My best friend Casey pulls me up from the depths and out of the water, onto mainland. We fall together down to the grass and then fall through it, and then somehow we're no longer in the marsh but in a tiny room at the back of the fancy diner he served in. He's smoking his smokes and I'm waiting for his shift to end. It's a lonely night and it's just us.
We were drinking. We were drunk. His shift was about to end and then we were heading out on the town for some good times together. Philly was amazing with Casey. He made everything feel so alive.
I remember that night the most. We were having a candid discussion about our pasts. What with his broken home and drunk father and my broken home and my drunk stepfather. How he tried his best to get him and his siblings out of that house and how I tried my best to be in denial about my stepfather.
I told him about how I would always feel left out and last in everything in comparison to my siblings. About how Peter tried his best to raise hell in our household and in his arrogance almost got beat to death on many occasions by the old man, and about how John shrunk into a shell of anxiety. I told him a lot of things that I couldn't even tell a therapist.
And then I told him: I wanted to burn out. That I wanted to quickly blow up and away like a comet and disappear. I wanted to crash and never rise up from the wreckage. I wanted to be consumed by flame, so maybe, finally, the chilling ice inside would melt away and I could finally realize what my true purpose is.
He told me I was one stupid bastard. And I was, I really was. But then he comforted me. Told me that I "don't deserve to go out like a bitch." Told me that I "deserved a much more fitting, and boring, death."
And then he he told me: That I wasn't put here for that shit. That I had a purpose already, and that was my family. That I was blessed with three siblings who, despite their faults, were quite kickass. That at least they weren't taken away like his was. To forgive and listen. To not burn out but let the tide roll in and float out with it. To love and to be loved.
I cried, he cried, we both cried, but we were so fucking happy even if we were so fucking miserable.
We were survivors. Maybe other bloggers of my nature can understand that sentiment, or are even survivors themselves. When life throws all it can at you, and then some, and crushes you over and over again, and yet you still get up each and every single time to meet with fate and attempt to give it a run for its money, you are a goddamn survivor and you are a goddamn giant among men.
Maybe some are lonely giants, but they're still heroes.
And then his face melted away and the memory fell away like a stage prop and I was in my bed, sweating profusely. Or maybe I wasn't in my bed, I was in a hospital bed. I was in a hospital, and it was reality.
I lay there and an hour later Boss walks in with an associate and attempts to talk to me. I felt better but I still was in a daze and I began to panic when I noticed the girl he brought along had a cobra tattoo on her upper arm. I think I may have passed out, I don't remember much.
So I'm back in the goddamn hospital. I frankly don't remember much of writing any of the past entries. I don't remember what really happened in those entries either, except for some of the events directly preceding this post, the cobra tattoo being the most prominent memory.
Boss says there's been a major disruption in the world which triggered an attack on me by a particular Fear known as the Dying Man. I'll.. fill out some info on that later, maybe. I'm still a bit confused to what actually happened. All I know is...
all I know is that I'm so grateful the flames are out. Jesus Christ, I don't think I've ever felt any pain that can compare to that.
Fuck.
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