Page 4 of Perfectly Us
Where Ruben and I talk about everything under the sun, my dad and I say the bare minimum to each other. It’s always been like this and has only gotten worse over the past few years. Ever since my brother Clay…
No.
I stop the thought before it fully materializes. Nothing but pain comes when I let myself go down that road.
“Working on a big case?” I ask.
“Mhm. Close the door on your way out, will you?”
I leave his study, shutting the door like he asked. The soft click sounds much louder in the dark house.
Chapter Two
Shiloh
I have this dream sometimes where I’m running down a deserted street.
In it, I’m searching for something, but I didn’t know what that something is. All I know is I have to find it. As I run, there’s a crack of thunder in the dark sky, then a drop of rain. I don’t reach the end of the street before I wake up.
I never do.
I check the time on my phone before rolling out of bed, the images of the street fading from my mind. I have to be at work at eleven, and it’s half past nine. That gives me enough time to shower and eat. But first, I grab the pill bottle on my nightstand and tap a tablet onto my palm. I twist off the cap on my water bottle and pop the medicine into my mouth.
The little white pill is now part of my morning routine.
I hate it.
I have anxiety with chronic depression on top of that. Or so the doctor says. It’s a chemical imbalance in the brain, he told me, nothing to be ashamed of.
So basically, I’m a nutcase. Go figure.
Dad hates when I call myself that, but it’s how I feel.
When I first started having issues, Dad thought I was going through a normal slump. I’ve always had nervous tendencies and freaked out over small shit. But it got worse. I had days where I was okay and then other days where I’d barely been able to get out of bed. I lashed out in anger a lot and then cried like a freaking baby sometimes because I just felt everythingso much.
Things only went downhill from there. The mood swings got worse, and on the days where I hadn’t been pulling my hair out—sometimes literally—I didn’t really feel anything. Just been numb to it all.
Then one day last year, I tried making myself feel something.
At the memory, I glide my thumb over the faint pink scar on my wrist.
I still can’t get my dad’s scream out of my head when he found me like that. That one mistake would haunt me forever, just like those screams. I spent a night in the hospital and then another two days under observation. Suicidal watch or whatever.
I’m not suicidal though. Not really.
I just wanted the nothingness to go away.
Last summer, I went to a teen rehabilitation-type place. I talked to therapists and spent time outdoors. My dad participated in some of the programs too, which helped him better understand what I was going through. It sounds kind of stupid, but it really helped. Made me not feel so alone. That’s also when the medication started. It took a while to find the right type of medicine and dosage. Then it took even longer for it to start working and showing results.
“Hey, kiddo, you up?” Dad asks, poking his head into my room.
“Yeah.” I grab clothes from my closet and head toward the door. “Gonna take a quick shower.”
I get lost in my head as the water washes over me. Back in high school, I dreamed of opening my own coffee shop. I planned to go to college. To make something of myself. Everything went to shit during my senior year. I struggled so damn much. College was kind of put on the back burner. Maybe I’ll go someday.
Or maybe I won’t.
Waffles are on the table when I come downstairs, my hair still damp from my shower.
