Is it lingering below the surface? Fuck.
Pushing my door open, I come to a halt to find a couple fucking on my bed, and I stare incredulously at some dude’s ridiculously hairy ass pumping away.
“Out!” I shout, black spots dancing behind my eyes, startling them enough that they turn to me with wide-eyed stares.
“Get the fuck out of my room!” I rage, swinging my arms around wildly.
The dude pulls off the chick, and I huff as she covers her tits and searches out her shirt, which I grab from the door handle and toss in her face as the dude escapes, still pulling up his pants as he goes.
She follows behind him with her shorts in her hand, disappearing behind the bathroom door, and with a huff, I slam my door closed and stare at my room.
The walls are blank, everything is white, the bedspread, the throw pillows, the fucking rug by the bed. All bought after everything because I couldn’t stand to look at my yellow one anymore.
Every single piece of me that was me is missing, and now there’s nothing. I have nothing. I am fucking nothing.
With a violent pulsing behind my eyes, I pull the box from the closet, the ones with all the paint I didn’t want to bring, and find the can marked with a black dot. Prying it open with my fingers, I ignore the ache as the nails bend back at my efforts, wrenching on that fucking lid with a sob until finally, it pops open.
Heaving out a shaky breath, I stand on trembling limbs and stare at the white walls, the white covers, the white fucking lies, and scream, heaving the can of paint at the wall.
Black paint sprays across the floor, creating strands of dark lines over the pale wood, like a Rorschach of colors only I can see.
Laughing bitterly, I walk around the bed and heave the can again, watching greedily as the black paint coats the pristine walls with its grotesque sheen.
But it’s not enough, and in my haste, I trip over my feet, and the can slips from my fingers as I fall to my ass, causing the lamp beside me to topple to the floor.
Staring at it absently, I pick it up, transferring the paint to the shade before dropping it and raising my hands, now covered in blackness, my fingers shaking with the adrenaline coursing through me wildly.
On impulse, I run my fingers down my face, from my forehead to my cheeks, over my neck, and down my bare arms, leaving streaks in their wake, but it’s not enough because the itchy feeling still writhes below my skin. It’s there, and no one can see it but me, but maybe, just maybe, if I paint my fucking world black, they’ll see it now.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Griffin says from the door, closing it behind him rapidly as he looks around in horror.
“You don’t like it?” I ask dully, rising to my feet and kicking the can.
His eyes rake over me harshly before he marches forward and grabs my chin. “Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“I think we established that weeks ago,” I mutter, pulling away from his grip.
“Why?” he says, glancing around wildly. “Just tell me fucking why, Halsey?”
“Because maybe now you’ll see,” I say, running my hands over my arms, goose bumps breaking out in the wake of his horror.
I truly am fucked in the head.
“See what? What the fuck is going on? Is this to get back at me?” He swings his arms wide and I huff out a breath.
“Not everything is about you.”
I scratch at the paint drying on my arms as he drops his and steps forward. “Then what? Jason fucking Macklemore? This fucking shit again!”
Cocking my head to the side, I say quietly, “You don’t understand.”
He grabs my arms and shakes me, his jaw clenched tight. “You’re fucking right. I don’t! You’re losing your shit over that fucker! Of all the fucking douches, its him?”
“What are you talking about?”
“C’mon, Halsey. How many dicks have you ridden and it’s Jason that you’re stuck on?”
Blankly, I stare at him as he pants before me with an ugly scowl. “Dicks? I haven’t…what are you talking about?”