“There are no labels and no rehabilitation here
You are surrounded by the very fucking thoughts you fear…”
          -- Stone Sour, “Choose”

I left off with the party. With the hundred dollar bill. With memories.

So that’s how I met her. May not sound like much to you, but it is. It was like I had fallen in love for the first time all over again, and the rush and the float and it all wrapped itself around me like a cocoon.

It was like all the blood in my body suddenly found it’s way to my head. It was like all the hope and magic and beauty and imagination and truth and lies were all there… All right there for me to look at and see.

And everything seemed plain as day. I could tell what was true; I could tell what people were thinking. I knew who was talking shit about me behind my back and who was a real friend. Not that I had many of them, but honestly, I should have known that.

So I really believed it. I loved this feeling that I had, and I took it to be gospel truth. To be the doctrine of my salvation. The only thing standing between me and oblivion.

Did I like it? No, even now I can say it wasn’t a particularly pleasant feeling, per se. But there was a rush. There was a sensation of power. Of sheer fucking power. I knew it would be okay. I knew I would wake up in the morning and I would have all this knowledge. I knew it.

I also knew that on some level I was already lying to myself. I had bought in to what they were selling me, knowing it was false, because I wanted to have revenge. Or something. I don’t really know. All I know is that when I was offered the chance that night I looked out, saw it was a cliff, and jumped, praying I could fly.

Yes. I was a fool.

But I was young, I was foolish. I don’t know if you remember what that was like… But I could try to tell you.

The beautiful people finally wanted me, Zachary Tyler. After years of working to get someone to notice me, the very people I thought had told me to fuck right off had opened their arms. Now tell me, how would you have reacted?

Don’t give me the sanctimonious look. The drugs are bad lecture. You haven’t ever been there, have you? Never had a beautiful girl waiting for you to express a desire for her to fulfill. Never been sitting on the edge of forever and looking out to face your mortality and realizing you’ve stared it the fuck down.

I didn’t think so.

You don’t seem like the type. Too timid. Too self-conscious. You seem like the type that would have told on me.

Then again, that’s why I’m here telling you my fucking problems, isn’t it? Part of me wonders if you get off on this. If the voyeuristic part of you that wanted to be a psychologist in the first place is enjoying watching me squirm.

Or if you’re just trying to make me believe like you do that the answers are abstention and safety. That the meaning of life is to grow old and fat and die well off, and not pass any of that on.

I’m convinced that the meaning of life is to live.

Even if it was hard, knowing who she was, but not where to find her.

I still hate the waiting game, even if Lyssa did make me good at it.

Damn her for that.