Page 4 of Loving London

I’m drowning in a sea of suffering. Visions of Cooper’s tattered body hit me with the force of massive rocks, carved out from a mountain of torment. I can feel the weight of it crushing me to the ground. The earth beneath me shakes with anger. It’s taking me with it. I’m going to be buried alive in my own misery, and I deserve it.

It shouldn’t have been him.

Not him.

Never him.

Suddenly, the yelling stops, and I’m enveloped in blackness. My mind is foggy, and I can’t focus on the images of Cooper. I’m losing him.

I can’t…

I’ve already…

Lost.

Him.

Loïc

“I realize that I’m barely more than a pile of wasted matter as it is, but I exist. At least that’s something.”

—Loïc Berkeley

I’ve been living in déjà vu hell for the past week.

I wake. I remember Cooper. I freak out. I’m drugged. I sleep.

And repeat.

In the few lucid moments before said freak-outs occur, I remember everything. All my memories, for good or bad, have returned.

The shitty thing is, most of my memories fucking suck. I’ve had a miserable life. I lose everything that I love. Everything. A constant nightmare reel is playing in my mind—to torment me, I suppose. I’ve been lying in this bed, unable to escape, and forced to relive all my horrific experiences…over and over and over again.

Fleeting visions of London try to break through all the ugly, but I don’t let her. In fact, thinking about her just pisses me off because I know I can never have her. I will lose her, just like everyone else. I’m not going to wait around for that torturous experience to happen. It all ends now.

I was wrong to let Cooper in. I should have known.

But I won’t take London down with me.

It’s been three weeks since I’ve been in contact with London. Who knows? She might have already moved on. It’s for the best if she has.

Another week has passed. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand eighty minutes. Each moment passes by like a gray fog, enveloping me in its nothingness.

And that’s what I feel—absolutely nothing. I’m a hollow waste of space.

I no longer jolt awake from my nightmares to find myself screaming in agony until a nurse rushes in with sedatives to calm my cries. Then again, I’ve been finding it difficult to experience any feelings at all. The medical staff has thrown around terms likedepressionand post-traumatic stress disorder, or PTSD. I’ve been taking more pills daily than is probably healthy, but I can’t find it in me to care about that either.

The truth of it is, I’ve lost all my desire—to live, to feel, to love, to care. It’s just gone. Whether from a high dose of medications or as a result of my circumstances and mental state, I don’t know, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I don’t want to feel, care, or love.Why would I?It causes nothing but heartbreak. I’ve had enough hurt for multiple lifetimes.

I realize that I’m barely more than a pile of wasted matter as it is, but I exist. At least that’s something.

I couldn’t physically sustain any more. I’d crumble. Another blow that causes me emotional pain would end me. It’d be over. I know it. I’ve lost all my fight. Simply existing is enough of a struggle. It’s all I can manage.

Blinking, I escape from my thoughts and focus again on what the doctor sitting beside my bed is saying. All right, so I don’t focus on herwordsper se. I watch as her lips move, noticing the wrinkles beside her mouth shift and bend with each word. She must be at least fifty, maybe even sixty. Her face wears the wrinkles of life well. They’re not deep and weathered, like someone who’s suffered. They’re fine and delicate, like someone who’s lived and aged gracefully. I would bet that she’s had a good life. Her eyes are dark brown, and they shine with happiness. They remind me of another’s eyes, of a beautiful girl I used to love, but I push that thought down deep, where I won’t have to confront it.

What’s her name again?

Dr. W-something. Maybe Wayne? Washington? White?

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