I Am You

Chapter Three

I was in my room, thinking about what I was going to write for my assignment. This had to be good. I had to make a good first impression on the professor. She seemed a little too chirpy for my liking. She was like that ray of sunshine that barges into your room from the space between the blinds. Weirdly forceful and enthusiastic. In all, the kind that probably wouldn't punish me if I didn't hand in my assignment on time, but would make me feel really fucking horrible about it.

But what if I don't submit it at all? What if everything goes to shit like it did the last time? What if everything falls apart? I swallowed hard as memories rushed through my mind, like water ushering down a mountain in a single silent stream. I tried not to think about it. But I was reminded how it feels like to know that you did the best you could and it still wasn't good enough.

My throat felt dry. Suddenly, it became harder to breathe. A feeling that I thought I had left behind a long time ago, returned. I didn't feel numb anymore. I liked feeling numb. I remembered the sensation or more so, the lack of it that traced my being in that weird state of my head's silent melancholy.

I got up and rushed to my bathroom. I opened the cabinet, desperately looking for my Prozac. Did I forget to get the refill on my way home today? That's possible. Sometimes when I take these pills, I feel confused. It's just another side effect. I tend to lose track of what I'm doing. But did it happen this time? No, no. I remember. I got the refill. I definitely did. Then where is the bottle? I'm positive I kept it in the cabinet. I was still scrounging through the cabinet when I heard Dylan's voice.

'Looking for this?' he asked, the bottle in his hand.

Remember when I said I don't like talking about myself? This is why.

'What the hell, Dylan? Give it back. Now.' I growled.

He handed the bottle back to me. I was surprised he found it. He never went through the cabinet, as far as I knew.

'I didn't intend to keep it. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to invade your privacy. I just saw this in there and I was surprised that I knew nothing about it.'

I scoffed.

'You know nothing about it because it's none of your goddamn business! Seriously, keep away.'

His expression softened.

'Listen to me, I know you're a private person. But we've been living in the same apartment for over a month now. I don't have a family and yours is in Sacramento. If you want to stay sane, you'll have to find someone you can talk to. I'm not saying it has to be me. But since I'm the only person you talk to in the whole of New York, I'm the best option you've got right now. All I'm trying to say is—you can talk to me. We don't know each other well, but it doesn't have to stay that way.' he said in a calming tone.

I didn't know what to say. Yes, I was a private person, but not by choice. I explained my hurt, and I still got hurt. That's why I chose silence. But right now, looking at Dylan, I had a gut feeling that I could rely upon him. Maybe he could be the friend I never thought I needed. But I wasn't going to open up to him about everything, obviously. Not just yet.

'Thanks, Dylan. I know you mean well. But the thing is, I just don't want to talk about it. I don't know how to.' I said.

My frown softened. When you've been used to feeding a certain expression to your face, any foreign expression hits really hard. Like the waves leaving the shore, going back to the ocean. Back to where they belong.

'You don't have to talk about it right now. Whenever you're comfortable enough. You know that you have a friend, right?' he said, pointing at himself.

'I do now.' I said, smiling. Finally.

'Good.' he said, returning the gesture. 'Okay, I'm going to go and make dinner now.'

'Yeah, I have an assignment to complete.'

With that, I went back into my room. The bottle of Prozac was still in my hand. I loosened my grip around it. For the first time in months I didn't feel like I needed it to breathe. I tossed it in one of the drawers and started working on my assignment. By the way, I still couldn't believe that this stupid assignment had to be handwritten.

                             THE CHOICE

Staring at the ceiling, head on my pillow, I contemplate. I have to make a choice. Making this choice is hard. More than you'd think. I remember the first time being the hardest, though. But eventually, it gets easier.

It sucks because for a minute I was happy, for a minute I was getting better, for a minute I had hope. But in a minute, I lost it all again.

I keep thinking about the choice. I try hard to avoid it. So hard, that tears start rolling down my face and onto my pillow. I start screaming, but no sound comes out of my mouth. I lay there in silence.

Deep down, I know I've already made the choice. I get out of the bed, walk up to my desk and open up the drawer. It's filled with all kinds of blades. I pick one of those up and blankly slice my arm open, just like that. My hands were steady. I remember them being quivery when I did this for the first time. My body used to tremble. Now it doesn't. It becomes easier each time.

All my thoughts flow away with my blood. I'm left with a void.

As I sink in my bed again, staring at the ceiling again, both my blood and my tears flow.

After completing my assignment, I looked at it again. I mentally scolded myself. I didn't even realise what I was writing because of how easily those words flowed. I'll have to think of something else. I knew I'd have to rewrite it. I sighed, crumpled the paper and threw it into the dustbin.

'Too personal.' I murmured, staring at the scars on my wrist.

'Michelle, dinner!' Dylan called.

I pulled my sleeves down and headed out towards the dining table.