Indra

twenty-one | comfort

twenty-one | COMFORT
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I  N  D  R  A    F  O  R  E  S  T

Flashback
Four years ago

With the eerie sight of darkness right in front of me, I hold my gaze with it, hoping to wipe my memories of what just happened and clear the sounds from the police sirens outside.

I just told my dad what my mother had done. And now, more than ever, I regret telling him.

Present.

Life is a game.

There are always problems to overcome in order to win the most fantastic prize of all time. An eternal state of happiness.

I would do anything to hold that glorious prize in my hand, to wake up one day and just feel happy, to feel that blissful feeling running through my veins, and to not have to force my lips upward into an artificial smile.

But the problem is when you win, you don't get the prize of happiness, you get the prize of death.

Because happiness is not permanent, only death is.

And I bet, the afterlife will have more happiness than the life I'm living now.

Vision blurred due to the tears and tears oozing from my eyes, my back pressed against the door, wanting to sink into a different world, and my knees glued against my chest. All things I do when I receive calls like this from my own family.

I should've never answered the fucking call.

Only if my dad was here, he would talk to my mother and brother about it. Only if my dad was here, he would try every possible chance to dissipate all the tears rushing down my face. Only if my dad was here, he would throw a party for both my brother and me and not just for my brother just like my mother did.

Using if with my dad is something I shouldn't give myself hope for. If this. If that. If is something you use when a particular thing could or will happen. When it comes to my dad it's never a will. Because he's dead and there's never a possible chance he will ever return again.

And all I have to do is accept the reality of it instead of giving myself hope.

My lungs emptied, hoping the pain would follow. I need to go outside and tell Beau that I'm okay like I've been telling everyone in my gosh damn life.

Fake it till you make it, I guess.

I've been faking it for my whole fucking life, when will I reach the point where I make it.

In an instant, the door vanishes behind me, and my back collides with the floor. The sight above me is Beau's worried face upside down as the slight, "ow," escapes my lips.

"Shit, I'm sorry," He apologizes. "You were in the bathroom for thirty minutes, and I was starting to get worried."

"It's okay." I shift around, finding some type of comfort on the floor. "I might get sore in a couple of hours. So, I might need a massage later."

"I'll give you as much as you need," he chuckles as I lift my upper body off the floor and stand up on my feet. "Hey?" Beau steps closer to me, worriedness written all over his face. "Are you okay?" A pause moment happened between us but then, once I connected my eyes with his emerald green eyes, he knew that something was wrong.

"Yea, I just need to sleep or maybe-" I try to finish my sentence but Beau interrupts me by cupping my face, the warmth alleviating my pain.

"You can't convince me when you're not okay." He whispers, tucking the extra strands of my hair under my ear. "I know all the tricks." He playfully jokes before saying, "Come on, let's sit down."