Page 82 of Keeping Her Under
She isn’t happy.
Even when I read Pride and Prejudice to her, she wears nothing but a blank stare. And God, I wish for the time when I used to get jealous of Mr. Darcy. Where I could remember what her smile looked like. Because all I see now is misery, and it hurts so damn bad.
But regardless of how terrible it is for me, I know it’s a thousand times worse for her. To be trapped in a mind infected with depression is to lose all sense of who you are. It’s to lose your drive to survive, the mere ability to feel joy. Anhedonia, doctors call it.
A fancy way to say “hell.”
Pulling her into my arms as the night creeps in, I press my lips to her hair. “My love for you hasn’t waned a drop,” I whisper. “It is my honor to take care of you. I love you, Mrs. Slader. Even when the last star fades, my love for you will light up the darkness of space.”
It gets increasingly harder, though, to keep my optimism as the months turn into years. She lashes out at me in anger attacks. She sobs on my shoulder in misery. “I’m sorry,” she cries. “I didn’t mean the things I said.”
“I know, baby. It isn’t you. It’s the disease.” I hold her tight, wishing I could reach into her head and pull out all the infected parts.
“Ophiocordyceps unilateralis is nothing but a fungus,” I say. “Yet, it’s able to convince an ant to leave its nest, climb up the north side of a plant until it’s a foot high, and then lock its jaws into the stem until it dies.” I stroke her back as I talk. “It does this by affecting the ant’s dopamine, serotonin noradrenaline, and lipocalin proteins, as well as its circadian rhythms. Depression does the same thing, so I know it isn’t you.”
It’s bio-fucking-warfare.
“You don’t need to apologize, baby. I love you.”
“No, you don’t. You hate me.”
“I don’t. I promise I don’t. I love you, Summer.”
“You’re going to leave me.”
I hug her tighter. “No.”
Desperately, I tell her about the wasps that lay eggs inside of caterpillars. “Over eighty larvae burst out of it at once, gnawing their way through its skin. But the exoskeletons they shed are crammed into the holes, stopping it from bleeding out. Two of the wasps stay inside the caterpillar’s brain though.”
“Why?” she asks softly, and I squeeze her hard with tears in my eyes. That simple word is proof that she’s still here with me. I try not to think about how long I have with her before even that is gone.
“So they can release hormones that force the caterpillar into protecting their siblings.” When she doesn’t say anything, I swallow and press on. “So you see? The brain is easily manipulated. But your depression isn’t you. You have to remember that. You have to fight it.” I press a kiss to her head. “Fight it for me, baby. Please.”
For a long moment, she’s quiet. Then she asks, “Does the caterpillar survive?”
“No.”
“I wish I wouldn’t either…”
Choking back my pain, I try not to let her hear me cry.
The first time I found her attempting suicide was in the bathroom. She locked the door and tried to drown herself in the sink. The second time, I was making dinner for her as she sat at the counter. I turned my back on the knife I was using to cut up the vegetables.
One fucking second.
One fucking second of distraction, and I almost lost her.
She begged me to let her finish it as I wrestled the knife off her. Then she begged me to do it for her. She screamed at me for being selfish. For hating her. “You’d kill me if you loved me. Please… please just do it! I don’t want to live anymore. I hate you. I hate everything. I’m pathetic. You hate me. I have nothing to live for.”
I know she doesn’t mean it. I know it’s not her talking. But God, I’m terrified that the third time will be the charm.
“How can you claim you’re trying to help me when you don’t even listen to me!” she shouts. Grabbing a book off the shelf of her library, she throws it at my head. I manage to catch it without damaging it, but the next one slams into the wall behind me, breaking its spine.
“I can’t kill you, Summer!” I cry as I place the book on one of the nightstands.
She picks up a special edition and launches it at me. “Why not? You killed Lance and his girlfriend. Why can’t you kill me? Why don’t you love me?” She swipes a whole shelf of books onto the floor.
“I do love you!” I cry.
