Chapter Text
"Look for ourselves in others/ Possible friends or lovers/ I'm begging, begging you to send me/ Send me on my way out"
Flowers for all the occasions by Blood Culture
🎂📖
“...On January 11th, authorities discovered the body of thirty-four-year-old James Zare,” the evening newscaster announced.
The world seemed to shatter into a million pieces when Curly heard the words. His heart plummeted, and a sharp, blooming pain pressed against his ribs as though his chest were folding in on itself.
“No… no, that can’t be true…” he whispered, the sound breaking apart in his throat.
He had just gotten back from the U.K. Jimmy had told him to enjoy his time visiting home. “Text me when you're around,” Jimmy had said. Curly had promised. And he had. But Jimmy never replied. Curly had checked his phone all morning, expecting it.
And now this.
The television droned on, indifferent to the way Curly’s world was burning down.
“...neighbors report hearing a loud shot at approximately noon. Several residents exited their apartments to check the hallway. The building has a history of domestic disturbances, and police have been called to the address before…”
Curly’s knees buckled. He collapsed in front of the television, hands sinking into the worn carpet. The heat radiating from the screen washed over him, static prickling at his skin. Jimmy had mentioned the fights in that building more times than Curly could count. It was why Curly begged him to move in with him. Just leave that place, Jimmy. Please. Come stay with me.
But Jimmy always pushed back.
“Curly, I don’t need your fucking handouts,” he’d snap, eyes blazing with a pride that both infuriated and enchanted Curly. Then he’d glare until Curly shrank and apologized. Only then would Jimmy’s expression softened enough to look at him again.
Curly stared at the flickering news broadcast reflecting the empty spot on the couch where Jimmy should have been, smirking at him, calling him an idiot, and telling him to change the channel to something less boring.
“...when police arrived, the landlord and several residents assisted with the search. Officers proceeded to Mr. Zare’s door and knocked. After receiving no response, they became concerned…”
No. That couldn’t be why he didn’t answer. No, please, Jim. Don’t tell me that’s why.
“...He was found in his bedroom, gun in hand…”
The rest of the broadcast dissolved into a low, roaring fuzz. Curly stared at the screen, but the words no longer made sense, blurring into static.
No. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real. He had just talked to Jimmy. Had promised him a drink. All the drinks the next time they caught up.
Curly folded forward as his stomach lurched. Vomit splattered beside his hands. His vision swam, refusing to settle. His breath shuddered.
What went wrong? Why didn’t Jimmy just talk to him?
Their last haul together had gone fine. Or at least Curly thought it had. Sure, they’d fought a few times. And yeah, they probably shouldn’t have let it escalate in front of the new intern. But no matter how heated things got, Curly always opened his arms back up. He always let Jimmy close again.
But none of that mattered now.
Dead.
Dead.
He’s dead.
🎂📖
“Mr. Carling? Can you try to come back to me?” The therapist’s voice was gentle but firm, pulling at the edges of Curly’s drifting awareness. “Can you describe what you’re thinking about right now?”
Curly blinked. The patterned carpet slowly came back into focus. His hands were locked around a stack of papers, crumpling them in a white-knuckled grip.
No wonder she wouldn’t let him hold Jimmy’s diary. She probably knew he’d crush it without meaning to.
He inhaled shakily and forced his fingers to loosen. Come back to earth, Curly. She’s talking to you.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, rubbing his face. “I just… got caught up remembering when I first heard the news.” He breathed in deeply, held it, then slowly let it leak out.
Three days. Three days he’d been sitting in this office, in this same soft chair, staring at these same walls while trying to make sense of a hole that felt too big for his chest.
Three days since Pony Express had pulled him and the crew off duty to grieve. Jimmy really fucked him over this time, leaving them with the kind of damage no one could deliver their way out of.
Rumors around the headquarters said their leave might be forever. The company was covering five days of therapy out of their own pocket, five whole days. After that, well… if they needed more time, more help, or more anything, they were on their own. Company policy.
Curly swallowed hard, feeling the sting in his eyes before he felt the wetness. He blinked it away.
“Do you want to revisit that day?” she asked, her voice steady but soft. She set her clipboard gently on the small table beside her chair and folded her hands, giving him her full attention. She waited, patiently, quietly, the way someone does when they’re willing to sit in the dark with you.
Curly wished he could do that, wait, listen, stay calm. Maybe if he’d been better at that, Jimmy would’ve come to him more. Maybe things would’ve been different.
“No,” he said, shaking his head weakly. “I’m sorry, that’s… that’s alright. I don’t really know what else to say.”
She nodded, not pushing. “Would you like to try to unpack the funeral? If you think you’re ready?”
The funeral.
Right.
Curly swallowed. He didn’t remember it, not clearly. It all felt like he’d watched it through glass underwater. Hazy words. Prayers drifting in and out. Flowers, maybe white, and not enough of them. The dark casket lowering, the dull thud of dirt hitting the lid.
He’d paid for all of it. Every last detail. Jimmy’s mother had handled the choices of where he’d be buried, whether the casket was open or closed, and what suit her son would wear forever. Curly had just agreed to everything. Whatever you want. Whatever he deserves. He’d said he’d cover it all, and he meant it.
A sour burn climbed up his throat, fast and sharp. Acid. Panic. He pressed a hand against his stomach as the room tilted slightly.
Not again. Not here.
He forced himself to breathe deep, slow breaths, counting them out silently, anchoring himself before the spiral could drag him under.
Anya came to the funeral only for Curly. She stayed close enough to catch him if he swayed but far enough not to crowd him. Swansea showed up out of duty, workmanship, loyalty, or whatever thin thread kept their crew intact. And Daisuke… Daisuke was the only one who brought flowers.
Except they weren’t really funeral flowers. Not the usual kind.
“What the hell is that?” Swansea muttered, arms crossed, dark circles carved under his eyes. He gestured at the small potted plant with the annoyance of a man who didn't expect to grieve today.
Daisuke held the pot up carefully. “They’re skeleton flowers,” he said softly. “I told Jimmy about them once when I couldn’t sleep during our long haul.” He glanced down at the delicate white petals. “They turn translucent when they get wet. You can see their veins.” His voice grew smaller. “He said he’d like to see them in person one day.” Daisuke swallowed, lowering the pot again. Sadness bloomed in his eyes. “Was this a stupid idea?”
Swansea sighed. He pinched the bridge of his nose before shaking his head. “No, kid. That was… that was thoughtful.” He placed a heavy hand on Daisuke’s shoulder and tugged him in, steadying him in his own gruff way. “Stand with me. You’re doing great.”
Curly remembered that part clearly, Daisuke stepping in front of him, offering the small pot with trembling hands. Tears slid down the kid’s tan cheeks. It took Curly a long time to move, to lift his arms, and to accept the plant.
One of Daisuke’s tears fell onto a petal. It turned transparent, just like he’d said. Just like Jimmy had never gotten to see.
Curly stood by Jimmy’s grave long after everyone else drifted away. The sky dimmed into navy. The air grew colder. He felt none of it. He just stared at the headstone, as if everything inside him had emptied onto the ground.
Anya found him just before the rain started. She opened her umbrella over both of them and touched his shoulder, pulling him back from whatever void he’d sunk into. She didn’t say anything as she guided him to her car. She just drove him home.
“I stood there for so long,” Curly said, voice barely above a whisper. “I… I almost wanted to break his gravestone.” His fingers worried at the stack of papers in his lap, twisting the edges. “I just…this burst of anger hit me.”
The therapist nodded calmly. “What did you do then? With that rage?”
Curly swallowed. His throat felt thick again. “I held up the flowerpot.” His voice cracked, remembering the weight of the ceramic and the way his hands trembled. “I lifted it over my head. I was going to smash it. Smash it against his stone.”
He exhaled sharply. “But I didn’t. I just… put it down instead.”
The room was quiet for a moment before he continued. “I have a punching bag at home. Sometimes Jimmy used it when he came over.” A bitter, warped half-laugh escaped him. “I hit it until my knuckles were raw. If Anya hadn’t checked on me, I swear they would’ve gotten infected.”
The therapist leaned forward slightly. “Curly… how many pages have you read from his diary?”
His chest tightened. He looked anywhere but at her, at the bookshelf, the lamp, and the muted figure of his reflection in the window. “Um… not a lot. It was… hard to.” He rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed, but also terrified of what was inside those pages.
“That’s alright,” she said softly. “Just so you know, some of the entries were concerning.”
Jimmy’s diary.
He could still feel the moment Swansea handed it over.
He had wanted to help Jimmy’s mother clean out the apartment. He really had. But as soon as he reached his own front door, everything inside him collapsed. His legs folded, his breath snagged, and he curled onto the floor, clutching at his chest like the grief was tearing something open.
He never made it back out.
Swansea had gone instead, unexpectedly dependable. And he was the one who placed Jimmy’s diary into Curly’s hands.
It was the most terrifying thing he could have received. Jimmy had given him scares before late-night messages that sounded darker than they should, long silences, and reckless choices. But this… this was different. This was final in a way Curly wasn’t prepared for.
He wanted to read it. But the moment he picked it up, something inside him recoiled. It became a constant war in his mind.
Just take a peek. NO. Don’t do it. You don’t know if you’re ready. You need answers. You won’t survive the answers.
So he slept with it instead, held it against his chest at night, and absently stroked his thumb down the spine.
When the therapist asked for it on his first day, he gave it up immediately. Maybe too immediately. Maybe he just didn’t want to be the one holding it anymore.
The next day, she surprised him with a neatly bound stack, a full copy she’d made for her clinical review. Jimmy’s handwriting, Jimmy’s words, and Jimmy’s mind turned into something manageable on crisp white paper.
On the original front cover, written in Jimmy’s uneven scrawl, were the words:
Please deliver to Orion.
Curly had stared at that sentence until his eyes stung. He wanted to ask Jimmy what it meant, wanted to shake him, and wanted to understand. But a gravestone couldn’t answer questions, no matter how much Curly begged.
The therapist’s voice pulled him gently back.
“Would you like to discuss what you have read so far?”
“I think… moving forward, I’d like it if you called me by my name instead,” he said. The words left him on a sigh. He was so tired.
“Okay, Grant, we can do that.” She jotted something down.
He winced. “No… uh. My first name. Orion.”
The therapist paused, lowering her clipboard slightly but keeping her pen ready. “Of course, my mistake. But may I ask why? He says people refer to you as Grant.”
“He's right, but,” Curly’s gaze drifted to the carpet again. “I just…I don’t think I deserve the familiarity of Curly right now. Or Grant.” His voice thinned. He couldn’t bring himself to say the real reason, that every time he heard that nickname, he heard Jimmy’s voice saying it.
That he wished it were him saying it.
Maybe he should tell her about the voicemails he’d kept. Dozens of them. Some were only seconds long. Some were slurred when he asked Curly to pick him up from a bar. Some were angry when they were fighting. Some were so gentle they felt like knives in his gut now. He wondered if Jimmy’s mother would eventually give him Jimmy’s phone or if she needed it for her own grief.
God, he just wanted to hear him one more time, hear Jimmy shout his name from across the hallway, or from the kitchen after cooking something again. Just once. Just once. Just one more time—
Curly ducked his head, heat rising in his cheeks. There was going to come a day when he’d have to talk about it. All of it. The crush he’d never told anyone. And that one cursed night they’d slept together and then buried it the next day.
“How about we start with this cover?” she suggested gently. “Jimmy requested the book be given to you. How do you feel about that?”
Confused. Honored. Terrified. Why did Jimmy want him to have it? Did he trust him that much? Or was it something else entirely? Did he just want to hurt him one last time?
“I’m… lost about it,” Curly admitted. He set the stack of copied pages on the small table between them, palms sweaty as he wiped them down his jeans. “I guess if I read deeper into the book, there might be an answer. But… I’m afraid to find out.”
“Afraid to find out what he thinks of you?” she asked softly.
Curly’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, and he nodded.
The therapist adjusted her glasses. “I’d offer to read with you, but as I went further, there were pages with… sexual intimacy that I’m sure would be better read alone.”
For the first time since he’d walked into her office three days ago, Curly actually let out a small laugh, short, startled, and almost foreign in his own mouth. And he didn’t miss the way she immediately wrote that down.
“I feel like I have to apologize on his behalf,” he said with a weak smile. “He can be a lot.” His smile faltered as he thought about it. “Or… he was a lot.”
“How about you tell me how you met?” she suggested. “Then we can compare it to what he wrote later.”
Curly’s eyes widened. “Oh dear God. Did he write something about that?”
She gave him a small, knowing smile. “You haven’t read very far. But if you’re worried, that particular entry… felt positive to me.”
He let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. “Ah. Well. It wasn’t anything special.” His lips tugged upward despite everything. “We just happened to be at the same bar, watching the same football game on the TV.”
He could see it clearly, Jimmy sitting one seat over, muttering to himself about how terrible the players were that night. Curly had been nursing a cheap beer, pretending not to listen… until Jimmy’s commentary got ridiculous enough that he couldn’t help himself.
“I struck up a conversation,” Curly said, shaking his head. “And then he laughed. This… soft, husky laugh. And I felt like the world’s biggest idiot trying to talk to him.”
He rubbed at the reddened tip of his ear. “I, uh… bought him a drink so we could chat more.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, cautious and sheepish, he added, “Those intimate parts… do they have anything to do with me, by the way?”
The therapist raised an eyebrow, unable to hide the gentle teasing in her voice. “Well, you’ll just have to read and find out, won’t you?”
A groan escaped him before he could stop it, hands covering his face. He's going to have to talk about my crush sooner than he thought.
🎂📖
Jimmy’s diary was a mess of ink in every emotion he’d ever felt, all scrawled across pages like he couldn’t hold anything inside. He had so much to say, it seemed. So much he never said out loud.
It hurt Curly to think Jimmy hadn’t trusted him enough to share any of it. But he couldn’t blame him either. They fought. They always fought. Everything Curly said came out wrong. Everything Jimmy meant got twisted. And yet Curly thought, hoped, he’d made it clear that Jimmy could always come to him.
Now here he was, jealous of a flimsy damn notebook. Jealous of pages that held secrets he was never allowed to hear.
What did I do? I never pushed him away. I never would have.
At yesterday’s session, the therapist had given him something to think about, something that burned at him still.
“People think their way of talking is the correct way. You may have seen nothing wrong with your behavior, but he was on the other side. Your helping could have harmed him, just as he could have harmed you.”
The words clung to him annoyingly.
Now Curly sat in the receptionist area, waiting for his next session. His knee bounced rapidly, his mind replaying her voice. There was no way he had said anything wrong.
Right? He wasn’t perfect, but he wasn’t awful. But then again… she had read more of Jimmy’s diary than he had. And this was her job. So what if he was wrong?
His stomach twisted sharply.
He’s not in the wrong. He repeated it like a mantra. He’s not.
“Mr. Carling? Please follow me, and we can get to talking.”
The therapist appeared in the doorway with her gentle half-smile. Curly stood, swallowing hard, and followed her into the room.
As soon as the door closed behind them, the session began.
“Where would you like to take today’s session?” she repeated gently, pen resting against her notebook.
“Um, if I could say something first.” Curly swallowed, feeling the heat climb up the back of his neck. “I just… I don't appreciate you trying to make me feel guilty. I haven't done anything wrong. Just because I don't give Jimmy a pity party all the time doesn't mean I've ever been in the wrong. I don’t like the way you’re talking about me. Like I never tried. Like I didn’t care.”
“I didn’t say you didn’t care.”
“You implied it.” His knee bounced faster. He pressed his palm against it, trying to anchor it down. “You tell me I might’ve ‘harmed’ him. That maybe I should’ve acted differently. But I was there for him. Every damn time.”
She nodded slowly. Not agreeing, just listening. Which somehow irritated him more.
Curly dragged a hand through his hair. “Jimmy got in his head a lot. And I tried, god, I tried to get him out of it. So reading his diary and seeing him… him twisting things between us, it hurts, okay?”
Her pen stilled. “Thank you for saying that. It sounds like you feel misunderstood not only by me but by Jimmy, too.”
“That’s not what I said,” Curly snapped before he could stop himself. His pulse thudded in his throat. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I’m not.” Her voice stayed soft. “I’m trying to understand your experience. You’re telling me it hurts to see what Jimmy wrote. And you’re telling me you feel accused of something you don’t believe you did. That sounds like feeling misunderstood.”
He clenched his jaw. “Maybe.”
A beat passed, quiet and heavy.
She shifted in her chair. “Orion… emotions don’t make someone guilty or innocent. It's hard to understand both sides when you only see one.”
He hated that it made sense. He hated that he knew she wasn’t attacking him, but something inside him still curled up like a fist every time she talked about Jimmy’s perspective.
Her pen hovered again. “Did you want to talk about the new pages you read?”
Curly’s stomach twisted. He looked away, staring at a spot on the carpet he’d memorized last session.
“I read the part about the night he came over drunk,” he muttered. “And how he thought I was mad at him. I wasn’t. God, I was scared. He could barely stand.”
“What did the diary say about that night?”
“That I was cold.” Curly laughed under his breath, bitter. “Cold. Me. I carried him up the stairs. I made him sleep on my bed so I could watch over him.” His voice cracked. “But he wrote that I… that I didn’t want him there.”
A silence spread through the room, thick enough to choke.
She leaned forward slightly. “What did you want that night?”
Curly blinked at her, confused. “I wanted him to be okay.”
“That’s all?”
His throat bobbed. He didn’t answer.
She waited for him in a way he didn't feel pressed by. Did he make Jimmy feel like this? Did he ever feel comfortable with him? Did Jimmy not trust him?
Curly’s fingers curled around the edge of the chair. “I didn’t want him to see me panic,” he finally whispered. “I didn’t want him to think he was a burden.”
“In my notes from Jimmy,” she began carefully, “I’ve noticed he felt unworthy a lot of the time. What do you think about that?”
Curly stiffened instantly, his jaw locked, shoulders tight. “I think he was wrong.”
She let the words settle. “Wrong?”
“Yes.” Curly’s voice sharpened. “He wasn’t unworthy of anything. Not from me. It drives me up the wall to think Jimmy never valued my friendship.”
She tapped her pen lightly. “But he felt unworthy. That’s what I’m asking about.”
His knee bounced, quicker now, irritation prickling under his skin. “Well, what do you want me to say? That it’s my fault? That I made him feel that way?” He scoffed. “I was stern with him, yeah. Sometimes you need to be. Hard truths and all that.”
“Stern,” she repeated neutrally.
“Yes,” Curly snapped. “Stern. Not cruel. Not- I wasn’t—”
“But Jimmy often described your reactions that way.”
Curly felt heat flood his face, anger or shame, he couldn’t tell. “That’s his perspective. That doesn’t make it true.”
“It made it true for him,” she said gently.
The words were a slap to his ego. His teeth clenched.
“It doesn’t mean you loved him any less,” she added.
Curly’s chest burned. “He knew I loved him. He had to.”
Her expression softened, but she didn’t look away. “Orion… Jimmy wrote pages about feeling like a burden. About feeling like he annoyed you. About thinking you’d get tired of him one day.”
The room seemed to tilt.
“He shouldn’t have felt that way,” Curly muttered, voice cracking. “That wasn’t—That’s not—”
“What would make him think that?” she asked quietly.
“I don’t know!” Curly’s voice rose before he could stop it. He gripped the arm of the chair, knuckles white. “I don’t know what else I was supposed to do. I showed up. I stayed. I listened most of the time. I didn’t walk away when everyone else did. Doesn’t that count?”
“It counts,” she said. “But people don’t just need presence. They need warmth. They need reassurance. They need to know they aren’t a burden.”
“I did reassure him!”
She tilted her head. “What did you say to him then, if you can remember? What type of words did you use?”
Curly froze.
He searched his memory for times he said the words, you’re not a burden, you matter,” and “I’m here because I care,” but they weren’t there. What he had said was more along the lines of stop overthinking, calm down, you’re fine, and quit apologizing so much.
Gasoline to a fire.
He felt the defensive heat surge up again. “He should’ve known,” he muttered. “He should’ve just… known. I loved him so much it hurt.” His voice cracked at the end. He swallowed hard. “Why didn’t he know?”
She set her pen down. “Sometimes we are blinded by our own emotions. You claim he should have known, but from what he has written, your words and actions don't exactly match up.”
Curly stared at the carpet until the pattern blurred.
“It makes me so mad,” he whispered. “He thought I hated him? After everything? How could he think that? How could he think that about me?”
Her voice softened even further. “Because that’s how he felt about himself. And sometimes that doesn't actually have to do with anything related to you.”
Curly looked away, jaw trembling. He didn’t want to cry in front of her again, not when everything inside him felt like molten lava.
He blinked hard, but the tears came anyway. “I wasn’t icing him,” he whispered, as if he said it enough, it would stay true. “I was just trying to help.”
Curly didn’t remember standing. One moment he was in the chair, the next he was on his feet, heat flooding every inch of him.
“I’m done,” he snapped. “You don’t know Jimmy. And you sure as hell don’t know me.”
“Curly—Orion—wait. We can talk about—”
“No. No, I’m sick of this.” His voice cracked with something too close to grief. “I’m not going to sit here and let you tell me I hurt him. I didn’t. I didn’t.”
“Please sit down—”
He yanked the door open so hard the frame rattled.
“I’m done for today.”
He didn’t look back.
The cold air outside slapped him in the face, but it didn’t cool the fire burning under his skin. He barely remembered getting home. The second the door shut behind him, he went straight for the punching bag.
He didn’t bother wrapping his hands.
The first punch stung. The second throbbed. By the tenth, his knuckles were screaming. He punched until tears blurred his vision. Until his shoulders burned and he couldn’t tell what hurt worse, his hands or the hole in his chest.
He stopped only when he saw the smear of red across the bag.
“Shit,” he breathed, chest heaving.
He leaned his forehead against the worn canvas, panting. His hands trembled uncontrollably. The skin across his knuckles had split open in several places.
He needed the med kit.
He needed Anya.
Curly grabbed his phone with shaking fingers and dialed her number. She answered on the third ring.
“Curly? You okay?”
“No,” he admitted, voice ragged. “I—I need help with the med kit you bought last time. I, uh…” He swallowed, shame thick in his throat. “Can you… Come over?”
There was a pause. A long one.
“Curly, I told you I can’t come by anymore.”
His stomach dropped. “Anya, please, I… I just need help with my hands.”
“I know,” she said softly. “But after what happened last time… I don’t feel safe. You scared me.”
Curly squeezed his eyes shut, guilt stabbing through him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—I wasn’t trying to—”
“Curly, I want you to get better, I do,” she said. “But I can’t put myself in that position again. I trusted you.”
Curly slumped to the floor, back against the wall. His raw knuckles throbbed with his racing heartbeat. “I don’t need you to come over. Just… tell me what to do. Please.”
Her voice softened, but she still sounded wary. “Okay. I’ll walk you through it. Do you have the kit?”
He glanced toward the bathroom cabinet. “Yeah. Where you left it last time.”
“Alright,” she said tiredly. “Go get it. And Curly?”
“Yeah?”
“Let this be the last time you need it.”
He let out a shuddering breath. “I'll try.”
🔪💀
××/××/××××
When I think about how I first met Curly, it’s kinda weird. He was weird. I just wanted one quiet night at the bar, a drink in my hand, and to watch a stupid football game.
Never thought someone would try to talk to me. Much less buy me a drink.
I honestly thought he was gay. He looked gay. Clean, polished, the kind of guy who knows exactly how good he looks. His whole outfit screamed, ‘I care way too much.’ And someone please explain why he looked at me like I was the one begging for attention.
Why did I even humor him?
It’s been years now. And somehow we’re still friends.
I hate this man.
He won’t leave me alone.
He asked me to move in again and I yelled at him. Sometimes it feels like he doesn’t trust me to handle my own problems.
I fucking regret telling him about the break-in that happened downstairs. I know I should move, okay? I know. But screw you, let me deal with it. It’s my problem. I thought I could just tell him, just share it, but no. He has to be such an ass about it and try to fix it for me.
And the worst part is when I call him out, he has the nerve to tell me to that he’s “only trying to give me advice.” God, fuck you, Curly. You’re so damn full of yourself.
I told him multiple times to drop it, that I’ve got it handled. And he ignores everything I say and acts like I’m the one attacking him. Like he wasn’t the one spouting bullshit first.
I HATE HIM.
And yet
I’m still waiting for him to call me.
I don’t know why I like you so much.
🔪💀
××/××/××××
I bought this journal forever ago and never used it. It was meant for my cousin’s kid at some point. Then they moved, and I forgot to send it. Thought a stupid preteen like her would want a diary she could hide from her parents.
It’s what I wished I had growing up.
Now I have it and I’m bored out of my mind, so I guess I’m writing.
Curly left a week ago for that new job of his.
What’s insane is how this job shoots him out into fucking space and keeps him gone longer than I’m comfortable with. I hate it. Why did he have to take it?
I mean, the money is good. I get it. I’d probably take it too if anyone offered it to me. But still. I doubt Curly would miss me if I left. He never looks like he enjoys having me around. His friends definitely don’t.
I don’t get it. Does he even like me? He’s always on his phone when we hang out. Always messaging someone else. It pisses me off so bad. If he wants to spend time with other people, then just go. Why drag me along?
God, I fucking hate him. I hate him so much. I can’t stand him.
He acts so fake sometimes. Just stop pretending you’re fine, Curly. Stop being this righteous asshole. It’s exhausting.
We had a huge fight before he left. Full shouting match. My throat still hurts. I hope his does too. I hope he chokes out there in that stupid space tin can.
I hope he calls me when he lands.
There’s still so much I want to yell at him for.
🔪💀
××/××/××××
It’s been half a year. I’ve written a bunch of random crap in here, workout routines, recipes I’ve tried, grocery lists, whatever. Didn’t think I’d stick with it this long.
Maybe when Curly comes back I could cook him something.
He’s probably starving up there, that lardass. He eats so damn much. I guess I do too now, ever since he forced me into working out with him.
But working out and eating aren’t as exciting when there’s no one to share it with.
Mom says I’m too dependent on him.
What the fuck does she know?
She married a drunk. She should worry about her own relationship.
I cook for them most nights now, actually. I try new recipes at home but then I don’t feel hungry anymore, so I pack it up and bring it to her instead.
She’s been looking healthier. Dad, too.
I wonder
Would Curly want to meet them one day?
Would he ever bring me to meet his?
Probably not. I know his family wouldn’t like me. And we’d probably just end up fighting in front of them like idiots anyway.
Curly doesn’t really like spicy food or sweets, so what the hell can I cook for him?
Maybe something with fish. I’ve never tried that before.
Is it wrong to say I miss you?
🔪💀
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I’m in the hospital. They won’t let me leave until two more days.
I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. But if I don’t comply, they’ll keep me even longer. And I can’t miss the day Curly comes home. I need to be there. I need to see him the second he lands.
I’m going insane being here alone.
It was a car crash. Fuck me for trying to help. Broken glass sliced my arm open deep. I didn’t even think. I just saw the guy slumped over the wheel and tried to unlock the door to get him out.
Curly’s going to yell at me for “trying to be a hero.” As if he doesn’t do that shit constantly, the narcissistic jerk.
Or maybe… maybe he’ll think I did it on purpose. That I sliced myself open for attention.
Fuck him if he thinks that.
I can’t even practice that fish recipe. I don’t remember if I put the fish away before I left. I hope I did. If it’s rotting on the counter, I swear to God, the last thing I need is to poison everyone with parasites.
Why do I care so much about what he thinks? Why do I want to please him?
It’s embarrassing. Pathetic. Maybe my mom was right, maybe I am too attached. Maybe him leaving every year is actually a good thing. I need to let go.
But I don’t want to. I’m scared to.
Just don’t get mad at me, Curly. Please.
Or else I hope I give you food poisoning.
But I'd still take care of you until your next shift takes you away.
🔪💀
××/××/××××
I don't understand.
I hate you so much.
Why are you like this?
Curly, you're the biggest jerk I've ever met and I was raised with my father.
Why is talking to you like talking to him?
And if I tell you that...
Curly, I don't understand. Why do you say I can talk to you but you keep telling me everything I say is wrong? Oh, wait but even that wrong right, Curly? You never tell me things like that, oh no, you would never. Bite me, Curly.
Why can't I talk about my feelings or thoughts like you say I can? Are you just a liar? You'll just get mad at me for saying that. You always get mad at me for saying anything.
What do you want from me, Curly? I can't give you anything if you refuse everything.
I can't wait until you leave again. Suffer in that cramped spaceship. See if I care about the crappy company food you eat. You won't miss me. I know you won't.
Stop giving me those damn Polle souvenirs, I hate that damn horse. Clean your ears out for a second, would you?
If you are really care, then why do you make it so difficult?
🔪💀
××/××/××××
I used to feel like I could talk with you.
But you keep yelling at me. And when I finally told you, all you said was, Where? When? What exactly did I say? Like I have to record every second of my life just to prove what I feel.
Just stop.
I was alone most of my life, kid, teenager, adult. Getting close to you was a mistake.
All we do is fight now.
You say I run away, but if you won’t listen to me, what the hell am I supposed to do? Choose to stay and get yelled at? Choose to leave and be called a coward? I lose either way. At least when I run away you can continue to delude yourself that you weren't in the wrong and I don't have to hear you ridicule me anymore.
Curly, I don’t want to lose you. But you’re driving me away and you won’t admit it.
I know I’m a problem. I know I fight too much. I know I piss you off when I get jealous of your friends. But you have problems too. Stop pretending you're this perfect “bigger man.” Stop acting like you're morally above me. If you’re serious about having flaws, then stop holding yourself a mile higher.
Curly, you’re the only friend I have.
And you treat me really fucking bad sometimes. I try to make up for things and you don’t let me.
What do you even want? I can’t think or speak without imagining you shutting me down. How can you get mad that I “don’t take responsibility” when you never give me space to?
Or is it because I don’t do things your way? I’m not you. Stop trying to make me be you.
Oh wait, forgot. I don’t have the right to be mad. I don’t have the right to tell YOU what to do.
Sure, Curly. Give me all the “advice” you want, so you can blow up later when I don’t take it. If it’s just advice, then I have the right not to follow it. So don’t get pissed at me. Don’t act betrayed.
You’re not helping. You’re controlling.
And then you’ll twist it back to you, how you never “forced” me to do anything.
Just listen to yourself.
I listen to myself all the time. I don’t need you reminding me how pathetic I am.
Oh right. When have you ever said that? My bad. I’ll start recording everything next time, yeah?
I hate you. And let’s be honest, you hate me too.
Because if this is how you treat someone you like, then you’re more fucked up than I am.
And that’s saying something.
🔪💀
××/××/××××
I got really drunk that night. I was so mad at Curly for doing his whole “I’m always here to listen, but you have to stop running” speech again.
He keeps saying that crap, and I keep falling for it like an idiot. I wish he’d stop giving me false hope.
I told him about a carjacking in the parking lot. I only told him because I got scared. I thought I was safe with him. But he climbed onto his high horse again, giving me “advice.”
When I told him I regretted saying anything, he blew up in my face.
Fuck you.
If I’m such a burden, why do you keep chasing me down?
I didn’t come to you to fix anything. I just wanted to get something scary off my chest. When you said you couldn’t support my decision of my living space unless I moved somewhere safer, something in my head finally clicked.
You just like the sound of your own damn voice.
I blacked out at the bar after that. I only remember getting kicked out. I remember wanting to yell at you, but when I finally showed up at your place and saw your face, I just crumbled. I knew you were going to turn cold on me again.
Do you realize how hard your grip is? It hurts.
I’m sorry I disappointed you. That’s all I ever seem to do, right? And if I try to tell you any of this, you get mad. You say, “When did I ever say that?” But Curly, you don’t have to say the exact words for the meaning to come across.
If you didn’t intend to be cold, then you should choose your words better. Your texts all sound angry. That’s why I stopped responding. You say I can do whatever I want, but what you really mean is that I’m supposed to do what you want.
But you’ll just deny that, too.
I remember crying into your pillows. Hard.
And all you did was look at me like I disgusted you.
I’m sorry I’m not your perfect friend.
I’m sorry I can’t follow your rules.
I’m sorry I can’t make you happy.
I’m sorry you won’t listen.
I’m sorry for everything, I guess.
I don’t think I care anymore. I’m tired of fighting. But you won’t let me go. You say we’re not fighting, but you keep pushing me into corners where I have no choice except to fight back because nothing I do satisfies you.
Well, fuck you. I’m not you.
And you need to understand that. I know you’re different from me, and I actually like that about you but do you like anything about me? Or are you just going to yell again and pretend you never said anything hurtful because I don’t have screenshots?
Fuck you, asshole. Why are you like this?
At least I’m honest about my shitty traits.
I need you to kill me.