It Would've Been You

VIII

𝐈𝐓'𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐏𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐆𝐄𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑. The thoughts telling me that I should give up – that I'm not enough. . They are supposed to disappear. At least, that's what the medication should help with; removing the little voice in my head that seems to be controlling every action I take.

One pill a day will clear those thoughts, right?

Wrong.

I feel like I've failed all over again.

It happened last night after Sydney left. I don't know when I picked it up, but I remember the relief in the moment: the blood pooling down my arm, dripping off of the blade in my hand.

I couldn't stop at a single cut.

So I did it again.

And again.

I pull my hoodie sleeve down my sore arm, feeling even worse than I did this morning. There's something so disappointing about relapsing. The guilt. The shame. Yet, you can't help yourself.

It's hard to explain to people who haven't been through it. It's easy to say 'Stay strong' and 'Think positive,' but they don't know how much effort that takes when your mind is constantly against you.

And eventually, you get to a point where you cave under the exhaustion.

I think I'm quite close to doing so.

I watch my father cross the living room, with yet another beer in his hand. I've sat here for two hours and watched him finish three cans. "What are you looking at?" He slurs, pointing his index finger at me.

"You haven't done anything to help me or Ava since mom left." I stand up. It pains me to mention her name, but he doesn't look bothered.

"I told you to stop reminding me about your mother," He squeezes the can, and the metal pops under the pressure. The mere sound causes me to jump. I should leave this here, roll my eyes, and walk up to my room like I always do – but I stand my ground.

I take a deep, shaky breath, trying to find any sense of courage in me to speak my mind.

"Why can't you act like a father for once?" My heart rate increases. "If not for me. . for Ava."

His eyes darken. I can feel the familiar grip of fear tightening around my chest. I've seen that look before. And so has my mother.

The more steps he takes toward me, the more I take away from him, keeping a clear distance between us. Every instinct within my body tells me to leave now, but my feet are glued to the floor. I refuse to stay silent this time.

He moves closer. I can see the rage building in his eyes. "You think you know what it's like to be me?"

"All you do is drink," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "It wouldn't hurt to look around. . and help."

His face contorts with anger. He reaches out suddenly, grabbing my bruised arm and I wince. The pain shooting through me. "All I do is drink, huh?" he growls. "What does your mother do?"

The words escape my lips before I can stop them.

"Don't you ever think that you were the reason she left?" I mutter.

My eyes widen at the intense shift of expression on his face. Silence settles around us. I've pushed him too far. My heart is pounding in my chest.

I'm in danger, but I'm frozen in place, unable to move.

Without warning, he shoves me, slamming my back against the wall with enough force to break it. I barely catch myself on the edge of the console table. He's threateningly close. I lift my weak arms, bracing myself for what's to come.