alright ↠ dylan o'brien

thirty seven.

we grow apart
I watch you on the red horizon
your lions heart will protect you under stormy skies
and I will always be listening for your laughter and your tears
~Scars by James Bay

Lola

        From the moment I stepped into that house again, I knew something was wrong.
It smelled of something burning, maybe food on the stove. The scent of alcohol filled my nostrils so much, I had to block my nose with the top of my shirt. Cans and cigarettes and bottles littered the ground in front of me along with a knocked down coffee table, dresser, and many things scattering out of the kitchen.
        In the kitchen, I heard rummaging. Someone was in there, throwing things around the room and looking for something.
       Ray.
       The second the door shut behind me, Ray stormed out in long strides. I felt my breath catch in my throat at the frightening sight of him. The small amount of hair he had was in tangles above his head. His red eyes were wide with anger and fear and violence. Teeth clenched tightly in a way that made me know this would be my last night here.
        Ray met me with a clenched fist around my neck. I was shoved into the door and lifted off of my feet, clinging onto his hands so that he might let go. I tried to get words out, telling him to stop, please stop, but his grip was too tight. He was squeezing all of the air out of me and refusing to let more in.
        My wide eyes met his and looked into them. Red. Dead.
       What has happened?
       What have you lost?
       He had lost, too. We all had. The emptiness left in him at a late age was there, stuck with him through every moment of the day. How one could look into the eyes of someone and take their life away has ruined my mind for years. How they can sense that pain and that grief and take it all away for their own personal pleasure. We need pain and grief and loss to live. Without them, we are dead souls, just as dead as the ones before us.
       What god has betrayed you?
       What have you lost?
       The white came into my vision, and I was okay with it. The life in me was being swept away just as I met a new horizon. And when I closed my eyes, it all went away.
        I saw Ray there. Was I dead? If Heaven existed, was I there? I didn't think Ray would be there. How could he be? But he was standing over me where he had dropped me, and I was still there, and the overpowering, crushing disappointment that I was still there was enough to send me to panic.
       I gasped through the burning of my lungs, trying to get as much life back into me as I could. My mind was still mixed with the alcohol, and my migraine was so bad that I couldn't hear Ray screaming at me.
       Rage, hate, pain, love.
       What was it?
       He picked me up by my arms and dragged me into the kitchen, my head hitting against one of the walls. The room was in wreckage. Random objects had been thrown around the room: silverware, corks, a coffeemaker, the toaster. The wall right above the stove was punched in, and I saw Ray's bruised and bleeding knuckles when he pulled me up so I was standing up straight in front of the stove.
       He was blurry for a moment, but then there he was again. Cold. Empty.
       "...I DON'T GIVE A SHIT!" Ray's bellowing finally came into my ears, making my head ring. He was holding me up, which was good, because I was about to collapse from my dizziness. Ray went behind me and took my hands around my waist. I had my eyes closed and I didn't know what was happening. I was so confused about everything. Why was it so dim in there? Why did I feel like I was on the verge of death? Everything was white, and then black, and then white again.
       Sammy.
       Mom.
       Dave.
       Francesca.
      Dylan.
      Did you feel this when you died?
     "This if for your own good."
      A burst of pain shot through my hands suddenly, as if a thousand knives were stabbing into them all at once. My eyes shot wide open instantly, but I couldn't hear the screams that left my throat.
      White-hot and electric, the fire etched itself into me, burning and burning my skin away as Ray pressed my hands down hard onto the stove.
      What had been burning?
     My lungs.
     Why do we scream?
     Relief.
     Why do we die?
     Escape.
     I never stopped screaming.
     What is the answer?
     Not even when my throat went raw.
     Love. What a pitiful thing.
     Not even when the room turned dark.