Falling Colors

Chapter Thirty: What the Strong Do

When I came home two days later, my dad didn’t acknowledge me; not at dinner, not when I passed him in the hallway, not when I was in my room crying when he dropped off my laundry.  Never.

       When his gaze brushed over me there was no reaction like there had once been; I was invisible to him.  He would mumble a few things to Leigh and try to hold a conversation, but it was a struggle for him. 

        Leigh was trying to remain positive.  She would try to do things with my dad that once made him happy, but now… nothing was helping him. 

       We were too similar now.  Both of us were stuck in a world that we couldn’t escape.  The best way to describe what we were feeling was:  we had fallen into a hole during a race and couldn’t get out to cross the finish line.  We had lost hope.  No one knew what to do to pull us out.  The ropes weren’t long enough, our bodies not strong enough to climb, and when someone tried to pull us out – we pulled them down with us.

      I could only imagine what Leigh was feeling.  She was trapped in a house full of silence.  She was fighting to not fall into the hole as she was trying to pull us out of.

       It was Wednesday when I went back to Cleo’s.  Leigh drove me and tried to act like everything was the same before my relapse.  She talked, but not like she once had.  Everything came out too forced and it was obvious she was trying hard to not sound sharp or angry when talking to me. 

       “So your father and I are going out for a bit while you’re at therapy.  We’ll pick you up when it’s over, hon.  Try to make the most of it.”

        When we pulled into the parking-lot of group therapy hurriedly and slammed the car door.  Leigh didn’t roll down the window like she usually did to bid me goodbye.  She backed out of the parking spot and drove off, leaving me to walk into Cleo’s without watchful eyes.

      Once inside, I was surprised to be met with the sound of several voices chit-chatting.  Everyone was there, which was odd since some of the group didn’t show up for an hour or so later, typically.

       “Look who it is!” Cleo shouted, clapping her hands.  “Odette!”

       I shuffled to my seat and fought the bile that was rising in my throat because I couldn’t pick at my hands.  They were still heavily bandaged, looking like mittens.  It would be a few weeks before they would be removed.  Then I’d be required to wear gloves all the time and try to find other ways to release my anxiety.

      I looked up from my hands, and saw everyone else was staring at them too.  They shamelessly stared.  Wiley was the one who broke the silence though.

      “What happened to you?”

        “She had a little bit of extreme anxiety,” Cleo answered.  Her voice wasn’t hushed or guarded.  Cleo said it like you would say ‘I had pizza for dinner last night’.

        Silence.

       “Did you try to kill yourself again?” Mason asked, his eyes wide.

       “Looks that way, dipshit,” Avery shot, filing her bright pink nails.

       “Shut up,” Mason said, fist clenching.

       “Why?”

       “Because you’re a bitch,” he replied coldly.

       Avery laughed loudly.  Her head thrown back and shoulders shaking.  “At least I’m not the idiot trying to kill myself.”

       Everyone flinched at Avery’s comment.  Cleo looked at her calmly, but at the edge of her seat, waiting to stop something before it got out of hand; or so I hoped.

      “You’re not an idiot if you try to kill yourself!” Mason shouted, standing up.  “You’re strong.  You finally get that it is not all about everyone else.  You finally decide to put yourself first!”

       “Oh please,” she scoffed.  “You’re beautifying it.  ‘It’s what the strong do’ my ass.”

       She folded her arms across her chest, sinking back in her seat, then before Mason could say something again she interrupted him.  “It’s not what the strong do. The strong keep living in this shitty ass world.  They keep trying to believe eventually the world will get better.  They don’t just decide ‘oh hey look! Life is a big tough right now, let’s just kill myself and everything will be better!’”

       “Who the hell gets better?  You don’t.  You’ll still be a miserable idiot – a dead miserable idiot, but still one nonetheless.  And you sure as hell don’t make everyone around you better.

       “So maybe you should put away the knives, razor blades, pills, ropes and everything and go out and live a little!  Go out and look at the world for what it is.  Yes life does such and yes it is hard.  And yes, maybe there are more bad days than good – but you know what?  That’s what makes the good days so great.”

        She took a deep breath, and closed her eyes.  “So stop.  Stop trying to think of a way out of this world and try to think of a way to stay in.”

         Avery slumped back into her seat, folding her arms over her chest, ignoring all of our helpless stares.  She bit her lip and tried to control her breathing. 

        The way she had been talking was … bitter.  She sounded hurt and afraid.  Like she had been the one left behind.

       “Avery, aren’t you here because you tried to kill yourself?” Felix asked, quietly.

        Her lips quivered before she answered tonelessly.  “I ODed.  I didn’t want to die or leave forever.  I wouldn’t do that to people.  I wanted to escape for a few hours a day.  When you’re an addict—when you’re an addict dying is the last thing you want.”

       “Then why are you here?” Mason shouted again.  His face was red with rage.  “This isn’t a place for you to lash out your anger for a few days a week!  All of us here need this.  We need to get better.  We need support!  Why are you here?”

       Avery pursed her lips.  “Because I’m broken, too.”

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Question: Who do you think the target audience this story is for? (the depressed, the ones past their depression, the ones who are living with people who are depressed, etc).  Love to hear your thoughts!