drabbles

on coping mechanisms

I stood in the middle of a blank void stretching on for aeons, staring down at my hands.

"Hey, now, you'll always have me," his warm voice sounded from in front of me, and I could almost imagine those teal eyes of his watching me with deep-rooted concern.

"Will I really?" my voice rang out into the space surrounding me, even though I hadn't spoken those words aloud. "You're not even real." As they echoed endlessly into the distance, I felt his comforting presence fade away in exchange for a cold emptiness that seeped into my bones.

Steady arms hugged me from behind, wrapping around my torso. "Cheer up, please," another voice murmured, its owner nuzzling into the crook of my neck as he spoke, slow and sleepy like a cat lying in sunshine.

I let my eyes fall shut, let myself lean back into the touch, but all the same, I told him, "You wouldn't act like this if you were real, you know."

A soft chuckle. "That's rather the point, don't you think?"

I sighed, sad and quiet. "I have to go back sometime. Back to reality, where you aren't. Where no one is."

"But this isn't reality, is it?"

"I suppose not."

He hummed, the low sound sending vibrations I could feel from where his chin rested gently on my shoulder. "Stay, for a while? With me."

I smiled down at the arms still wrapped around me, covered with a comfortable-looking sweater that hung just past his fingertips. It was dotted with cat paws and video game sprites, and I couldn't help but think of how well it summed up his personality. "You know I will."

I stood there with my eyes closed for a few seconds—but perhaps it'd been minutes, even hours since I got there. Who knew how time works in this forgotten plane?

"He's just as not-real as me," he said suddenly, breaking the peaceful silence. It may have seemed abrupt to any outsider, but to my racing thoughts it was just another suggestion that my mind churned over. This place was knitted from my thoughts, after all—from the nothingness surrounding me to the boy that was hugging me from behind—and it would only make sense if he could read the fabric of thoughts I'd crafted him from.

I didn't question the—mind-reading? Telepathy?—only nodded in consideration. It made things easier, even if it was strange, and I had no reason to protest.

The first voice popped back into existence, and with it returned the comforting presence I could feel like a crackling fireplace scattering warmth everywhere. "I said I'll always be here for you," he said by way of greeting, reciting a promise he whispered to me weeks ago, kneeling before me with my hands between his own while I wailed soundlessly into my knees.

I let him appear, let the boy behind me release me from his embrace and vanish, and buried my face into him. He let me, quietly wrapping his arms around me as I breathed in his familiar scent.

"The world is fucked up," I whispered into his hold, the words half-muffled by his clothes, but he heard me anyway. I didn't have to say it out loud for him to know exactly what I was thinking.

He ran his fingers through my hair, his fingertips running across my scalp calmingly. "I know."

"It's hard to see. It's hard to breathe. I can't hope."

"...I know."

"I hate it. I hate this world. I hate this species. I—I can't."

"It'll be okay."

"It won't, not for another hundred years and maybe hundreds more. We're fucked in the head. We're dooming ourselves. We're on a track speeding towards extinction. We're racing towards the end of it all," I rambled, my voice rising in volume and frustration alike but still somehow shaky and uncertain.

"It will be. You just have to trust in them, all of them. They'll get their shit together."

"How do you know?" I demanded, gritting my teeth and curling my fingers into the folds of his clothes, trying to stop the tears from falling as I pressed my forehead into his chest.

"I don't. You don't. None of us do."

"Then—"

"But you don't know that they'll fail, either. There isn't a 100% possibility of them staying on this course. There's still a chance. There's still hope. There's still light at the end of the tunnel, however faint it may be."

I dug my teeth into my lower lip and hugged him even tighter. "I'm scared."

"I can't see that hope, sometimes. I can't focus on my stupid notes when there's people out there, preparing for possibilities of being murdered, of—of being assaulted, attacked, having to refrain from being who they are because they'll probably be killed, or, or beaten for it—like it's not just a possibility, and it probably isn't! Because there's so many fucked-up people out there, and they treat others like they're just—I don't even know, but it's fucked up. There isn't any other way to describe it. It's just plain fucked up."

He smoothed my hair, patting it comfortingly. "One thing at a time. Focus on what you can do. Finish what you're doing right now before you move on to the next task. Remember, you have to get stronger to help others. Don't destroy yourself trying to give everything away. Grow, get a steady income, settle yourself first, then volunteer, donate, help any way you can."

I sniffled, and the tears rushed down my cheeks as if on cue. Not worrying about them soaking his clothes, he just rubbed circles into my back and let me cry.

"But first, help yourself. Let yourself breathe. Let yourself hope. Let yourself rest. Make sure that when you look at the world, you can still see those colours that make you smile. Make memories that support you in hard times. Remember warm hands and grateful smiles and honeyed joy. Don't lose yourself helping others," he said, his tone calm and steady like a lighthouse standing strong while a storm rages around it.

I nodded in response, biting down on my lip to staunch the incessant tears that seemed to have doubled in amount at his words. A hand suddenly lifted my face, tilting it upwards so I was looking straight at him. Gently, his thumb pulled at my lower lip until my teeth loosened and released my lip from between them. "And don't bite your lip, you'll hurt yourself."

I nodded again, albeit more sheepishly, and he smiled. "Don't bite your knuckles or your palm, either," he chided, and I buried my face in his clothes in embarrassment but he wrangled a promise to not do it out of me anyway.

__________________

don't talk to me about my coping mechanisms I don't want to talk about them either