Work Text:
… I had two thoughts on my mind: Paul Newman, and a ride home. I sighed and put down my blue ballpoint pen. Finally done, I thought. I glanced up at the calendar hanging on the wall in front of me. Johnny’s funeral was next week. I frowned and put my head in my hands. My boyfriend’s best friend’s funeral was next week.
He really was dead. No denying now. Not anymore. It was real now. Too real. I chuckled, I didn’t want to believe it. But I had to now.
I let out a shaky breath, trying my best not to sob. My vision blurred. “Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t you dare cry,” I mummbled through gritted teeth in a useless attempt to calm myself down. A tear ran down my cheek and dripped onto the huge packet of paper I just finished writing the two most traumatic weeks of my life onto. I pushed the paper to the side so as to not get my hard work ruined by my weakness.
I gripped my poorly bleached hair, threatening to pull it out. More tears stained the mahogany desk. “I could’ve saved him,” I sobbed. “I could’ve gone back to save him. Why didn’t I go back for him? This is all my fault.” I wiped my tears with the back of my hand, only to be immediately replaced by fresh ones. “He saved me, why didn’t I save him?!” I crossed my arms over the desk, lying my head down in the pocket it created. “I’m a horrible b–... friend.” I took a shaky breath in and sobbed it back out. “I’m so sorry, Johnny. I'm so fucking sorry.”