Downhill || 𝘥𝘯𝘧

VI

// 𝒢𝑒𝑜𝓇𝑔𝑒 //

George climbed out of the backseat of his Uber and paid the driver before walking across the driveway to his parents' house. He entered through the front entrance and sighed as he leaned against the door, eyes closed and hands pressed together against his lips. He was returning from his daily visit to his parents; and he didn't bring any good news with him. Their condition was remaining the same. It was like they weren't getting better at all.

They hadn't woken up yet, and the doctors said they didn't know if they ever would. They both suffered some head trauma and as of now, it was unknown whether they would even recover.

George, despite himself, had gotten angry at one of the doctors, accusing them of not doing enough. After being assured that they were  receiving the best care possible, George was not at all relieved. He was worried sick.

It had been almost a week since the accident now, and every day he returned to his parents' house without any news of them getting better, he felt the glow of hope grow dimmer and dimmer. He was barely eating. He drank half a bottle of alcohol every day, just to keep his mind free from depressing thoughts that would surely come if he didn't. This excessive consumption led to him throwing up pretty much everything he ate, so he found it easier to just keep his stomach empty.

He hadn't spoken to anyone in days, aside from the people at the hospital. He tried talking to his parents every time he saw them, just in case they could hear him; but as he continued to get no reply, he found himself saying less and less.

He ignored the buzzing of his phone from the kitchen. He knew that his friends were probably worried about him. Wilbur was on a road trip with Tubbo and Tommy and probably had no idea where he was, and Dream was probably worried sick. Sometimes he thought about talking to them, but the thought of telling them about his bad habits was enough to keep him secluded. He didn't want to disappoint Dream by telling him that he had reverted back to his old ways.

George sighed and swiftly fed the pets before walking to the kitchen for a drink. He passed his phone, which was lying face-up on the counter, untouched. He payed no mind to it as he grabbed a glass.

He returned to his room with his drink and flopped down on the bed. Exhaustion from the basic task of leaving the house tugged at his body. When you don't eat, the littlest things eat up your energy like fire.

Despite the alcohol lulling George's brain, the silence in the room made it easy for him to listen to the little voice in the back of his head. It was telling him to get up, to dump out his stupid drink, to get some food, spend some time outside, talk to his friends, answer the phone.
But then the depression in George's mind silenced those thoughts with the response of, "I'm too tired. It's not worth it."

George had no way of controlling these thoughts. He knew that once that depression had set in; like a virus corrupting his brain; there was no way of getting rid of it. He had gone through this once before, though it was never this bad.

He felt like a character out of a game. The only thing he did was get up once a day, call an Uber, visit his parents, come back here, have a few drinks, feed their pets, and then go back to sleep before repeating that same process the next day. It was aggravating, but he didn't have the energy or motivation to do anything else. Whenever he thought about his parents, lying there at the hospital, showing no sign of ever getting better, his brain seemed to break down.

The old George in his head was trying to snap him out of it, saying 'this isn't you, get your head out of the clouds, answer your damn phone;' but the depression and alcohol did a good job of muting that voice.