the book of fluff (that usually isn't)

breathe

they say writers should write what they know, so here

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trigger warning: depression, attempted suicide, and mentions of self-harm

Some days were worse than others.

Some days, he would be having fun with his friends when it hit. Some days, he would be laughing and talking and jamming out to his favorite songs with his favorite people when suddenly all he could think would be how much better it would be if he weren't there. How much better it would be for everyone if he were dead.

Some days, he would hardly be able to get out of bed. Some days, he would lay awake for hours, staring blankly at the ceiling, fantasizing about all the ways he could end his life right then.

It was always there. Darkness was always hovering at the back of his mind, and even when he tried to fight it, it seeped in through the cracks in his walls. When he picked up a pencil to write down his homework, he couldn't help but think that he could stab himself with it and end his life. When he ate breakfast, he couldn't help but think that he could choke on a bite of cereal and die. When he crossed the street, he couldn't help but think that he could get hit by a car careening around the corner and not even have a chance to suck in his last breath before his mind went dark.

No one knew. He made sure of it. He was careful to always wear long sleeves and skinny jeans, even in the summer. If he couldn't get away with skinny jeans, he settled for shorts that went down to his knees. He couldn't risk anyone seeing his arms or his sides or his thighs.

He was certain everyone would be better off without him. He longed for a terminal sickness or a car crash or a murderer to come after him or something. That way, his death wouldn't be his fault, and no one would blame themselves.

Often, he thought about how he would say goodbye. He knew it would be hard to say goodbye to his parents, his sister, his friends, and even his teachers, but Scott would be the hardest. He didn't even know where he would begin with Scott. He loved Scott, in more ways than one, and he wanted desperately to be sure that when he inevitably took his own life, Scott didn't blame himself.

Scott knew Mitch better than Mitch knew himself. If Mitch were to tell anyone about his depression, it would be Scott. He was surprised Scott hadn't figured it out already. They had known each other since they were eight and nine, and now that they were sixteen and seventeen, they were practically attached at the hip. Scott owned Mitch's heart.

Today was a bad day. Mitch smiled and laughed with his friends at lunch, but his eyes were still exhausted. He'd failed a test, his parents had yelled at him that morning before school, he was almost late to class because the star football player beat him up, and he saw Scott with his arm around a girl in the hallway. He was seriously considering ending it that night after his parents and sister went to bed.

"Hey, Mitchy!" Scott greeted cheerfully as he plopped down beside Mitch in his usual spot at the lunch table. "How are you?"

Mitch forced a smile easily. "I'm just wonderful, Scotty. How are you?" It was a total lie, but he'd said it so many times it was second nature.

"I'm great! I'm eating lunch with my best friend." Scott threw his arm over Mitch's shoulders and squeezed him gently, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

Mitch laughed weakly and leaned into his side, resting his head on his shoulder. Scott was so warm, and Mitch wanted to remember this feeling forever. His eyes closed and Scott's arms wrapped around him and briefly, Mitch thought that maybe he should stay.

The moment passed. Scott pulled away from Mitch when the rest of their friends sat down and greeted them with just as much enthusiasm, and the darkness crept into Mitch's mind again. Scott would be better off without Mitch too.