Down For The Count

Loved

*trigger warning* heavy mentions/behaviors of suicide
Paisley's POV

For the past five days, I've gotten little to no sleep.

But when I have been able to sleep, my mind has stayed relatively blank. My thoughts have been peaceful during the tiny amounts of sleep that my body hands me.

Tonight was not the same instance.

The dream was vivid, and...horrifying.

I watched as Mom leaned against the counter, in a...in a hospital gown.

She seemed to be having a sort of mental breakdown, her eyes shut tightly as her breathing was rapid and uneven.

I had never seen this side of Mom before. She was always so put together. Even when Dad left, she managed to put on an unfazed front. She learned how to grieve in private but put on a strong front and act like nothing was wrong for my sake.

"Mom?" I asked. But it was like I was on the outside looking in. She didn't seem to hear me, or see me as she continued to freak out.

I didn't know what was happening, and it was scaring me. I've never seen Mom like this.

Mom stopped for a moment, looking up at the poster that was plastered to the back of the wooden door.

The white numbers on the poster were big, spreading wide across. It was the suicide prevention line. The writing beneath the numbers was calming and mellow, obviously to coax the reader into getting help.

Mom's shaking hands reached into the pocket of her gown, her silver cellphone coming into light.

My eyes pooled with tears as I watched Mom dial the suicide prevention line.

How did I never notice that she was so sad? Was I really so caught up in myself that I never noticed a thing?

And while she dialed the number, she didn't press the call button.

She stared down at the phone for minutes, the call button just waiting to be pressed. She would be connected to a real person on the other line. They could talk things out, Mom could seek the mental health treatment she needed to be better.

She just had to push the button.

"Paisley." Mom whispered, tears falling from her eyes as she held on to the counter edge so tight that her knuckles turned white. "I can't do it. I'm sorry."

My heart sank when she turned her phone off. She wasn't going to call for help.

"Just...just call the number." I tried to urge her.

It became very evident that her cellphone wasn't the only thing in her pocket as she pulled a small yellow bottle of pills out. I had no clue how she had gotten them into the hospital, or how none of the nurses had noticed that she was carrying the small yellow bottle of pills.

"Stop! Call the number!" I yelled loudly. It was very evident that she couldn't hear me, but that wasn't going to stop me from yelling as loud as I could. "Mom!"

She looked at herself in the mirror, seeming disgusted with the person looking back at her.

It baffled me, because Mom was easily the most beautiful person I've ever seen. Why would she look at herself like that?