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Monsters in My Head

"That shit you're doing is going to kill you."

She could still hear his voice in her head. That perfect raspy tenor that made butterflies form in her stomach every time that old memory crept in. She could hear the harsh words that he had shouted at her, more out of worry than anger. It was the same words every single time she thought about him, the last words he had ever spoken to her.

"That shit you're doing is going to kill you."

Drowning. That was the word that described the ache in her chest the best. Every time that she inhaled, she swore that she choked herself on the salty brine of the Atlantic. Her vision swam the more that she blinked, and she prayed for sleep to come. Of course, closing her eyes meant seeing that look on his face replay in her head on a loop, but surely that had to be better than the constant suffering of being awake. Anything had to be better than knowing that she alone had ruined them both.

"Stop thinking," the blonde commanded herself, closing her eyes as she laid back in her bed that was comprised more of pillows than mattress at this point. She attempted to convince herself that she was fine, that she didn't care about losing Drew, but couldn't even convincingly lie to herself anymore. It was upsetting for several reasons, but what hurt most was her pride. She had been the best Stepford smiler in the city before she had gone and let this stupid writer under her skin. She could have lied to anyone, and she lied so often that she believed her own fibs. He had ruined that. He had ruined her.

'Alright, now you're just being dramatic,' she scolded herself. In truth, she was probably the one to blame for the melting of her ice queen exterior. She had let him in, the first person in years to really get to know her, all of her. Drew wasn't interested in the side of herself that she showed to everyone else. The charming, promiscuous, and incredibly confident version of herself that she presented to the outside world was the last thing that he wanted from her. Girls like Allie Morgan had secrets, and he wanted them all. He wanted the gritty and the shameful parts of her, the part that she hid deep down and even from herself. In time, she gave them to him, and as more time passed, she hated him for pulling it all out of her. Eventually, he had learned to hate her too.

Several minutes full of self-loathing and restless adjustments later, she gave up on the idea of catching any sleep that night. She knew what she needed. It was the same thing that she always needed around this time, and it was waiting just a few steps away. Allie pulled herself slowly out of bed, rubbing her tired eyes and stretching as she padded her way to the bathroom. Third drawer on the left, buried deep at the back was a small leather bag that had gone unnoticed thus far by her mother's eagle eyes. She grabbed it and began her slow ascent to the only place in this house that gave her any solace. It felt strange, being back in the home that she grew up in, but she hadn't had anywhere else to go after everything that happened. Her parents seemed pleased to have her back and that was important to her, even if she didn't completely return their sentiment. The door to her father's office was open as she passed, and she peeked inside to see him asleep on his desk, slumped over onto the keyboard of his laptop with a glass of bourbon still gripped in his left hand.

Part of her just wanted to leave him there and let her mother deal with it in the morning, but the part that was grateful to him for allowing her to return home wouldn't let her just walk away. Allie let out a heavy sigh as she gently woke her father, beckoning him to rise and move to his bedroom. It took a bit of persuading, but eventually he toddled off to the Master suite and Allie continued her ascent to the roof of her home with a heavier heart whilst one incredibly important conversation played in her mind. The memory grew stronger with every step and by the time she was stepping out of the door onto the widow's walk, she could feel herself beginning to cry.

"Where'd you get that scar?" he'd wondered, toying with the ends of her curly blonde locks.

"Which one?" she'd inquired, gazing up at him through her eyelashes.

He'd pointed at a faint pink line that ran across her clavicle, and she'd smiled sadly at the memory. "Car crash. I was seven. My mom was driving."

He'd given her hand a gentle squeeze, quickly attempting to redirect the conversation to happier subjects. "And those big green eyes? Where'd you get those?"

She'd smiled again, this one a little more genuine. "My mother."

"And those curls?"

"My mother."

"And the sad smile?"

"My mother."

"And the fear of commitment?" he'd teased lightly, joking about her inability to say she loved him back.

The blonde girl had sat up with a huff, throwing Drew's ratty green comforter off of her. The blanket was suddenly suffocating, constricting, keeping her trapped in this emotional torment that seemed to always come every time that she let him get too close.

"I'm just gonna go," she told the curly haired man who was still laid in bed. He had learned his lesson about pulling her back in too quickly. The more he chased her, the faster she ran.

Drew propped himself up on his elbow, staring at her. In a quiet but calm voice. "I wish that you wouldn't."

She rolled her eyes, pulling on her shirt and choosing not to dignify his plea with a response.

"Allie, come on," he whispered, coming behind her and lightly kissing her neck. He lightly tugged at her shoulder and after a brief moment of hesitation, she relented and cuddled back into his side.

"And that quick temper?" He asked, teasing her. "Where'd you get that?"

Her eyes quickly jumped to a scar on her skin that the young girl was thankful her companion had not asked about. She wrenches her eyes away from the thin pink line as she attempts to relax in his arms again. Allie's eyes had been dark and her voice was hollow as she replied as simply as she could.

"My father."

It took everything that she had in her to push the thoughts of that night out of her mind. She just had to focus long enough to get a needle into her arm. She had never struggled with that before, yet tonight the task felt more daunting than usual. The process was simple enough. The drugs, the spoon, the flame, the needle, the tourniquet. However, tonight, it was as if he was watching her with that obnoxious judgmental look in his perfect blue eyes. Her hands were shaking as the needle pierced her skin, and the tears were coming faster now.

Memories of happier times hit her like tidal waves as she let the high take her. Drew, in her dorm room, watching her study. Drew, at the bar with her, as she swindled man after man out of his hard earned cash at the pool table. Drew, in his car, the first time...

No. Not that one. Never that one. Her mind quieted as the heroin coursed through her body, and she laid back against the rough tile of the rooftop, closing her eyes. Some would call it a waste of a high, but it was the only way she slept lately. The black tar was a sticky, tricky temptress, but she was the only one that could quiet the monsters in Allie's head.  

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