Page 46 of Heartbeat

It’s not a line, I mean literally sleep. Can we do that?

It was a bit of a line, but fuck me, it worked. I typed, smiling like an idiot, We can do that

Text you after the meet?

Sure. Good luck, btw

:)

Chapter Eleven

The Way Back

Sometimes I saw depression as this spot. A tiny, uneven imperfection, so small it took a little too long to notice it was even there. You find it can remain the same size for a long time, so much so you start to grow accustomed to its presence. Until one day, you look at it and have the feeling it’s gotten bigger. It’s still so small you can’t really be sure it isn’t just in your head, something you’re imagining. So you let it go. You wait. But then it grows some more, and this time it’s enough for you to be certain. That’s when you start paying closer attention to it, almost solely out of curiosity, for it has yet to produce any real effect, except for the fact that your skin now has a small to medium sized spot you’ve no idea how it got there or how to get rid of. One day you wake up and you look in the mirror and that tiny dot has grown so much overnight it now can be considered an issue. And no matter what you do, your will alone isn’t enough to make it go away or diminish. So you can either watch it as it keeps getting bigger and bigger until finally you can no longer ignore it, or you can try to get some help to figure out why that damn spot doesn’t seem to respond.

One of the things that bothered me most about depression was its similarity to happiness, in regards to noticing it. Happiness had a lot to do with hindsight. People tended to notice it a lot better once it had passed, either immediately after or longer down the line. Depression could have that same side to it. It was difficult to recognize a good day while experiencing it. You usually recall it being adequate because the day you’re having now is different, be it for better or worse. That was the problem I had with hindsight. It was a gift, always, but it could sometimes feel like a curse—especially when talking about depression. Also, it did not discriminate. There was no saying when a day would be bad, nor when it would be a good one. One’s mood was held hostage, permanently, and it was extremely tricky learning to live with it, coping.

For a couple of days at least, it was easier to think. To be inside my head. For the first time in a long, long time—if only briefly—I found myself able to (co)exist alongside all the noise in my head and amidst all the pain and somehow have none of it spoil all the rest. It was kind of a big deal. Maybe I’d never get a chance to say it, but because of him, I had a good few days. That alone made it all…so lovely.

*

I opened my eyes and was immediately reminded I did not handle vodka as well as I used to. I sat up on the couch, feeling one hundred years old, and grabbed my phone to check the time.

8:45 a.m.

On a Sunday. Having drunk heavily the night before. After who knew how many double vodkas. Somehow, waking up on a Sunday at eight forty-five was the best I could do. I walked—dragged myself to the kitchen and set up the coffee maker. Bending over the counter, I rested my chin on my hand and waited for my coffee to be ready so I could drink the two gallons and go upstairs to get a few dozen aspirins.

“Yello!” a cheerful Noah said, running to the kitchen.

He was a morning person. Liam had been like that too. In fact, it was a family trait that seemed to have missed me. They could wake up at whatever time and still all but greet the sun and merrily go about their day as if it wasn’t fucking disgusting to do so.

“Hey,” I barely said.

“You look destroyed,” he pointed out, thoroughly enjoying.

“Thanks.”

“So, Emma’s in town?” He got his favorite bowl out of the cupboard and headed to the fridge to get some milk.

“Yeah, did you see her already?”

“Kinda,” he said, pouring milk on his cereal. “She’s sitting on Liam’s bed, almost catatonic.”

“Shit.”

“I didn’t think I should disturb her,” he said with his mouth full.

I sighed. “All right.” I stood up straight and headed up the stairs.

At Liam’s room, I found the door ajar. I knocked twice before entering, finding Emma sitting on the edge of Liam’s bed, just as Noah had said. It was the first time I’d been in that room since going to St. Yve’s. His room seemed brighter than I remembered. When Liam was alive, the curtains were almost permanently shut, but Emma had opened them. Tiny specs of dust danced in the sunlight, from the farthest corner of the room all the way to her palms, which lay open over her lap, unmoving, as she stared at the wall in front of her.

I sat beside her.

“This girl in the photos,” she said. “I don’t think she exists.”

“She exists,” I said softly.

She turned to me for a second, a fleeting second, slowly blinked, and then went back to looking at the pictures.

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