At least not for me.
Whenever I cry, that fog crawls faster under my skin and the next thing I know, it’s invading my brain and occupying my thoughts. It turns from a need to an impulse, and without a strong presence like Kir’s to stop me, I just give in to it and let go.
Completely. Thoroughly.
I’d be sitting in the bathtub and making a step I can never take back.
I blink the tears away and try to think of bright thoughts.
That’s what my shrink used to say. Bright thoughts.
As if I can conjure them and produce them and somehow tuck them for the bad days. The days where everything disappears and everything hurts – the breaths I take, the contact of the sheet against my skin, the tingling of my veins underneath the scar, demanding release, the tears that want to come out and play with the fog.
All of it.
Every fucking thing.
“Help…” I murmur in a small, haunted voice. “Someone help me.”
No one will hear me. I know they won’t, because even though therapy tells me it’s good to admit I need help, they also said I need to ask it from people.
And I’ll never do that.
People just don’t care. And if they did, they’d merely give me those pity looks that make me want to crawl to someplace no one can find me.
If my own mother, the woman who brought me into this world, doesn’t care, why would anyone else?
My phone vibrates and I startle, nearly falling off the bed.
I’m about to silence it and go back to my little halo, aka a one-person party of self-pity, when I make out the name on the caller ID.
Dad.
I wince, staring at the flashing phone in the dark. Did the school call him, too? He’s not like Mum. If he knows, he’ll sit me down and discuss my therapy options because he recognises I wouldn’t hit someone for no reason, it’s an accumulation of pent-up frustration and blah freaking blah.
I can almost hear the therapist say those words, and that’s why I don’t like them.
Dad thinks therapy is the only solution, but there’s also a simple one he could’ve made nineteen years ago – he shouldn’t have participated in my creation.
He’s a brilliant man and Mum is a successful woman. I shouldn’t have been their daughter.
I don’t pick up. If I do, I’ll start crying, and that’s a no-go right now. Besides, I’m unable to speak when the fog is wrapping its ghostly fingers around my throat like a noose.
If I break down on the phone, Dad will return on the next plane and I’ll have to live with being a disappointment again.
Soon after the call ends, my screen lights with a text from him.
It’s a long one. Dad is as eloquent as anyone can get, even with his texts.
Dad: Hey, Angel. If you’re studying, I don’t want to bother you, but I wanted to check in and see how you’re doing. I’m sorry my calls were sparse yesterday and today. I’ve been working on an important project that will bore you to death if I talk about it. Anyway, I received a call from school, and I’m upset about what happened from the other girl. I’m sure you had your reasons, and you’ll tell me about them one day. It pains me to think you’ve been hurt in any way. Kiss Kirian for me. Daddy loves you both and can’t wait to come back and see you. We’ll go on that family holiday Kir has been asking for. Stay safe, Angel.
A drop of moisture falls on my phone screen as I finish reading the text. I wipe the tear away so the others don’t follow.
Damn it, Dad. Why did you have to put it that way?
Every time he calls me his angel, I’m almost tempted to believe it, to think that I’m someone’s angel, that someone actually feels pain when I’m hurt.
Kimberly: I love you, too, Dad, and I miss you so much.