Tell No One

CHAPTER 50

THE SURFACE

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Alana

17 weeks. 17 weeks out. Alana picked up the can which was cheerfully labelled "Tomato Soup" in a bright yellow font and debated whether to put it in her basket. Under the sickly fluorescents of the supermarket lights, it seemed ironic. 
Alana placed it back on the shelf with the rest. 17 weeks. She rolled the number around her head, tasted it on her tongue. It rattled about her brain like a marble- 17 weeks. 

Alana trawled further into the supermarket, idly scanning the aisles. She read the numbers on top, watched their steady increase as she pondered which one to go down.

She kept walking until finally, there were no more aisles.

The windows to the outside were panels of velvet, the inky darkness of darkness forming an impenetrable curtain between her and the rest of the world. It brought her reflection closer, and for a fleeting second, she glanced over. She still found herself flinching, found herself bracing for the next imbued fabrication that would slip into her reality. 
She felt her blood ice in her veins as she processed what she saw. 17 weeks. She'd been 17 weeks out of that goddamned place and now she had relapsed.

Alana turned back to her reflection and looked at the familiar figure that often took residence in her damaged brain. He leaned nonchalantly against the shelves behind her, his hands casually in his suit pockets. He wore the same navy pin-striped suit he always wore, the same smirk as he always did. Faintly, in the reflection, she could make out the red of his tie, the dark brown of his hair. Of all her hallucinations, he had been consistent.

"Alana?" Alana jumped as something quickly grabbed ahold of her hand. She whirled around, panic-stricken, coming face to face with Eli. Concerned furrowed his brow, his concern apparent in his face. "Are you alright?"Alana dropped her gaze, taking a deep breath out. Without saying anything, she took a silent step forward, burrowing her head into Eli's capable chest. Eli wrapped his arms around her as if the force of his embrace alone could stop Alana from falling into millions of tiny pieces. "Another one?" Alana debated lying in her head. He'd be disappointed- she'd been doing so well.

But no, she couldn't lie to Eli. He had stuck by her by the worst of times- and even when she finally was discharged, he stayed by her side. She nodded, freezing in anticipation for his reaction.

Eli, however, didn't react. Instead, he lightly kissed the top of Alana's head, giving it an affectionate pat before withdrawing from the hug. Gently, he took the basket from Alana's grip and clasped her spare hand in his own. "it'll be okay Alana. You'll get through this." Eli looked at her face, and she stared right back, worry imminent in her teary eyes. "Hey, we'll get through this. Together." Alana managed a small smile.

"Together."

Darren

The cold porcelain of the bowl beneath his hands was a sensation that laid in jarring juxtaposition with the seething tide of emotion that raged in his head. He angrily bit back tears as he felt more vomit rise from his stomach, once more puking into the toilet. 
It was stupid.

All of this was stupid.

Darren grabbed his stomach, wincing. Choking back more sobs, Darren braced himself as he once more forced his fingers down the back of this throat. He heaved again, and deciding that was enough, pushed himself away from the toilet. He flopped back against the wall, his legs splayed out in front of him. He was exhausted. His breaths still came out laboured, as if he had run a marathon instead of just being hunched over the toilet for the past 20 minutes. He could feel strings of spit hanging from his lips, the remnant of his sick. He could still feel the acidic burn in his throat, the sweat on his forehead now just a clammy kind of cold film.

That had to be the last of it.

Darren limply jerked his head to the side, the countertop coming into his line of sight. Faintly, over the edge, he could make out the prescription bottle of valium he'd been given just last month. His therapist had prescribed it to him. He had hoped it would be an end to his troubles, and just about a half hour ago, his drunken mind had shaped the idea that it could be indefinitely. 

Stupid.

At the last minute, feeling the pills like pebbles sliding down his straw-like throat, big fat tears making rivers down his cheeks and following the cracks of his face, he had chickened out. He couldn't do it. He'd frantically stuck his fingers down his throat as if he could reach into himself and claw the drugs back up. As if he could drag all of the bad out of him with brute force alone. As if he could damage his body enough to silence his painful thoughts for one second. His painful memories. The painful existence that had become his life, the chore of even getting out of bed in the morning. How he wanted to feel the way he felt when he was asleep.

"Shelia..." Darren croaked out her name, sobbing as soon as the word left his lips. "Shelia..." Darren cried harder, drawing his knees to his chest. He began wailing her name, in the suffocating isolation of his flat, in the darkness of the spaces outside the bathroom, in the stillness of the air. In the dead of his apartment, only her name pierced the air. In the dead of his mind, only her name pierced the darkness. In the dead of night, her name was the only discernable thing Darren could pick apart from the rest of his thoughts.

And because of her, Darren would keep living. Because of her, Darren decided he couldn't go out like that. 
And because of her, Darren wept into the shadows and wept to the ghosts.

Chris

Chris had sat on the bench long past when the sun had set. He had watched as the blue sky had been shot through with gold, watched as the suns spun gold dipped low below the horizon, and he had stayed sat on the bench long after the sun's beams were just a faint memory. The streetlamps had come on, the closest illuminating his bench with a copper glare.

He didn't know what time it was, but he didn't have a time limit so it didn't really matter. He felt on stage in front of an empty audience, the streetlamp a spotlight for an actor without lines, and to a play with no script. 

He didn't want to leave Darren alone tonight but felt as if his sanity would break if he spent another night with him. Darren had been doing well recently, too, which alleviated Chris's guilt somewhat.

All those empty hours of consoling him, those dark dark hours late at night where it would be nothing but the two of them alone in the shadows, listening to him sob. And how he sobbed. 
Chris felt like his life had been put on pause- his personality, even- as he wasted himself away tending to Darren.

He could feel the hairline fractures on his psyche. He could trace them in his mind.

Chris looked out over the park.

They were all still feeling the destructive waves Kiera's actions had caused. But for once, finally, it seemed like the nightmare might finally be coming to an end.

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Hi all! Thank you so much for reading this far- congrats, you have reached the end of the book!

This is, however, by no means, a finished book. Soon I will be taking it down to give it a MAJOR makeover, with edits to the character development, plot, arcs and passages. It needs heavy editing, but I hope you have enjoyed this read!

Thank youuuuuuuuuu!