Breathe

nadia.

~tw whole chapter~

The next morning woke Clay with soft beams of sunlight drifting through his window. The light fell on his face, and he woke slowly, first opening his eyes, then taking a deep breath, in through his nose, out through his mouth. The air around him was still, untouched. It was early, 7:30 according to Clay's phone. Nick and George were nowhere near waking.

Sitting up, Clay pulled his arms out from under the blankets and studied them. A thick, winding scar traveled up both arms from the wrist to halfway up his forearm. He traced the scar on his left arm with his fingertips, feeling the odd sensation of numbness as he ran his fingers across it. The scar tissue had no nerves, no feeling; he could not feel anything there. 

He took in his surroundings. His room was a mess. Clothes lay in various piles all around his room from when he did laundry but was too lazy to put it away. His desk was covered in coffee stains, crumbs, and more clothes. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror across the room; his wavy locks were tangled, and the bags under his eyes were obvious even from across the room. God, how he hated the way he looked sometimes.

Clay stood up and stretched, letting his bones settle into a standing position before heading downstairs to get coffee. The morning light flowed like honey through the massive front windows, draping Clay in its glow and leaving him in peace. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat on the couch, letting the sun wake him and cleanse him from yesterday's events.

You only make things worse. 

"I just want him b-better !Th-there's nothing I c-can do !"

Clay seriously regretted what he said yesterday. He wanted, no, he needed to apologize. He would do it now if it weren't for the fact that George was asleep. Instead, he sat and sipped his coffee, contemplating yesterday and wondering how he could have done things differently.

You only make things worse. 

After about ten minutes of overthinking, Clay's phone went off with a buzz. He ignored it, until the buzzing became more insistent. Groaning, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone, where a very worried Darryl was waiting for him to answer the FaceTime call. 

Sighing, he answered the phone. "Hey, Bad," he started, knowing that this conversation was not going to be a fun one.

"Clay, are you okay ?" the older practically yelled. Screwing up his face from how loud the noise was, Clay nodded and turned down the volume of the call.

"Yeah, I'm good," he told his friend, but this wasn't enough.

"Clay, what happened, buddy ?"

Clay truly did not want to talk about it. It was not even 8 in the morning, he didn't want to start his day off on a sour note such as this.

"Bad, I'm good," he insisted, but Bad cut him off.

"No nicknames here," he said. "And you're not good ! At least you weren't."

The younger boy sighed. "I suppose I probably do owe you an explanation," he caved.

"Yeah, you do ! I'm worried about you, Clay," Darryl said, his voice breaking. "What am I supposed to do when I ask for you and Nick says you're in the hospital ? Do you expect me to just sit around and wait for news ?"

Clay couldn't argue with Darryl. He was right. 

"And then I get a text from Nick yesterday saying you might be relapsing again ? Clay, what is going on ?"

Clay opened his mouth, then closed it again. Was he relapsing again ? Surely he couldn't be...

"Essentially, I, um... I tried to kill myself," he whispered, almost too ashamed to say the words out loud. There was a soft thud as Darryl set his phone down and put his head in his hands. Clay told the older boy his story, not leaving out any details and making sure to include his recovery in the story. As Clay continued, Darryl slowly got more and more silent. When Clay was done, the older boy sniffled quietly for about a minute before picking up his phone again, his face covered in tears.