragged his fingertip across the blade, feeling every single prick and point. It had torn skin, dripping blood onto the tiled floor. There had to be more; he wanted his disgusting blood to cover the entire thing.

He moved the knife up to his arm.

One.

He sliced again.

Two.

He saw his hypodermis.

Three.

Get to the fucking bone already, you pussy!

Four.

He struck a past healed wound.

Five.

It spilled out like a faucet.

Jean placed the blade back on top of the counter, feeling lightheaded. It actually hurt this time. Not just on his arm, but inside. What would Melanie think? How would she react if she walked in on me right now? He looked to the living room. She’s not there, schizo. He held his face in his hands and wiped his tears away, accidentally getting his own blood on his face. He glanced at his wounded arm. This is gross.

It was sort of funny now. It had been about 7 months since he last relapsed; he swore to Melanie that he wouldn’t do it again, and if he felt like it, he’d tell her. Now would he have to call a hotline? Assholes! Corporate assholes! They just wanted your money. He was sure of it. God, he needed a joint.

Jean remembered the first time he got his hands on marijuana. When he was 13, he snuck out to smoke with some friends - - the majority of them being older than 16, because “nobody his age understood him” - - which was pretty easy to do considering how his parents were never around. Addiction ran strong in his family; his dad had been an alcoholic and his mother was always somehow on crack. They both made it very clear Jean was a mistake and how they didn’t want him in the first place. They loved each other at one point, but whenever it was, it wasn’t prominent around their son. No feelings, no nothing. Another memory Jean had was his first encounter with one of his dad’s hookers. Being only 6 or 7 at the time, he didn’t understand who she was. She wasn’t his mother, that’s for sure. And when he questioned it, his dad got upset at him and threatened to kill him if he told his mother.

Jesus Christ. It seemed worse each time he looked back on it. The worst part is- he never had an outlet other than his friend, Carrie. Carrie, oh god, Carrie. Jean sprinted to his phone, which was charging on his bedside table. It was at 12 percent. “Are you fucking kidding me?” He sighed, inching his way back to his kitchen. Apparently the damn chord wasn’t plugged in all the way. Nonetheless, he quickly started a call. Carrie answered in 10 seconds or so.

“Hey.“

“I’m sorry.”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry I’ve been such an asshole lately I’m so sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-“

“Hey, hey, hey, wait. Slow down, man.”

“Don’t hate me. Please. I can’t lose someone else.” Jean was practically crying now… again. He chided at himself in his head for being so emotional.

“…you didn’t do anything, dude. Don’t apologize.”

“You’re mad at me.”

“No no no. No, man, I’m not.”

“You sound upset at me.”

“‘Cause I’m fuckin’ worried, man!” Carrie shouted. “I’m worried. I feel like you’re gonna. I feel like you’re gonna kill yourself any day now, and I’m scared. I don’t want to lose you.”

Jean stayed silent. After a moment of silence, Carrie sighed. “I’m gonna come over again.”

“Don’t.“

“Jean. I’m coming over.” Carrie said in a stern voice that seemed alien coming from him. The silence had been loud as ever, being broken a couple times by Carrie’s noisy car engine. Jean started to speak.

“There’s…“ He trailed off.

“Hm?”

“There’s blood on the kitchen floor.” Jean mumbled, trying to swallow the anguish in his voice. He stood on the tiles shaking, knowing how utterly pathetic he was.

Carrie sighed. It was a sigh that made Jean’s heart stop for a second.

“Look,” The blonde started. “I’m pulling up. Don’t move, don't touch anything, okay?”

“Are you gonna call 911?”

“…do you want me to?”