Compassion and Oblivion

Chapter One: A Dire Need for Change

TW-Anxiety Attack

Thank Yoba, another excruciating day of work is finally over. You enter your apartment building and dust the snow off of your shoulders, grateful to be out of the frigid winter air. You swiftly make your way up the stairs and to your unit. After the day you've had, you can't get home quickly enough.

You dig your keys out of your pocket and move to unlock the door to your apartment, fumbling the keys in the process due to your aching, fatigued hands. You release a sigh and rest your head against the cool wood of your locked door, before squatting to grab the keys off of the ugly, brown carpet. You've been hanging on by a thread all day long, and it's as if dropping your keys was enough to send you over the edge.

You manage to unlock both the deadbolt and doorknob, despite your shaking hands and the tears beginning to pool in your eyes. You swing the door open and collect the few pieces of mail from the floor that had been deposited through the mail slot earlier in the day.

"Spam mail, trash, trash, electric bill, water bill...no gas bill yet?" you mutter aloud, trying to distract yourself from your awful day at Joja Corp, and the ever-present tears that threatened to spill over. You gaze a little closer at the postcard-sized water bill, and gape at the number printed under the Total Amount Due section.

"The water is almost twice what it usually is!" you exclaim. "How am I supposed to afford this? My budget is so screwed."

Damn leaky toilet. Damn apartment managers, never returning my voicemails so I can put in a maintenance request. How can one leaky toilet make my bill so expensive? I'm going to have to live off of instant noodles and boxed macaroni and cheese for a month! Damn Joja, paying me less than a living wage... what am I going to do? What if I can't get the money together in time, and they shut off my water? What if I get evicted?

Your brain becomes a whirlwind of what if's and why me's. Your breathing gets a little heavier, your hands a little shakier - you can feel your anxiety starting to climb upwards. Soon, the tears you had set out to forget gradually begin to fall, staining your face and reddening your eyes.

Taking a few steps further into your cramped apartment, you toss the mail and utility charges onto your small dining table, slump against the wall, and slide down to the floor. You grip your (H/C) hair tightly and push it back, behind your head and out of your face. Then, you allow the tears to flow freely. There's no point in trying to stop them now. Coming home from work and crying yourself to sleep has become a much more frequent occurrence.

You wring your hands together, trying to relax your cramping fingers. Shifts at Joja consist of hours upon hours of typing, clicking your mouse what felt like thousands of times, punching numbers into your telephone, and white-knuckling the handheld receiver while getting screamed at by the customers on the other end - for company policies that are out of your control. Sitting here on the carpet isn't really helping your excruciating back pain, caused by the lack of movement during your long shifts. The idea of having to go back tomorrow for another Joja-tastic day is making you feel physically sick. You can feel your anxiety attack in full swing now as you fight for each breath.

You have bills to pay, (Y/N), you think to yourself. You can't afford to take a break right now. You have to push through and make ends meet, just like you always do, no matter how miserable you are. You don't have a choice, and there's nothing you can do to change that.

Change...

You think back to that day, the last time you saw your grandpa before he passed away. What is it that he had said to you?

He had called you to his room to speak to him, to say your goodbyes, while he lay on his rickety deathbed. In his weathered, worn hands that had carried more than the world during his lifetime, he gently clutched a letter.

"And for my very special granddaughter: I want you to have this sealed envelope," he said weakly.

He handed you a white envelope, neatly sealed with purple wax, which was stamped with an ornate script 'PT'. Pelican Town, the town where he used to live, where he owned a large plot of farmland.

"No, no, don't open it yet...have patience," he managed. He cleared his throat and gazed up, smiling at you gently. "(Y/N), listen close...there will come a day when you feel crushed by the burden of modern life, and your bright spirit will fade before growing emptiness. When that happens, my girl, you'll be ready for this gift. It will bring you the change you'll be looking for." He began to cough slightly, and took a wheezy breath. "Now, let Grandpa rest."

That was the last time you spoke to him.

You haven't thought of his last gift to you in ages, because you just could never wrap your mind around the idea that something so life altering is inside of that envelope. You trust your grandpa regardless, and you promised him ten years ago that you would wait until the time was right. You don't really understand how he could've fit a miracle inside of an envelope so small, but if ever there was a time in your life that you needed a miracle, it was now.

You wipe the tears from your face, and stand up as confidently as you can, given your trembling limbs. Once you get to your feet, you quickly shuffle down the short hallway to your room. You slam the door open and move to the nightstand to the right of your bed. You open one of the drawers and dig through your small pile of sentimental items you had collected over the years. You had saved every birthday card from your family, every letter your grandma wrote to you, every picture of you and your family that wasn't already in a frame...you know you will cherish these memories someday.

Towards the bottom of the stack of pictures and worn birthday cards, you come across one pristinely white, unopened envelope with a purple wax seal. Sliding the drawer closed, you move to sit on your bed while gently running your fingers across the smooth paper. You slide your fingers underneath the fold as to break open the seal.

"I'm ready for your gift now, Grandpa," you croak, your voice still strained from crying. "I finally understand what you meant. I do feel crushed, I do feel like my light is about to fade out. I need that change you said I would be looking for, something has to give. I know you'll help me, like you always did."

You separate the wax from the paper, and open the envelope delicately, so as to not break the miracle your Grandpa had tucked inside. You slide the contents out of the envelope and unfold the two pieces of paper to more closely inspect them.

On top is an official-looking document. Your eyes begin skimming across the paper, trying to figure out what the document is.

It's a...

It's the...deed?

"The farm?" you whisper breathlessly.