The Bus Stop

15: Faults

A/N: if you hold the ability to multitask, I attached the song "Underwater" by Penelope Austin to listen to while reading this chapter.

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I had always been one to believe in fate.

I was a massive sucker when it came to things working out over time. I used to spend my nights lying awake in bed, my problems scanning through my head as I convinced myself they would go away one day. It got to the point where I had myself completely and utterly persuaded into believing that one day I wouldn't feel such a heavy burden weighing me down. If I could go back in time, I would've told myself to stop waiting for some flawless life and to try and fix the issues I had.

For what I've learnt now, problems don't go away like magic, they only bundle upon one another until one cannot take it anymore—until one breaks. Knowing this now, I often wondered how long it would take until I reached my ending point. How long it would take until the last string inside me broke and I was left hopeless, for I didn't hold the immense belief I had once overused.

When my dad used to come home from work, a beer in his hand and a slur in his speech, I just hoped he would one day fix his problem. I held onto any sense of positivity I could grasp, for I knew I needed to wait for my own fate to kick in. And that small sense was the day my father told me he was going to rehab. I was seven at the time and therefore I wasn't told directly he was off to a rehabilitation centre, but part of me knew he was going somewhere to get help. Except as I've come to learn, an alcoholic isn't just a person, it's an existence. It's a part of a person that is irrevocable, regardless to how many years sober they can last. No matter how much help someone can get for their abuse of alcohol, the urge to open a bottle of champagne or a can of beer will forever be present. And it's knowing that in which I've learnt to push aside the constant waiting for my own fate, because that's how I've come to deal with pain.

Except not everyone could flip a switch like I could, for as I sat on the sandy shore with Max Elliot, the only thing I could see in his eyes was utter pain. The kind where you literally feel like you're drowning, every sense of belief and hope completely vanished from your mind. The type of pain where everything suddenly feels weighed down and heavy, almost as if the light at the end of the tunnel everyone talks about it just a mindless fantasy. And as I gazed into the eyes of Max Elliot, it literally broke me.

His usual optimism had vanished completely, a frown tugging forcefully down at the corners of his lips as he stared ahead with a stoic expression. I knew by the ongoing flash of a faraway look in his azure eyes that he was on his verge of breaking. I could tell by the crease between his eyebrows and the exhaustion written on every inch of his body that he wanted an escape too.  The thought of helping him wasn't just a wanting anymore, it was a pleading need that I couldn't satisfy.

"I've got a lot to say," Max spoke, shattering the silence and clenching his jaw tightly.  I could tell he was trying not to let his emotions break as he continued to bottle them up.  I wanted to tell him that I had tried his method before and that it had only made things worse.  Because pain is better to release in small packages, rather than keeping them all bottled up until your mind and heart can literally not take it anymore.

"Then say it."  He turned to look at me, his eyes roaming my face before settling on my green irises.  It was much more clear up close; the hurt, betrayal, loneliness and confusion.  I watched as he tore his eyes away from me, settling them back onto the horizon and forcing his face to look neutral.  Please don't do this, I thought, don't shut me out again.  "Max—"