Page 208 of Becoming Us
A breeze swept through the courtyard, rustling the leaves, their brittle edges scraping against the gravel.
I stood in their silence.
What the fuck was I turning into?
The TV was on. Voices droned in and out of consciousness, a background hum I couldn’t fully register.
This time, the low had hit hard.
I’d had people over, but I couldn’t face them. I couldn’t even try. I’d crawled into bed, turned on the TV, and stared at the screen for what felt like hours. Maybe days.
I didn’t take the sleeping pills. I wasn’t sure I could’ve stopped at just one. So sleep never really came. Just a steady stream of infomercials, reality TV, and back-to-back ads looping endlessly. I’d smoke, take a bump, crack open a beer, and repeat. Over and over.
Sometimes, it felt like my dad was in the room with me—like he was still watching over me. But then I’d remember he was dead, and another wave of numbness would crash over me. My pillow felt damp, but I couldn’t feel the tears. This wasn’t sadness. It was something else—something far beyond it. A hollow kind of darkness that clawed its way up from my chest and tightened, like it wanted to choke the air out of me, stop life from moving through me.
I didn’t want to do this anymore.
The words looped through my brain:I give up. I give up. I give up.
Too bad thinking it didn’t change anything.
Then, suddenly, there was a tiny light that filtered through—just barely. My name being called. A gentle hand on my cheek.
I turned into the touch and met his baby-blue eyes.
Every dream I’d had lately had turned to nightmares, but this one felt different. Because even though he still looked like a fucking angel, he wasn’t smiling. He looked worried.
About me.
Me.
That felt…nice.
At least I could die knowing someone cared.
My eyes fluttered shut, and I drifted again. Where, I couldn’t say.
But this time, it felt a little better.
When I woke up again, the room was dark, though light peeked through the blinds. It didn’t smell like stale beer and burnt ashes. The sheets were cool and crisp. Clean.
I sat up slowly, taking in the change around me.
What happened?
The memories came back in fragments, creeping in one after another.
Atty had walked me to the bathtub, scrubbed my arms with the lightest touch imaginable, then wrapped a towel around me. I remembered eating something. Then being tucked into bed. But he hadn’t left. I’d pulled his arms around me, and he’d stayed—keeping me safe through the night. I actually slept. No nightmares. Just blissfully blank sleep.
I stood by the bed. The nightstand was clean too. Only a half-drunk glass of water sat on top. From outside the room came a low hum—maybe a vacuum, or the washer—and the occasional clank.Was he still out there?
The bathroom had been scrubbed clean. Towels hung neatly, the countertop wiped down. Just the orange bottles lined up over it.
I curled my hand around one of them—the sleeping pills. The ones that kept invading my every thought. I put them back down and reached for the other bottle and took one. Just one.
After a quick shower, I found myself staring at the mirror.
She’d probably praise me now.
