my happy little pill | phan

7: The Shit Hits The Phan

There is a minor scene in this chapter that may be triggering (self-harm). It's nothing major, but I'm going to put a warning here just in case.

Dan's POV

I wake up earlier than usual at eight the next morning with a fucking bulldozer slamming against the walls of my cranium. In other words, the headache I wake up with is the motherfucker of all mothers. I'm not even exaggerating.

I immediately recognise the bedroom that I'm in to be Phil's and I instantly sit up, holding my throbbing head, and search the entire room for him. He does not appear to be in here. Sigh.

With my head pounding like Miley Cyrus has implanted her wrecking ball inside my skull, I drag myself to the hallway and into the lounge where sure enough, Phil is sleeping. Oh God. Was I really that drunk yesterday?

I creep into the kitchen and shove the kettle on. I need coffee. I take a seat and rest my chin on my elbows, and stare at the wall.

Yesterday, I was on Tumblr and Twitter and I usually don't let negative comments bother me but whatever I read must have been pretty horrific for me to get wasted. I actually can't remember what I read, and I suppose that's a good thing.

The kettle boils and I make myself a black coffee. From the kitchen, I can see Phil's feet hanging off the edge of the sofa. He's wearing purple and orange odd socks. How very Phil Lester of him. I feel so, so guilty for going out yesterday and getting drunk. I really shouldn't have. I should have just talked to Phil, but noooo; of course I didn't. Why do I have to be so fucking irrational? I try to remember coming home but I can't, just the feeling of a pressure on my back guiding me up steps. Phil, probably, helping me up the stairs to our flat.

I'm so grateful for him. I'm such an idiot.

I start crying then, for some reason. I don't know why or what's even going on in my mind. Lately, I don't know what is happening in my head most of the time and it's scaring me. I'm scared of what stupid stuff I might do, like what I did last night. I cover my face with my hands and silently let the tears streak down my cheeks and drop into my mug of coffee. I dig my nails into the sides of my face just to feel the pain, to let me know that all of this is real. This pain is real.

I don't deserve Phil. He should be with someone else who will actually have the guts to requite their love and who will actually treat him right. Unlike me. I'm such a terrible fucking friend. Literally, a terrible fucking-friend.

I dig my nails into my upper arm, near my shoulders, and scrape them down my skin leaving raw red marks on my flesh and a zingy burning feeling. I drag my nails down my skin again, and again, until I see blood beneath my fingernails.

When I realise what I've done, I press my face into my hands and I taste my salty tears. My arms sting, but it's a nice sting. It reminds me that without Phil and without the people who subscribe to my channel, I am nothing. In ten years time when my YouTube account starts to decay, what will I do? I have no degree to fall back on. The Radio won't want an inactive YouTuber. I'll be nothing but a memory.

And this is what people don't understand about the phrase existential crisis. I don't know how to exist anymore. Yeah, it is great that I can make videos and vlog but will I still have that career in ten or twenty years time? Will Phan still be a ship that will float or will it sink and never be recovered again?

It's things like this that scare me. It's things like this that make me scratch my arms bloody and red raw because there's too much pain inside that I don't know how to express properly.

I dry my eyes with my fingertips and sip my hot coffee. The time reads 9:19am. In approximately one hour, I know that Phil will get up.

I need to get my life sorted out in one hour so he won't see that I've been crying, and he won't see the scratches on my arms.

+++

"Dan?"

I look up from my laptop where I've been aimlessly scrolling through various websites to look at Phil who is just waking up on the sofa. His feet tickle my leg. He rubs his eyes and smooths his hair back.

"Morning, Phil," I say, my voice sounding a little husky.

Phil pushes himself upright so that he's sitting next to me on the sofa. "How's your head?"

I shrug. "A little achy, but nothing major."

The room is silent for a while, except for the clicking of the buttons on my laptop.

"Why did you go out yesterday and get drunk?" Phil finally asks and I can tell that he just wants to get to the point. I sigh. I can't bullshit him with some lame excuse like oh yeah, I forgot to mention that I was meeting all of the friends I don't actually have in a bar yesterday evening soz.

"I..." I swallow my coffee. "I just needed to get out for a while, I guess."

Phil isn't buying any of it. "Why? And why didn't you tell me you were going out? I was so worried."

I have to just tell the truth. Phil always know when I'm lying. "Okay, fine," I press my fingers to my temple to ease the throbbing pain. "I read something hurtful online yesterday and I know what I did was totally stupid and I should have -"

"You could have just talked to me," Phil cuts over my words icily. "I would've told you if I had a problem with something. Isn't that what we agreed from the start since..." he trails off with a deep breath. "We agreed no secrets."

I think of the scratches on my upper arm. No secrets. It's not a big deal though. It's just a few scratches. That's all.

"I'm sorry," I say finally, biting my lip.

No secrets.