Fixing a broken friendship is proven to be a lot more difficult when your friend is the one who needs fixing.

WARNING: may include swearing and mature topics.


1. •Aaron•


I burry my head deeper into the pillow and let out a shaky breath. My chest hurts with each heavy breath as I try to clam down my racing heart. My eyelids are squeezed tightly, trying to rid the heart wrenching images from my mind. But it's no use, they're as clear as the real thing, perhaps clearer.

I clutch the sheets and pull them tightly around me. I'm chilled to the bone and I can feel the cold slowly seep into my heart. The only warmth I feel is the salty tears that burn watery trails into my cheeks. Sleep beacons me, but I refuse to obey. As my mind begins to fog, the images begin to blur and fade away. But I know better. I know that they will haunt me once more when sleep finally claims me.


I wake up with a start. A pillow is smashed against my chest. My finger nails pierce into the soft material. My mind is whirling as I remind myself over and over that it was just another nightmare. The wave of sadness that always hits creeps up on me and before I know it I'm bombarded with sobs that shake my body. The tears run freely, soaking the pillow that is still held hostage by my death grip.

I force myself to sit up and wipe my cheeks with my sleeve. My room is still dim, which makes sense when I glance at the clock by my bed. Its four in the morning. But I know I won't get any more sleep. My eyes flicker from the alarm clock to a picture frame. Although there is practically no light I'm still able to make out the silhouettes in the photo. I can picture exactly what the photo looks like, I've studied it for so long that I can practically recall every detail.

My eyes sting and I quickly rub them. I reach over and pluck the frame from the table before stuffing it into the first drawer. It's pointless to hide it because that photo is just one of the many image that is imprinted in my brain.

Something in me sparks and my anger ignites. I'm tired. Tired of being afraid to fall asleep, afraid to let my conscience turn dreams into nightmares. Innocent memories into tragic experiences.

I grab a discarded glass of water from my bed side table and whip it against the wall. The sound of shattered glass erupts followed by dripping water.

The moonlight glints off the broken shards of glass. Broken pieces that are almost impossible to put back together. I can try, but the pieces may be so damaged that they won't fit together properly.

I realize how similar I am to the glass.

We're both broken.

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