Page 11 of Blackout-

My words die on my tongue as she steps forward and narrows her swollen eyes in my direction.

“You were never here; do you understand me? If your father finds out I let you see him like this, he will never forgive me.”

“See him like what?” I whisper.

“Your word, Lacey. Now,” she demands.

Swallowing, I nod my head.

“I was never here.”

Satisfied, she steps to the side and allows me room to enter. I don’t move right away and for a moment I feel like that five-year-old little girl again. The girl who tried to tell her dad that her little brother was outside by himself, but he was too consumed by the mania in his head to notice she even existed. With my heart in my throat, I find the courage to push that little girl aside and step foot inside the house.

Too afraid of what I’ll find, I don’t leave the foyer.

“Dr. Spiegel just left a little while ago, so he’s comfortable now,” Reina says from behind me as my eyes drift to the holes in the wall. They’ve been there since the day Junior died and my father refuses to patch them. When he loses himself to his illness, he pulls the frames off the wall and stares at the gaping holes. He says they remind him of what happens when he goes untreated and maybe they do, but I can’t stand the sight of them and so, I tear my eyes away.

I glance towards the living room and that’s when I spot my father. Sitting in a chair with his eyes closed and his head drooped to one side, he looks nothing like the invincible man I call my hero. He looks broken and defeated. Frail. A fraction of the man he truly is.

“Why does he look like that?” I ask hoarsely. My voice sounds so small, so full of fear.

“He was up all night,” Reina explains. “This morning when he called Blackie, he was riding high on the mania and then he just crashed. He started screaming at the top of his lungs and banged his fists against his head. I couldn’t get through to him. I couldn’t make it stop. So, before he hurt himself, I called Dr. Spiegel, and she came here and gave him a sedative.”

Taking a step forward, I brace my hands on the back of the sofa and continue to stare at him. Since I first realized there was something wrong with me, I looked to my father for guidance. For inspiration. I figured if he could survive this debilitating illness, so could I.

We were at Junior’s grave the day I told him I was just like him. I thought I was alone when I apologized to my brother’s tombstone. I asked him to forgive me for not getting help. That’s when my father made his presence known. He wrapped his arms around me and assured me Junior’s death was not my fault. He blamed himself and as he started to describe what was going on in his head that day, I finished his sentences, revealing I knew the chaos that ran through his head because it ran through mine every day.

With his help, I sought treatment and since then he’s been a major part of my support system. Without my father, I don’t know that I’d have the strength to battle mental illness. Society thinks people like us wake up, take a pill and that’s it. They think Lithium is a miracle. They don’t know we struggle every day. That taking that pill is a fucking chore. They don’t know we live in an infinite state of darkness or that at night, we thank God for making it through the day after having spent most of it wishing for death.

Nobody knows.

Nobody understands.

But, my father…he knows.

He understands.

“He’s okay,” she says, coming to stand at my side. “He just needs to rest.”

“He doesn’t look okay,” I reply, turning my attention towards her. Her eyes don’t leave my father as she takes the throw blanket from the back of the couch in her hands. I watch as she quietly steps around it and drapes it over my father’s body. Bending her head, she presses her lips to his forehead and slowly straightens up. Bracing one hand on the back of the chair she turns back to me.

“His meds aren’t working, Lacey. They haven’t been for some time,” she whispers.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” I question, trying to hide the hurt in my tone.

“You know why,” she says, dropping her hand from the back of the chair. With one more glance at my father, she turns and makes her way towards me. Tipping her chin in the direction of the kitchen, she takes my hand.

“Let’s go inside and talk,” she suggests.

I let her lead me away from my father and once we enter the kitchen, she releases my hand. We sit across from one another at the table and I drop my head into my hands. Fresh tears sting my eyes and I struggle to keep them from falling. I would take the man who stares at the holes in the wall over the man sitting in that chair any day.

“There are side effects to the new drug,” Reina starts. “If it doesn’t agree with him, he can become physically ill and that’s not something your dad is ready to deal with.”

Tearing my hands away from my face, I lift my head and stare at her.

“He’d rather suffer like that?”

“He’s used to that,” she counters.

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