To The Moon and Back

𝟒𝟐 | 𝐟𝐢𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭

F I L A M E N T

A strand of cool gas suspended over the photosphere by magnetic fields, which appears dark as seen against the disk of the Sun.

T O T H E
M O O N & B A C K

I STUMBLED OUT of the taxi, my head pounding from the jetlag and the lack of sleep.

My mother really is convinced that forcing me to catch a flight from the UK to Canada and taking me away from the drugs will help me recover. I don't know how she isn't sceptical, to say the least. I have been using for years, and I don't think that a change of scenery will make any difference—if anything, it already feels unfamiliar and isolating.

But, fuck, here I am, in Canada, feeling more depleted than ever—if that's even possible.

Last night, I was been fucking my girlfriend on the back of someone's shitty old car, and now I am in a different country with a phone on zero charge and an overwhelming sense of guilt. I left my person without a word, while knowing that she struggles with abandonment issues. What kind of person does that make me?

A really fucking stupid one.

As I make my way to my little sister's apartment, I felt a pang of anxiety—a feeling I'm usually void of seeing as I don't usually give a fuck but I haven't seen her in years, and I didn't know what to expect.

Would she judge me for my addiction? Would she be disappointed in me for dropping out of college? Would she even want to see me? But then I realize that one of the reasons that I have managed to miraculously upkeep a relationship with no effort is the exact opposite of the reason that Mercy and I cannot bear to even hear one another's name.

Because she doesn't know me.

And that's why of both of my sisters—even the one that I shared a womb with—I am closest with her because Mercy knows me and she criticizes me for it. She resents me for being an addict because I let my addiction touch my family. I know that.

And Alula knows me too well which I absolutely fucking hate because I don't even know myself but she knows my next move before I even know it. But I think she only knows me so well because she fails to grasp the concept of us entering this dreadful world not only two minutes apart, but as two separate people.

I grumpily make my way into my sister's apartment building, which is right in the heart of Toronto City, feeling annoyed and frustrated.

All I can think about is Rory back in London, and how much I wish I could just pick up the phone and hear her voice. But of course, my phone is dead, and I know that when I do finally confront her, there will be hurt and pain in her voice that I just can't handle because I'm a dick.

As I step into the elevator, I can feel my annoyance growing. The elevator seems to take forever to reach my sister's apartment level, and all I can do is stew in my own thoughts. I try to push away the thoughts of her and focus on the present moment, but it's no use.

Finally, the elevator dings and I step out into the hallway. I glance at the apartment numbers as I make my way down the hall, and when I see the number sixty-nine, I can't help but chuckle. If it wasn't for that memorable number, I probably would have forgotten which apartment was my sister's.

As I approach the door, I take a deep breath and try to push my worries aside. I know that being around my sister will be able to take my mind off of things, even if it's just for a little while.

Contemplating whether I should knock or just enter, I raise a fist, tapping my knuckles against the wooden exterior of the door, deciding to knock seeing as Harlow does live with her and I would rather not see anything that I may not be meant to see.