In Your Wildest Dreams

Tiffany never had any luck. She was the good girl that always ended up with the wrong boy. After her last relationship comes to a messy end, she's given up not only on love but also life. However, chance brings her to someone who is about to change her mind on everything...and bring her wildest dreams to life.


3. Chapter 2

I wandered around my apartment aimlessly; it felt like hours but was really only a few minutes.  I knew in times like these that people are supposed to turn to friends and family, but all of mine were back home in Minnesota...not here in Indiana.  I took a glance at my cell phone for the time...9:30 pm.  So it was 8:30 pm back home; maybe my parents were still awake.  It was worth a shot, if nothing more than to hear a familiar voice.  I dialed the number I knew so well and my mom picked up after the third ring.  Her hello alone moved me to tears and it didn't take more than a few seconds for her to know something was wrong.  I tried desperately to pretend that things were okay; I didn't want to upset or worry her at this late hour.  But I just couldn't hold it in.  The pain was eating away at me and the flood started all over again.  I spent the next 20 minutes sobbing to my mom and walking her through every detail of the last few hours of my life.  She was quiet and let me rant on, which was really what I needed.  Just crying about it was somewhat cathartic, though the pain wasn't subsiding at all.  When I finished, I paused and took a few deep breaths.  "What do I do now, mom?  I can't live like this.  It hurts so much," I whimpered.  There was a long silence on the other end of the phone and I thought maybe we'd been disconnected somehow.  "Mom?"  I heard a sharp intake of air and then a deep sigh.  I waited impatiently for some sort of response.  When it came, I wished she wouldn't have said anything at all.  "I'm sorry honey.  I am.  But, Tiff, we knew this was going to happen sooner or later.  You knew things were falling apart."  I opened my mouth to reply, but no words came out.  What was I supposed to say to that?  True that Mark and I had been struggling these past few months.  Also true that my parents were never sure the relationship was going to last.  But now, in my time of need, all I got was an 'I told you so'?  I shut down.  I needed comfort, solace, some sort of reprieve from the pain pounding away at me, even if it was 1,000 miles away.  But I wasn't going to get that.  At least not from her, not now.  I set the phone down and collected myself.  I needed to end this conversation and fast before I lost my composure all together.  With the small semblance of sanity I still had, I maintained the conversation with my mom briefly and then hung up.  There was no one else.  I had no one else.  My best friend was deployed in Germany.  My mom had no empathy. And I knew no one here, except him.  I retreated to my kitchen and hunted down the one friend I knew would always be there for me.  The metal glinted out of the drawer as soon as I slid it open and part of me felt relief. I knew it was wrong, but it was all I had left.  And it would help.  It would give me comfort; it would allow me to grieve.  And anything that would numb this searing pain inside me, that would fill (albeit temporarily) the huge hole in my chest, was more than welcome.  A few quick strokes across my arm and I dropped the knife in the sink.  I watched as blood began pooling on my skin and waited for the relief that always ensued.  But this time, I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing. Of course, not the kind of nothing I wanted to feel.  The pain still lingered, even more palpable than before.  Damn it!  I had nothing, no one else to turn to and nowhere else to go.

I spent the next two hours in a haze, desperately grasping at anything that would divert my attention.  I cleaned my entire apartment; I tried reading; I tried watching TV.  Nothing helped.  Instead, I found myself curled on my living room floor with everything that reminded me of him: the photo album I made of us, letters he'd written me, jewelry and gifts he'd given me.  Our whole life together was sprawled out in front of me on the floor.  In my hand was my bottle of amitryptaline, a medication for my insomnia.  I knew I would need it more than ever tonight; maybe even two pills to help staunch this never ending pain.  Laying in my despair, I couldn't figure out how this happened.  Sure, we'd had a rough 2 years.  Understandably since we'd lived 1,500 miles apart: me in school back home in Minnesota and he in school here, in Indiana.  But we had loved each other and that had always been enough.  And when I'd graduated, there was no question about what I was doing next with my life.  Moving to Indiana was a given so we could finally be in the same state; Hell, even the same city!  And it'd been difficult, adjusting to a life where we could see each other whenever we wanted instead of planning visits every 2-3 months.  But it'd also been amazing.  As always, love had carried us through.  So why not now?  How could this happen?!  I was a good girl.  I got good grades.  I never touched alcohol, drugs, or cigarettes a day in my life.  I was never in trouble.  In fact, my parents had always begged me to go out and do something, anything, because I never left home.  I followed all the rules and had big plans and dreams for my life.  And I'd moved here for him, even though I really longed for the beach, in hopes that those dreams would come true.  But that wasn't enough.  What I did to deserve all this pain, I didn't know.  With that thought, the pain attacked me and my body doubled over in a new flood of sobs.  I couldn't do this.  I really couldn't.  I couldn't live with this pain, this heartache.  All my plans, all my dreams, were now erased anyway.  So without him, what was I?  Who was I?  I didn't want to be here anymore...I didn't want to be anywhere anymore.  I just simply didn't want to be.  I peeked at my pill'd be painless; I'd die in my sleep.  It didn't take much convincing on my part.  There was really no other option for me at this point, at least not the way I saw it.  I counted out the pills into my hand; 1, 2, 3...14.  That was the whole bottle.  14.  That should be plenty.  Even taking two required at least 12 hours of sleep in order to not feel hungover the next day.  I picked up my phone and glanced at the clock one last time: 11:34 pm.  I suddenly felt the urge to let him know that this was happening, to say goodbye, to let him know how much I loved him, to let him know how much he'd hurt me.  Part of me hoped that this would hurt him in return, at least a little.  I typed my last words and waited for the message to go through. 'Message sent'.  The phone's screen blinked off and I started popping pills into my mouth, one by one, counting as I did.  14; I had reached the last one.  I curled into a ball and began drifting off into what I really hoped was the end.

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