THOSE SUMMER NIGHTS

[45]

[45]

- ATLAS -

-

(TW: Self-harm and mentions of suicide)

There was something comforting about repetition and familiarity.

The crashing of waves against the shores out on the beach; the sound of seagulls squawking and soaring over the water; the soft sounds of music coming from the stores that lined the beach a few streets over.

The melodic laugh Mom would make when Dad used to pick her up and spin her around to the sound of Billie Holiday; the times Athena and Jason would let me tag along with them on their trips to the pool when we were young; the smell of muffins fresh from the oven every morning at Grandma and Grandpa's house.

The quiet in my room when you know there would be nobody home for hours; the stillness of the sky, moon, and stars as you stared at them from the carpeted floor of your room; the soft voice of Edith Piaf floating into my room from the vinyl playing downstairs; the fading, fading, fading away...

The white paleness of the ceiling overhead; the low hum of the fan; the sound of water thrumming through the fixtures of a house; the cool feel of the tile against the exposed parts of my skin; the fading, fading, fading away...

And as I sit here, staring at the ceiling, listening to the music floating in from the living room downstairs, I take comfort in the familiarity. I take comfort in the fact that I've been here before, that I know what comes next.

There are no tears and there is no fear cradling my bones. All there is that's left is me and the blade in my hand and these thoughts.

I think back to Mrs. Holly, our neighbor who lived a few houses down from us. She was a widow with nobody left but her maid, Olive, and her dog, Rocky. Her husband had died a few years back from pancreatic cancer and her children had all grown up, started families of their own. I used to see her a lot by the lake that was right next to our house. She used to bring along Rocky and feed the birds that gathered by the trail.

While she quietly hummed to herself and stared off into the ripples of the lake, I was few feet from her, quietly drawing or scribbling words onto a piece of paper. I would zone out a lot, get lost in the ripples of the water just like her, thinking about then and now and everything in between.

The first time we spoke was on a Thursday. I had skipped school to write down my thoughts, compose a few poems, and sketch. She called out to me, "Read to me what you're writing, boy."

I didn't want to. I would have rather crawled into my skin or jumped into the lake then read to her what I was writing. She seemed to sense that by the way I hesitated and patted the spot on the bench next to her. As I made my way to the sat, Rocky lifted his head up from the ground and watched me. He was getting old, greying just like her.

"My husband used to write all the time when he was about your age—when we first met. Everywhere he went, he had this little notebook, a little smaller than yours and frayying at the corners. He used to write and write and write.

"Back then, I used to work at my parent's restaurant, cleaning tables, closing checks, that sort of stuff and he—" She paused, smiling softly at the memory, "He used to sit at the very back, sipping a glass of water and writing. He'd come in like clockwork every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoon.