Hurt
By JoeyRZ
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Warnings: hurt w/out comfort

This story is not really a fic.  Well, it didn't start out that way, anyways. It was more of a stream of consciousness about stuff in my life right now.  By the time it ended, if became a fic.  With a pairing.  At the end, I’ll say who it is for me, but for now, just read... 

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I sometimes wonder if this is the life intended for me. If this is all I will ever know. This sadness... this feeling of never belonging. This... this... thing that I have inside me. Never wanting to care and at the same time, caring so much it breaks me up inside. I want to damn it all to hell, but I want to hold it safe and fix it like you would a broken vase. Glue all the broken parts together again, knowing that some are forever lost, too small to find and yet so important to the overall piece that it will always have holes and leaks. But I try and try and try, and like a puzzle put it back together...

But it looks so ugly, unlike it was, so different, and no power in this earth could ever restore it like it was before. And it angers me. The anger swells up inside, and grows and takes over and I can’t stop it no matter how much I try. So I lash out, pick it up and throw it against the wall. I stomp on the pieces, yell and cry and when I look down at the damned thing, it’s not a vase anymore. It’s my heart. It’s everything I’ve known and cared for. It’s all I’ve ever loved.

And then come the others, trying to console me. Telling me its going to be alright. But I know better. And maybe they know better too. But they look at me and think that I need to be reassured. But I don’t want it. Not from them, never from them whose lies I can hear so easily through fake smiles and fake tears and fake everything. Everything’s always been fake.

Everything’s always been fake. I know that now. And I cry and scream from the outside in or the inside out; I can never tell which one it is. And I question everything. I question the one thing that’s mine: my memories. I wonder how many things were make believe and pretend and games and wool over my eyes. And I cry... inside... alone. Always alone.

Because make pretend is the only thing I’m now sure I’ve ever known. So I make pretend. And smile and sing, and bounce for joy when something that’s supposed to be good happens, when what I really want is to make it little itty bitty pieces and say ‘fuck it’, ‘I don’t care’, ‘It doesn’t mean anything’.

And I cry, and my soul bleeds and I cry so much... so much.

But then, I dream that I have your arms around me, that you are holding me close, and telling me that even though it’s not going to be alright you love me. And that makes it good again. And I take refuge in your arms and your kisses and your soul and your love for me. And I feel good.

And I wake up, and cry some more, because you’re just a dream. I could never have you. You’re so... so.... so *you*, so great and wonderful and powerful and strong and everything, and I’m nothing...

I love you... and the pieces that turned to dust blow away, never to return... ‘cause you don’t love me.