𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫? - 𝐓𝐌𝐑 𝐀𝐔, 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐡𝐨

041 - aren't you dead?

Ever since I've started taking the drugs, I've been having a lot of flashbacks. Luckily, the panic attacks haven't been too bad, but I've still had a few.

Sadly, I texted Minho five days ago, but he still hasn't come to see me. I feel horrible that I pushed him away. I hope he's doing okay, especially with his mental health problems.

I sit beside an opened container of antidepressants, contemplating whether or not I should have one more.

Screw it.

I grab the container of pills and pour two into my hand.

It's only two tablets, it won't hurt.

I grab my water bottle and swallow the small tablets easily; I'm already used to it.

When they're down, I lean back against the back wall of the treehouse, smiling to myself at my favourite rush. I sigh, closing my eyes and letting the drugs wash over me like a blanket. It feels relaxing, until I remember that I only have one last container left. I've already finished the other nine containers. I need more before tomorrow, or I'll go crazy.

Of fucking course I'm addicted.

But I don't want to become my mother.

Pushing the thought of becoming like her away, I write another note to Tyler. Hopefully he'll be as nice as the first time.

MORE PLEASE, I REALLY NEED THEM TO HELP. AND THANK YOU - W.R

I fold the note up and place it in the same place as last time, as he'll find it.

I lean back again, palming my eyes as I do so. I don't know why, but lately I've been pretty tired.

I decide to take a nap, but, to ensure that I won't fall unconscious this time, I set an alarm for myself.

I'm so smart.

I lay my phone beside me, and I drift to the darkness of my mind.

———————————————

"Mum, where's daddy?" I asked, bouncing on my feet.

I had just made a sculpture for a school project and wanted to show my father it; I was very proud.

"He's busy, Whitley," she told me, her tone rather annoyed.

"Oh."

"What did you want him for?" She asked me, crouching down so she could be my height.

"I wanted to show him this!" I proudly pulled out the sculpture in hopes my mother would congratulate me.

"What is that?" She looked disgusted. "I didn't raise you to be a failure! What awards could you get from this work?"

"It's not meant for any awards," I explain. "It's for a school project."

"Well, you aren't going to win with this," she said.

"It's not a competition," I told her, upset at her lack of pride. "It's just for fun."

"What have I raised?" She exclaims. "I only wanted so badly for you to grow up and make pieces of art! Not some messed up looking cat made out of clay! It looks deformed. I thought five year olds could do better than that. I suppose not."

Overdramatic.

"I tried my hardest," I said, tears threatening to leave my eyes.

"Try harder."

And then she was gone.

———————————————

The alarm sounds, and my headache starts, though it's worse than before. I reach over, slamming my hand over my phone to stop the beeping.

With a sigh, I force myself up, and climb out of the treehouse. I haven't been to camp in a couple of days, so I'm pretty nervous. Will they be able to tell I'm taking drugs? I hope not.

I start to walk towards the campsite, my eyes drooping. As I walk, I hum to myself quietly. If I'm being honest, it's pretty peaceful. Until I hear a voice behind me.

"Whitty?"

I spin around at the sound of his voice. "Who are you?"

"Honey, it's me," he speaks, though I can't see him. "Your father, remember?"

"You're dead," I respond blankly, fear crawling into my voice. "You can't be here. You're dead. I watched you die."

"Whitty." I hear an exhale. "I'm not dead, Sweetheart."

"You're dead," I repeat. "You're dead, you're dead, you're dead!"

Finally, I see his figure. He walks slowly, but the colour of his skin has faded. His body faint.

"Who are you?" I question.

"I already—"

"No," I interrupt him. "Who are you? Not who you're pretending to be. I'm not stupid."

"Yeah, you aren't stupid," the man agrees. "But you're on drugs."

"So you think I'll believe that you're alive?" I raise an eyebrow, cocking my head as I do so. "Nice try, but no way."

"Maybe you're more clever than I thought," he says, sighing.

"Maybe I am."

I wait for him to speak, but he doesn't, so I continue. "So can you tell me who you are?"

"I'm your father," he says again.

"I'm not stupid!" I repeat, my voice brimming with anger. "So stop acting like I am! Just tell me who you are, and I'll be on my way."

"Listen to me without interrupting," he requests. "I am your father, yes."

"But—"

"Wait," he tells me. "I am your father, and, yes, I am dead."

I tilt my head in confusion.

"And I'm not actually here."

(A/N)

Okay, so this is everything that's in my draft, but do you think I should continue with the story?
I honestly don't know whether I love or hate this, sooooo... Idk
Help me
- Ivyyyyyyyy xx