my happy little pill | phan

9: My Happy Little Phil, Take Me Away

*major tw*

Dan's POV

My super wonderful friend, Phil, managed to use up every drop of my shower gel and he never mentioned it to me. Well. Thank you very much, you little shit. Guess what? You're buying the next bottle of shower gel. Sigh.

But despite my lack of expensive pomegranate shower gel, I still have vanilla hair conditioner that fucking stings the cuts on my arm. Why did I even do it? And why the fuck did I show Phil? The last thing that I want to do is make him worry about me. Like, I am very aware that he cares and everything, but I don't want to be wrapped in cotton wool by my best friend. I know he won't check on me every second of the day, but I know that when we're discussing something or just sitting next to each other he'll glance over at my sleeves to see if they're long or short and see if I have any fresh cuts without him actually saying anything. Phil isn't the type of person who would invade my personal space, and I'm very grateful for him. I appreciate it.

I run my hand through my water-soaked hair beneath the shower. The water hits my back and I feel myself relax against the heat of the water. It's so nice to just close your eyes and melt into the steam sometimes, and just forget the whole goddamn world.

What is wrong with me? The last time that I had self-harm issues was when I was nineteen and I didn't know what the actual fuck I was doing with my life. I was lost. I cut to escape. Then why am I doing it now?

I suppose I do know why, but I don't want to admit to anyone that I'm depressed. Depression is a fucking bitch. Even this shower right now feels utterly pointless; what's the point of getting cleaned up if you're just going to get dirty and have to wash yourself again?

And Phil's face when I showed him the rows of cuts on my arms is still etched on the back of my eyelids. I feel my eyes prickle with tears and I can't tell if I'm crying beneath the shower of water falling on my face.

Why am I so sad?

I guess it comes to the point where I have to think: after about ten years when I'm thirty four years old, will anyone still watch my YouTube account? Will anybody still want to watch my videos? Probably not. I'll need to get a new job and I have no degree or anything. I'll have nothing.

It might seem like a very long way away, but the future is getting nearer and nearer and I'm scared. I'm so fucking scared of what's coming, because what I have right now isn't going to last forever.

I think that it's the inevitability that the future is coming for me like a motherfucking devil lady is the thing that's scaring me the most. Nothing gold can stay.

And as I sit on the floor of the bath with the shower head raining down on me, I rock back and forth with my head on my knees. I'm fucking crying because that's all I can do. I'm Dan Howell; I'm meant to be happy.

Before I can tell myself to stop, I pick up a set of razor blades that Phil must have left in the bathroom and stare at the shiny metal. I hate the way it glints at me, and I hate the way that I can't convince myself that ripping my skin apart is a bad idea. I try to weigh up the pros and cons of slashing myself until I can't feel anything anymore in my head, and the only thing on the 'cons' side is that people will find out. But there is the argument that people won't find out, because if I don't cut in obvious places, no one will know.

Not even Phil.

I close my brown eyes and lightly drag the blade across my upper right leg. It stings a little as it moves along my flesh, but it's worth it. It's definitely worth it. I tilt my head back as I move the blade again, this time pressing a little harder and hence earning a little more blood. Nothing major, just a few beads welling up over the scratched area. I keep pulling the razor blade over my skin, getting a fraction deeper and pushing harder with each cut, until the blood runs down my legs and dyes the water pink in the bath. The stinging feeling is worth every scratch. I don't even feel guilty. I don't feel anything, except an empty hollowness in my chest.

"Dan?" I hear a knock on the bathroom door and I drop the blade without thinking. It lands with a loud metallic clatter. "Dan, are you alright? You've been in there ages."

I switch off the shower and clear my throat. "I'm fine," I say, my voice breaking. I internally curse. The cuts that line my thighs tell my otherwise.

"You haven't done anything stupid...have you?" Phil slowly asks in a quiet voice.

I remain silent for too long. "Course not," I say eventually and curse myself again for taking so long to respond. I feel my eyes fill up with hot tears. I gasp suddenly as I struggle to contain my emotions. I curse myself again.

"Can I come in?" Phil asks shakily. "Is it okay if I -"

"I'm literally wearing nothing," I say back. I grab a towel to conceal my lower half, and my thighs. "You can come in, Phil."

The door opens slowly and whiningly, and Phil peeks around it into the bathroom to make sure that I'm not too indecent. He comes in and shuts the door tightly when he sees that I'm covered up a little.

His face falls when he sees that I've been crying.

Phil kneels down on the wet floor and hugs me, and I bury my face in his red shirt. Should I show him what I've done? I don't want to, of course, but I don't want to hurt Phil. If he knows that I'm not telling him things, he will think that I don't trust him. And I do trust him.

I just don't want to lose Phil's trust.