𝐅𝐈𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐌𝐄 ↠ 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝

chapter 3: help

"Sit with the pain until it passes, and you will be calmer for the next one." - Naval Ravikant

☆☆☆☆
Song for chapter:

High Highs - Catch the Wind

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I RISE out of my bed, gasping from my horrific nightmare. My pulse is racing, my blood cold as ice yet my skin hot as fire. I place a hand on my chest in case my heart rips out of it for me to catch. I glance around the room and find it empty. Nothing but darkness and the slight light from the moon coming in from my curtains.

My ceiling fan spins above me in slow motion making that woop sound. I watch it pass by, looking at each individual piece of the fan as it spins in circles. The more you look at it, the faster it goes, never slowing down, only speeding up and just looking at it makes my head dizzy. I close my eyes tightly, wishing I could get the thoughts that occupy my mind out of my head. But the thoughts keep coming, and the memory of my nightmare emerges. Opening my eyes, I take one last glance at the ceiling fan before balling up my fists. I get out of bed, rushing over to my work desk and punching the wood as hard as I can. The firing pain shoots through my veins.

I fall to the floor, holding myself tightly and crying hysterically into my arms. I pull my legs up to my chest and wrap my arms around them in a tight bundle.

It's not from the fucking pain from my desk. It's not that my hand could be possibly broken. It's the fan. It's the ceiling fan. I cry endlessly for what felt like hours. I lie there until I watch the stars fade away from my window, until the dark turns to light and the lights shines through my bedroom, and until my phone alarm goes off.

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"Morning," my dad says to me, glancing up at me from his laptop. I sit by him at the dining table while he drinks his coffee and reads the news articles like he always does.

"Morning," I say with a groggy tone, wanting to sleep desperately but I refuse to sleep in my room.

"Good morning, sweetie," Mom says, coming from the kitchen, her blonde hair in a ponytail. She sets down a plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon before me with a glass of orange juice. Her smile is bright this morning. It's always so bright and cheerful and she reminds me that there can be light in darkness.

She takes a seat and munches on her pancakes while flipping through her work files. I spot a dolphin in one of them, my favorite sea mammal.

I take a small bite of my pancakes, not really feeling hungry. Instead I play with my food, using my fork to place the food in different areas of the plate.

"What's wrong with you this morning? You're not hungry?" Dad asks, noticing how quiet I am.

"I didn't sleep good," I say while rubbing my temple.

"Why is that?"

I'm afraid if I say, I will burst out in tears. I hate people seeing me cry, and they never will. Not even my parents. I concentrate on my plate of food. "The ceiling fan," I mutter.

My parents go silent, looking at each other before looking at me. Mom places a hand on my shoulder rubbing it gently while dad closes his laptop. "I'm so sorry, sweetie. We didn't think about that. I will call someone to take it down as quick as possible," Mom says.

I nod, swirling my eggs with my fork.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Dad asks gently.

I only shake my head.

"I've been calling around and they have a support group nearby. I think that would be good for you," Mom says. "Since you currently don't have a therapist, the group may help."

"I'm not going to a support group," I declare.

"Honey, it will help you."

"I don't want to go."

"It will take pressure off your shoulders. There will be other people sharing their stories that may help you," Dad chimes in.

I slam my fork down on my plate, causing the table to shake. "I don't want to go," I snap. I storm off from the table, ignoring my parents calling my name. I grab my backpack in the foyer and head out the door. Mom always wants me to go to school anyway.

I can't keep living in this nightmare. No matter how hard I try I can't escape from it. I just want to be free and I wish the accident never happened, but it did. And I have to live with it for the rest of my life.

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After third hour, I decided I couldn't take it anymore. I skipped school and went down the road to the local park.

I sit on a park bench and watch the small pond wave against the wind. The water is a dark blue that you can get lost in. The ripples grow then get small, then get big again. If you think about it, the whole pond is a ripple.

I clasp my hands together. I wince when my other hand touches the bruised one. The skin around my knuckles are black and blue that I thankfully covered up with my long sleeved shirt this morning so my parents wouldn't notice.

From the tip of my sleeve, I rub my forearm and trace the cuts that run down them. Some fresher than others. I remember lying on the ground with the blood running down my pale arm. It was intoxicating and sick at the same time.

All of this wasn't my fault. Not until what happened, well, happened.

Apparently my parents think the support group would be the best thing for me. A kind of thing that helps with this kind of stuff. I've always thought against it. I didn't want to listen to other people's problems and hear them cry about it.

But at the same time, maybe it will help. I don't want to be like this. I don't want to beat parts of my body until they get bruised, or watch my dark blood run down my skin in some satisfying pleasure. What do I want? Do I want help, or to cry in sorrow?

And that question ran through my head until 6 in the afternoon, remaining in the same spot. Then I went home.

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