Cold Water

ONE

                 
                    ♡BRANDON♡

 
   The clock on the nightstand glows a faint, unwavering red: 3:12 a.m.

  The room is silent, except for the occasional creak of the old wooden floorboards that have become familiar to me over the endless hours spent awake.

  I lie still, my body draped across the tangled sheets, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.

  Sleep has become an elusive stranger. It’s been years since I last drifted off without the weight of my thoughts pressing down on my chest, but tonight feels different.

   Tonight, the silence seems louder, the darkness deeper. I can feel the stillness suffocating me, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket and pressing me into the mattress.

   My mind is a storm, thoughts swirling in a chaotic dance that refuses to settle. Every time I close my eyes, I’m back in the car—my mom’s laughter echoing in my ears, the world blurring as the vehicle spins out of control.

  The memory of the crash is seared into my brain, an endless loop of metal and glass, of my mom’s face frozen in a moment of terror, and then... silence.

  I remember the sound of metal crunching, the sharp sting of glass against my skin, but most of all, I remember the silence that followed.

  It was the kind of silence that wraps around you, seeping into your bones, making it hard to breathe. I remember sitting there, staring at the dashboard, trying to process what had just happened.

   My mind refused to accept it, clinging to the hope that maybe, somehow, she’d wake up, that this was all just a nightmare I could shake off.

  But she didn’t wake up. The light in her eyes had gone out, leaving only the shell of the person she used to be.

  It’s strange, the way death transforms someone you love into something unrecognizable. One moment, they’re full of life, and the next, they’re just... gone.

   I wanted to scream, cry, to do something to bring her back, but all I could do was sit there, frozen in the reality of it all.
 
   I didn’t just lose her that day, I lost a part of myself. The days that followed were a blur—people coming and going, offering condolences that felt like empty words.

    They couldn’t possibly understand the depth of my pain, the way the world shifted on its axis, and left me stranded in a place where nothing makes sense anymore.

  Depression and anxiety have taken hold of me, wrapping themselves around my heart like a vice. The vibrant colours of life have faded, leaving behind only shades of grey.

  Everything that once brought me joy now seems pointless, its significance lost to the overwhelming sense of emptiness that’s taken root inside me.

   I roll onto my side, hugging my knees to my chest, trying to find some comfort in the fetal position. But comfort is as elusive as sleep. The accident shattered my sense of safety, leaving me adrift in a sea of regret and guilt.

   I replay the moment over and over in my mind, wondering if there was something I could have done differently, some small action that might have changed the outcome.

   The room is still, and the silence is unbearable. No one is reaching out, with no messages or calls to break the solitude.

  Not that I ever expect any. I have no friends, no family–except my aunt, who's sound asleep down the hall– and my father, who has made it very crystal clear that he wants nothing to do with me.

  He hates me. I hate myself, too.

  If my aunt didn't reach out when she did, I wouldn't be alive right now.

  The scars that lie on my wrists and the reason my medication was taken away are proof of what I had almost done.

  I prepared myself to die that day. I found living pointless if every day was a reminder of what had occurred.

  A reminder that I killed someone.

  The darkness wraps itself tighter around me, and I feel the weight of it pressing down. It’s just me and the night, alone with my thoughts.

   I close my eyes, hoping for some escape, but all I find is the relentless loop of memory, the endless replay of that day.

   The tears come, unbidden and silent, slipping down my cheeks as I clutch the pillow tighter, wishing for something–anything–that could take away the pain.

  I thought death would be an escape from all the pain I was feeling. Maybe it is. I never got the chance to find that out.

  But even as I laid there that night, as my breathing slowed, and I felt the life slowing drain out of me, I was afraid of facing my mom.

  Was she angry at me? I don't know.

  What if she also hates me for what I did? For cutting her life too short?

  There's never a day that goes by that I don't blame myself.

  I wish I wasn't born sometimes.

  In the stillness, I whisper to myself, trying to find comfort in the sound of my own voice. But the words feel hollow, echoing in the emptiness that surrounds me.

  I'll be happy one day.

   I’m alone, truly alone, and the night stretches on, endless and unforgiving.

   But somewhere deep inside, there’s a small, fragile voice that refuses to be silenced.

   It whispers of hope, of the possibility that one day, this darkness might lift, that one day, I might find peace again. One day, I might be able to swim to the surface and see the light.

  One day, I'll be truly happy.

  For now, though, I’m left to navigate the quiet nights on my own, hoping that sleep will eventually come, and with it, a brief reprieve from the storm inside my mind.
  



♡♡♡♡♡♡♡