'There are sad stories everywhere' - title taken from NewS' 'Say Hello'.
Warning - this fiction contains strong language, slash scenes, and some issues that some may find offensive or distressing.
It is done in P.O.V's - Dougie and Harry's.
I don't own McFly and shizz.
And Soph is the author. I'm Soph. xD
This is wrong.
I know it's wrong. I know all too well of how wrong this actually is. I know how wrong it is... but the fact it's so wrong gives it something to be desired.
I give myself 5 seconds before leaning right over the side. Groaning. Gasping.
This is not a sex scene. This is a horror movie. This is the insides of my stomach emptying into what should be used for urinal disposure. If this were a sex scene, there would be no wrongness - only pleasurable screaming, insincere fucking, woman's underwear and white lies of love. It wouldn't need something to be desired for what would be desired would be right there.
I get a weird thrill out of this. OK, so I'm crouched on the bathroom floor, sweating, shaking, shivering. I feel dead. Outwardly, inwardly empty. The pain is something I cannot put into words for the words I own are not so eloquently grotesque as to describe the way I feel right now. I don't even want to put it into words for that will merely intensify the feeling that this is real.
This is real.
So real it scares me.
But something of it is giving me a pleasure. Pleasure very different to sex, very different to what I would usually enjoy. But I like this. I like the control, I like the secrecy, holding something to myself. But my life is a secret. I am not Dougie Poynter, the weird one in McFly. It's an act. I should win an Oscar for my acting abilities.
My face is damp. It is now I realise that I have been crying. I'm such a great actor I no longer know when I am crying or not. The tears have been rolling down my cheeks as the contents of my body have been throwing themselves out of my mouth.
Another lie. I've woven myself a web of lies, each one more developed than the other. Explaining my absences. Lies, for I cannot tell the truth anymore. Lies, like those I have been told my whole life. Lies, like I knew those lies always were.
Lies, just like everything I seem to be saying.
If I had been a stronger person, this might have been avoided. But alas, I am nothing but a failure, and that shocks me right to the core. Truth.
The truth hurts.
A door closes. Shit. I pull myself up and flush after throwing up the last fragment of... whatever it is coming out of me, spraying the air-freshener a few thousand times to cover up the evidence, and then go and lie on my bed flicking the TV on. 'Ghost In The Shell' is just starting as Harry walks in.
He comes and sits on the bed too, watching me watching the DVD.
"...you don't look so good."
"Gee. Thanks." I laugh shakily.
"You know what I mean. You been sick?"
"No. I've been doing nothing all day."
He nods, sliding a hand around my shoulder. I think he knows. I think he can see behind the lies, that there is actually no grain in truth behind what I say. But even if he does know, he says nothing; just ruffles my hair like I'm a small yappy dog as I lean my head into his.
I don't want to lie to him anymore. I don't want to whatsoever. But I don't have a choice. It's either lie or let him know that underneath the exterior, I'm a car-crash waiting to happen. Just another bad TV movie, like the ones where the kids get a disease or something but end up being stars in the basketball team anyway. real life... it isn't a movie. It's not a TV series. It's not a video game. I wish I had a rewind button, a channel-changing button, a reset button. Life doesn't have a song in the background, though if it did, mine would be something like +44's 'No, It Isn't';
"Curse my enemies forever,
let's slit our wrists and burn down something beautiful,
this desperation leaves me overjoyed
with fading lights that lead us past the lives that we destroy..."
That song could be written for me. I am my own enemy. My own life had the potential to be something beautiful though I am far from. I'm desperate... desperate for an escape. And I am destroying my own life.
For I am the wrecking ball that drives into the building nearing collapsing. For I am the natural disaster, wiping out cities and filling the streets with the corpses. For I am the poet who experiences their breakdown in a lonely studio flat.
'Dear Harry, I'm going to ruin my life and drag you down with me, baby.'