I don't really care if someone reads this or not. I'm gonna write because...that's who I am.
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I don’t want to breathe. Ever. I tried doing that; my tired lungs collapsing, screaming for air. A groan painfully made its way out of my throat. Nails. No, it felt like razorblades.
Oh god, why am I thinking like this?
My head loudly made contact with the poorly painted walls of this hell I’m living in. Again…and again. I’ve grown accustomed with it. It helped me think straight, or maybe forget the horrible sickness that was once again stirring. Pitiful. I could have looked like I’m dying—actually no, more like dead already.
Shut up.
I was looking at the blurred mess of my bed. Either I’m not wearing my glasses or I’ve just hit my head so bad but it didn’t mattered to me anymore. What mattered was to fucking get out of my bed as soon as possible. Or maybe a whiff of cigarettes. That’ll calm me. Closing my eyes, I imagined the ghostly feel of smoke strangling my poor throat.
Don’t breathe.
I sat up again long enough to hit my head against the wall.
Go to hell…heh, this is hell.
I swallowed a lump in my throat, tasting the bitterness of it. Gross. I need to puke the pills I’ve taken. Medication sucks. I feel more fucked up with it.
Actually, I didn’t quite remember how I got pass through my dorm mates without puking right at their pristine uniform. I just felt the cold touch of the tiled room against my back.
Finally.
But I still want a smoke.
