Page 51 of Forever We Fall

Too much weight. Too much worry. Too much emptiness.

It’s like the void of his presence sucked my will to live along with it.

But today is different.

I shove onto my ass, let my feet dangle off the edge of the bed, and drive the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. The grit and grime from several days without a shower and too many hours sleeping feel like sandpaper on my sensitive skin.

When I manage to peel my eyelids apart, I’m met with the consequences of my depressive state. Clothes are strewn about. Empty wrappers and water bottles litter the floor and desk. My computer has collected a layer of dust, the part that’s showing at least. The rest of it is buried under sheets of paper and crumpled attempts at journaling I’d done the day after he left. It was a sorry attempt to reel myself in from the brink.

My body hurts from neglect. I haven’t had a proper meal in more than a week. The stash of snacks my grandmother sent is depleted, along with my desire to face the day.

I suck in a breath, and it shudders in my lungs.

Memories of my mother swim behind my eyes. There were stints throughout my childhood when my mother didn’t get out of bed for days at a time. Where the house would become a mess and we didn’t eat real meals for weeks on end. Only when my father was out of town.

Of course, I relished the time spent tucked under the covers next to her, watching movie after movie, and eating ice cream and popcorn for dinner.

Then Dad would come home.

Things would go back to their rigid ways. Meals at six p.m. sharp. House so clean you could eat off the floors. Sleep only came at night.

And I had no idea that those things, these things in my room and my brain, are signs of depression.

My head hangs between my shoulders. Not because depression has gotten the best of me these last two weeks, but because I didn’t recognize it in my mother, and I didn’t do anything to help her.

I know that once Arlo is back, I won’t succumb to the listless pull of it.

I wonder if that’s how my mom felt with my dad around. Was he her anchor to relief or part of the cause of her torment?

I certainly don’t want to be a burden for Arlo. He has plenty on his own. I’ve never really felt like this before. I hope it’s a fluke and not something in my genes destined to send me into a spiral.

When I push off the bed, my feet crunch on a water bottle and some discarded paper. I kick them out of the way and set tocleaning. It’s a mundane task that keeps my hands moving just enough to keep my mind blank.

For a little while.

The minute I toss myself into the shower thoughts of Arlo attack me. Images of our last time together in this very spot tickle a smile on my lips that quickly fades.

I’m pissed that he left with his uncle. Day after day, I try to understand why he had to. I’m mad at myself for not going to kill the bastard before that.

I could have shoved him down the stairs and made it look like an accident. I could have held a pillow over his head, and the coroner wouldn’t have even called an inquest. The man was big and old. He probably dined on the souls of small children and puppies morning, noon, and night. That diet is bound to clog the arteries.

“Fuck that demon piece of shit,” I grumble, scrubbing my skin clean.

Laundry comes next. I shuffle it to the washroom at the back of our building and toss many bags of garbage out along the way. Inside, I watch the constant loop, loop, loop of my sheets in one machine, only pulling my gaze away to stare at my clothes in the other.

My body vibrates like the machines on the spin cycle, thinking about Arlo’s return. It’s a fraught mix of excitement and dread. I long to see his beautiful face and hear his unique voice. I need to know he’s alive and that he will indeed recover. At the same time, I’m terrified to see the physical marks of the torment he endured. Even more so, I’m scared to see the damage it’s done to his insides. I know I’ll see it in his eyes.

I remember how he looked when he first arrived at school. Stunning and gaunt. I remember how he acted when he first came here. Alert and withdrawn.

Hope that he’ll be in a good mental space isn’t enough to make it so. I wish it was. The desire that his body is unharmed isn’t enough to force it into reality. Regardless, I know I’ll accept Arlo however he is returned to me as long as he’s breathing and his heart is pumping.

It’s a miserably low fucking bar.

After I haul my clean clothes to my room and set everything to right, no one would know that I’ve had a depressive episode, and that’s how I want it.

I haul myself to the cafeteria. There are only a handful of kids in the place. Most families, even the ones who leave their kids here over the summer, call forth their offspring for the holidays. If for no other reason than they like showing them off. Look at my well-bred, highly educated clone.

Sitting in my usual spot without Arlo proved too much the first day. I ignore it now, choosing a seat near the empty head tables. I scarf down food that threatens to come back up with every bite.

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