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Jul. 19th, 2006 12:20 pmIt's been a month by the bar's calendar. Maybe, he thinks, it's time to think about doing more than watching the hours crawl by: it's a tough fucking call. It isn't like there's a hell of a lot to do, really. He can't go anywhere, thanks to the damn door, and even if he could, he can hardly move. It's taking a lot longer to heal this time around and he knows he'd be dead if it wasn't for Elaine but shit, he doesn't feel like himself. He doesn't feel strong or flexible or able to endure just about anything. He doesn't feel healthy or intelligent or amused or amusing.
What he does feel is dead. He feels dead with this weight inside him that he's dragging around and it's so fucking heavy and he's never felt anything like it before and that weight, well, it's something he has to do constant battle with. He fights it every waking minute, because... well, it's that piece of him he denies, the one that says time to give up. She's never coming back. They never come back, not till it's too fucking late.
Sometimes that voice almost wins, but then he looks up at those stars Beth painted on the ceiling and another voice comes in, sometimes weaker and sometimes stronger. Fuck you. Don't you dare waste time feeling sorry for your sorry self: get off your ass and do things. Do something. Do anything.
He's good at being stuck in one place, but he's never been comfortable with it. He can't help thinking if Beth was here, I wouldn't even think twice about it. Whether or not it's an honest thought really doesn't matter a hell of a lot right now; it's his thought and he embraces it, just like he'd embrace her if she walked back through the door.
She will. She has to.
But... what if she doesn't? What if she can't? What if their almost two years here was their allotted time and now it's over, it's history, it's a thing of the past? No Beth, no Junior. No one borrowing his Venusian vanilla shirts; no one sharing martinis or target practice or walks around the lake.
No way to move on, because there's no finality to it. He knew Julia was dead. She died in his arms and without that proof, he could have just kept drifting alone forever. Watching her die once sucked; watching it happen three times was just a slap in the face.
But Beth... she's just gone, vanished, disappeared, and he knows himself. He knows himself real fucking well: every sound, every door is a possibility he'll see her again and as long as that possibility exists, he won't -- can't -- give up. And it won't just be a matter of days or weeks until he finally resigns himself to her absence: it will be years.
Years.
Years of being some shell, some ghost.
Too bad he knows himself so fucking well.
What he does feel is dead. He feels dead with this weight inside him that he's dragging around and it's so fucking heavy and he's never felt anything like it before and that weight, well, it's something he has to do constant battle with. He fights it every waking minute, because... well, it's that piece of him he denies, the one that says time to give up. She's never coming back. They never come back, not till it's too fucking late.
Sometimes that voice almost wins, but then he looks up at those stars Beth painted on the ceiling and another voice comes in, sometimes weaker and sometimes stronger. Fuck you. Don't you dare waste time feeling sorry for your sorry self: get off your ass and do things. Do something. Do anything.
He's good at being stuck in one place, but he's never been comfortable with it. He can't help thinking if Beth was here, I wouldn't even think twice about it. Whether or not it's an honest thought really doesn't matter a hell of a lot right now; it's his thought and he embraces it, just like he'd embrace her if she walked back through the door.
She will. She has to.
But... what if she doesn't? What if she can't? What if their almost two years here was their allotted time and now it's over, it's history, it's a thing of the past? No Beth, no Junior. No one borrowing his Venusian vanilla shirts; no one sharing martinis or target practice or walks around the lake.
No way to move on, because there's no finality to it. He knew Julia was dead. She died in his arms and without that proof, he could have just kept drifting alone forever. Watching her die once sucked; watching it happen three times was just a slap in the face.
But Beth... she's just gone, vanished, disappeared, and he knows himself. He knows himself real fucking well: every sound, every door is a possibility he'll see her again and as long as that possibility exists, he won't -- can't -- give up. And it won't just be a matter of days or weeks until he finally resigns himself to her absence: it will be years.
Years.
Years of being some shell, some ghost.
Too bad he knows himself so fucking well.
