Painting Flowers

Chapter 7

  "Dinner in bed," I called once I reached the landing, and I could see Alex sitting up in his bed, reading a book and looking engrossed in it. I smirked, stepping through the doorway and saying, "hey, 'Lex," to get his attention as I carefully walked over his messy floor and lay the tray on his lap. 

  He looked up at me, a grin stretching across his lips and his fingers dog-earing the page of the story he was on, dropping the book on his bedside table and licking his lips as he saw the bowl. "Mmm. Soup. What took you so long, dude?"

  "I was talking to your mom," I said, sitting down on Alex's mattress, crossing my legs over the duvets and covers and watching him as he blew on his first spoonful of soup. 

  "What about?" he questioned, sipping on the liquid and smacking his lips, eyes glancing up to meet mine. 

  I furrowed my eyebrows. "Um, she was saying how you had to take this thing called, like, Trofranril or something, and some kind of antidepressants. And I got them for you," I nodded to the small brown bottle that lay untouched on the tray, Alex staring at me with a slightly open mouth. "You might want to..." I mumbled, pointing to the spoon in his hand, still half filled with chicken soup and threatening to spill across his t-shirt. Alex just looked down and put the spoon back in the bowl, glancing up at me again with wide eyes. 

  "Did she tell you why I had to take Tofranil? And Xanax?" he asked quietly, hands resting on either side of the plastic tray. 

  I looked at him for a few moments, before nodding slowly. "Yeah, she said you the panic and anxiety attacks, and that you've got chronic depression or something..."

  "Dysthymia," he corrected me. "Persistant mild depression. I..."

  "I think it's cool," I shrugged, but I immediately realised that that was the wrong that to say as Alex narrowed his eyes at me and clenched his jaw. "Wait, no, not, like, cool-"

  "There's nothing remotely cool about being depressed, Jack," he said shortly, lifting his spoon and taking a gulp of his soup. "I know the media, like, portrays it as this neat and quirky accessory, having depression and anxiety, but it's so not. It hurts, every fucking day, and-"

  I interrupted by saying, "Yeah, I know, that totally came out so wrong, sorry..." Alex just stared blankly at me. "Like... I don't think you're weird for having disorders, I think it makes you more... human?"

  "Having things wrong with you doesn't affect how valid your life is," he said. 

  "I know," I said. "I know. God, I can't explain it. Having depression doesn't change my perspective on you, if that makes sense? Like, you're still my best friend and everything, I'm not just suddenly gonna distance myself from you if you've got anxiety and depression and panic disorder. If anything, I kinda want to get closer to you, so you know that I'm gonna be there if you're ever feeling shitty."

  Alex smirked at me, tilting his head a little and staring at me. "Yeah. I know what you mean now."

  "Good," I said. "Okay. Yeah. Good. I'm not gonna, like, leave you or anything."

  "You better not," he laughed. "'Cause you're the only friend I've got."

  "All you need is Jack," I sang in tune to the Beatles song, and Alex smiled widely at me as he took another gulp of his chicken soup. 

  We sat in silence for the remainder of his meal, Alex just eating and me just watching Alex eat. After about ten minutes, he finally said, "Ah. That was nice. I should be sick more often, just so I can get chicken soup all the time."