Safety Among Scars (A story of Depression)

Chapter 1: Grief

Saturday, August 11th

Percilla Prince Laurence, son of John Laurence, lay under the empty starless-sky, gazing at the vast emptiness above. It was nothing, however, compared to the emptiness he felt in his heart. He did not move. He did not speak. He did not cry. He simply lay there, letting his insecure mind be consumed by the darkness of his thoughts.

Johanna Laurence, wife of John Laurence, chose a more unorthodox approach to the loss of her husband: drinking away her problems. When she learned her husband had been murdered, she was quick to collect a rather large life insurance policy benefit of just under half a million dollars. Making a beeline for a nearby liquor store, she paid no attention to her devastated son. Although at the time she had no idea, this ignorance would have terrible, terrible consequences to come.

6 miles away, on the other side of Eastborough, a normal Saturday was underway on Whitney Lane. The birds chirped. The mailman fulfilled his duties. Cars hurried along the private street, trying to beat the rush hour commute traffic. No one heard, however, the muffled cries from help coming from 414 Whitney Lane. No one heard the children's pleas, begging for mercy. No one heard their cries.

The seeds had been planted, however, a veil of darkness surrounded Eastborough. And while no one knew it yet, the murders of John Laurence and Raymond Graham were only the first of many to come.

Sunday, August 12th

No one slept soundly that night in Eastborough, the murder of two men still fresh
on their minds. When the morning sun broke the serene night sky, Percilla hoped to wake and realize it was all a bad dream. He hoped he would wake to his father preparing his briefcase for work and making his favorite breakfast of scrambled eggs and toast.

Percilla received no such luxury.

Upon heading downstairs, he found his drunk mother passed out on the couch, bottles of beer, champagne, and whiskey strewn throughout the house. On the table, the paperwork from the life insurance company sat untouched, and a few receipts were laid out on the table. In total, Johanna had spent upwards of eight hundred dollars on alcohol the night before.

Thinking it was a one-time purge night, Percilla decided to cut his mother some slack. Hell, just because he didn't drink doesn't mean he was in any better condition. His eyes were stained red, hair featuring an uncanny resemblance to a rat's nest, and he reeked of a mysterious odor worse than a sewage drain.

Percilla didn't bother eating. He wasn't hungry, and wasn't really sure if he ever would be. In fact, he had other plans on how to spend his time in the kitchen. He needed a form of release, a way to let his emotions out. He had screamed, cried, vented, and tried every vocal solution possible. Nothing worked. He had hoped he wouldn't bring himself to trying it, but he saw no other way. For the first time in his life, sixteen-year-old Percilla Prince Laurence cut himself.

It wasn't a deep cut, nor was it wide or long. But it was enough. Blood poured from the crevice in his skin, dripping down his arm and into the awaiting sink. It hurt like hell, yet Percilla felt somewhat satisfied. He was ashamed that he had intentionally and willingly injured himself, but in a way it was worth it. Even if just for a second, the pain he felt in his heart had been numbed by the burning pain sensation shooting from his wrist. He promised himself that he would limit it to just that one single cut. He promised himself he wouldn't become addicted to self harm, for the sake of his mother's sanity.

But as minutes passed, he began to question if his mother indeed had any sanity left in her broken body. By the time Percilla cleaned the kitchen, Johanna had awoken, stumbling into the room drunkenly. "Wha-what's for b-b-breakfast?" She managed to ask.

Percilla popped some bread in the toaster, "Toast. Not in the mood to make anything else right now."

"Hey kiddo, you okay?" Johanna asked, showing a sign of maturity for the first time in forty-eight hours. Internally, he was about to breakdown, but for the sake of his drunk mother he pretended like he was okay.

"Yeah.. I'm fine" he lied, faking a smile. She smiled back at him, "oh okay, just checking."

She paused, "listen kiddo, I know I've been drinking a lot, but it helps. You wanna glass?"

"Mom, I'm 16," Percilla couldn't tell if she was kidding or not.

"Eh, 16, 18, 21, what's the difference?"

He shook his head and went upstairs. As soon as he shut the door, the sound of breaking glass followed by an audible "Oops!" Came from downstairs. With a sigh, Percilla plopped down on his bed and took a long look at his wrist. The cut had stopped bleeding, and could probably be passed off as a scratch from a thorn bush if anyone asked. On the other hand, he did not know of any thorn bushes nearby, which could raise suspicion if he was questioned further.

Deciding it wasn't worth the risk, he shoved on a three-sizes-too-big hoodie and went back downstairs to spend time with his mom. When he arrived downstairs, his mouth fell open and an audible gasp was heard. Johanna had passed out on the floor, her hand bloody with broken bits of glass from a nearby fallen wine glass.

Trying to be as gentle as possible, Percilla slowly dragged Johanna across the mahogany-colored hardwood. Once his mother was out of the way, he got to work cleaning up the shards of glass, pricking his hands multiple times in the process. In any other situation, Percilla would've cried out in pain and stopped to tend to his wounded hand, but at this point he honestly didn't care what happened to him.

For years he had always thought those who dared to self harm were crazy, but now he was starting to think of self harm as a longterm addiction. Of course, he had still limited himself to one single cut, but at the rate his mental health was deteriorating, it was only a matter of time before one turned to two, two turned to four, and so on. In fact, had he not been so worried about his alcoholic mother, Percilla would've even considered taking his own life. Not that he would've had the courage to do it, anyway.

He had heard enough stories of failed suicide attempts landing folks in the hospital with permanent brain damage or severed limbs. He wasn't afraid of dying. In fact, he welcome death and the opportunity to join his father. He feared failing, and he couldn't bring himself to leave his mother alone.

Suddenly, Percilla felt sick in his stomach. He leapt to his feet, and sprinted to the bathroom just in time before he threw up all over the bathroom. He stared in disgust at what he had done. Was this the symptoms of depression kicking in? Was the denial phase starting to end? He didn't understand any of it. After cleaning up the mess, he decided he wouldn't be able to do this on his own. His mother would be no help, (she was passed out on the couch again.) And social services would simply lock him up in a foster home.

Percilla needed a therapist. He couldn't even begin to understand what was going on in his own mind, let alone his mother's mind. If he wanted to take care of her, he would need to be able to take care of himself first. With that in mind, Percilla grabbed the life insurance money from the table, laced up his ancient pair of beat-up Chuck Taylor All-star's, and headed out the door to seek help.

Not just any kind of help, however,

Mental help.