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“Dad…”
He reaches between us and wipes my tears away. “From today on, promise you’ll talk to me.”
I nod, sniffling. For a long time, I’ve dreamt about a moment like this. I practised it every night, too.
Yes. I practised the time I’d open up to someone about the fog that’s been residing in my brain.
I couldn’t be any happier that it’s Dad, not some therapist.
“Promise you won’t hate me?” I ask anyway.
He strokes my hair back. “Never, Angel. You’re my only daughter.”
I inhale a deep intake of air, my heart slamming against its cavities so hard, I can almost hear it.
No idea how or where to start, so I let my gut lead me as I pour it all out.
“You know when you sometimes wake up and you’re disoriented and don’t know where or who you are? I’m that way every day. It’s not a phase and it doesn’t go away. Every day, I remember I’ll meet Mum, talk to Mum, and see the disappointment in her eyes. Every day, I remember I’ll go to school and see the boy who used to be my best friend, then realise I don’t exist for him anymore. Every day, I wonder if I’m invisible and if maybe I stopped existing altogether at a moment in time. Every day, I struggle with the need to stay afloat, to eat, to keep fighting because Kirian needs me. But other times, I think maybe he’s better off without me. Other times, I get too weak and can’t fight anymore. Sometimes, Mum snaps at me and I just have to relieve that pain someplace else, so I cut and watch the pain disappear with the blood. I know it’s wrong and I feel so bad afterwards, to the point I can’t look at myself in the mirror, but I can’t stop, because the physical pain is better than the emotional pain. The blood is better than being suffocated by the fog.”
I’m sobbing by now. A tear slides down Dad’s cheek, but he continues holding me close as if he’s afraid to let go.
I grip him by the shirt, digging my nails in. “Help me stop, Daddy. I need help.”
22
Xander
People can become ghosts.
They can exist, even if at the same time they don’t. They can go unnoticed so that even though everyone looks at them, they don’t really see them.
That’s how I spent the last two days at the hospital, sleeping on benches, using the bathroom’s soap to freshen up, surviving on coffee – actual coffee, not the one cocktailed with vodka.
Being sober for two days straight sucks. It’s like seeing the world from non-grainy eyes, and the view isn’t pretty.
Alcohol makes it less harsh, more tolerable. Being drunk makes me accept myself, or maybe it makes me think less about myself and as a result, I kind of accept it.
I considered going to the grocery store and fetching a bottle of vodka, but I stopped.
This isn’t the time to lose myself. I have plenty for that later.
So I nursed a two-month hangover.
And yes, it hurts like a bitch with an STD.
But it doesn’t hurt as much as that night.
Witnessing Kim bleed out will haunt my nightmares for life. I still can see her blood marring the tiles, bright and red. It was life leaving her with no intention of returning. I had my suspicions, but when I heard the confirmation that I’m one of the reasons behind that decision, something inside me broke to bloody pieces.
That night she told her father everything and asked for his help, I stood in front of the door with my fists clenched by either side of me.
Every sob she released was like a stab, and every confession she made twisted the knife deeper.
She just needed someone, and I did everything not to be that someone, and as a result, I almost lost her.
I thought I could never hate myself more than when I woke up and realised touching her wasn’t a dream. Seems the self-hate has huge degrees and mine reached its max that night, listening to her confessions and sobs, seeing her hold on to Calvin like she’d break to pieces if he let go.
She’s been doing that a lot these past days, holding on to people, hugging them. First Calvin, then Elsa, Teal, and the fucker, Ronan.
