Page 41 of My Lovely Tragedy
Depression is an evil entity. A silent monster constantly lurking and poised. Striking randomly and for an endless span of time. And I am intimately familiar with that type of monster. Although, I am quite certain Brooklyn’s beast drags far heavier than mine.
Mine comes in the form of drugging despondency. Poisonous thoughts infiltrate and consume, and my body grows weak but never stops churning malicious conceptions. An endless stream of what-ifs and notorieties.
But more often than not, I force myself to work them into my stories. To put my malevolence into my characters, bleeding it out through them and their lives.
It gives a sense of disconnect between the two unstable variables. And there are times when it is nearly impossible to even get my hands to cooperate, but I succeed, nonetheless. Even if it takes hours… or days.
Brooklyn’s, on the other hand, is drowning.He’sdrowning. And there is no pulling him out, other than an occasional break in the surface like minutes ago when he first woke to the early morning light, the clouds a little less dense and the weight on his chest marginally less suffocating.
But it dragged him back under all the same, the invisible vapor.
Silent and deadly.
It makes me question how he has survived this long without anyone to care for him. He’s unable to eat or care for himself in any manner.
I nearly had to force water down his throat.
If he didn’t have me, would his body simply allow itself to shut down, or would it finally give him a microscopic boost of energy to at least gain some sustenance, so he won’t wither away completely?
Cynical distaste lingers on my tongue at the discernment that Brooklyn has been suffering like this for years—there is no way he hasn’t. He knew what was coming—he felt it. Got himselfreadyfor it.
And now, he is suffering.Surviving, the darling boy.But suffering, nonetheless, and thatfamilyof his allowed it. Never got him the help he needed. Let him continue on as was, most likely due to convenience and the lack of love and care.
My hands fist in my lap, blunt nails biting into the soft flesh of my palm.
None of that matters. Not now that he is here with me and has me to care for him.
I follow every line of his body—covered or otherwise—before settling on the crown of his head where his golden hair is bunched up and stringy with old sweat and oils from being unwashed.
Still so perfect.
I will breathe for you, when you, yourself, are unable to find breath.
I will feel for you when it all becomes too much to bear.
I will live for you when life slips between your fingers.
Just, please, give me the same when I, in return, need you.
* * *
Three days quickly became five.
Then seven.
Now ten.
And my darling crow still suffocates in the trenches of his own mind. Even his body betrays him. Weak and riddled with pain. Bathing in agony—and body odor.
Any attempts to remove him from the bed—other than to use the bathroom at least once a day—has ended in failure.
I have had to resort to sponge baths, the only way to clean the sweat and grime from his body. Brooklyn protested vehemently, or at least as much as he could, but not enough to deter me.
In any truth, I didn’t mind in the slightest. The act of caring for him, especially something so deeply personal and intimate, is exactly what I want. Of course, I had to try it his way first, the way he would be more comfortable, but I cannot deny my excitement at his refusal of a bath.
Though, I do hope someday he will allow me the privilege.
The act of peeling damp, sweat-ridden clothes off his musculature, revealing pale, flushed skin beneath, was nearly euphoric. He barely moved as I shed his clothes, allowing me to maneuver his body whichever way I needed—wanted.
