The Olive Theory

Chapter 2

MICHAEL

Beep-beep-beep

My eyes slowly opened. I sat up, groaned. I glanced over at my alarm clock blaring at me from my wooden end table. I hit the top to shut it up. It was already 8:20. Of course. I had hit snooze one too many times and now I had about ten minutes to get ready. I grabbed my phone from the table resting beside my bottles of melatonin and fluoxetine and other drugs with names so long I couldn't remember, pulling my white busted up charger out of it. It flicked on, displaying my lockscreen and the picture of Natalia that she had changed it to. I fisted my messy hair. I had about one, two, sixteen too many messages from Natalia I didn't even bother opening. Sometimes I question why I even put myself through the torture of dating her. I have to constantly remind myself that she's the only excuse I have to leave this shitty house that's always empty, given my lack of friends. Yeah, pathetic, I know. But I've gotten used to it. I've gotten used to rotting away in this hell of a house, so it's a nice change of pace to have a reason to leave. I yanked my old stained bedsheets off my sweaty body and sat up in my boxers. I took a breath and got out of bed, walked across the array of clothes on my floor. There wasn't even a floor at this point, just piles upon piles of messy clothes. I was somewhat grateful my mom didn't yell at me to clean it like other mom's do. She gets it. But I also wish she would, because my room's been like this for so long I can't remember what it looks like clean, and I hate how she's not a bitch about cleaning the house either, because I can't handle the clutter and the garbage bin with trash spilling out and the unnecessary objects stacked up in the corners. When I got to the bathroom I shut the door behind me and turned on the faucet. I splashed cold water in my face, and held onto the counter. You got out of bed, that's a big step. I heard my therapist's voice ringing in my head. I groaned. Hit my fist to my forehead. I guess I was getting better. Last year, I was at school by the third block, if I went at all. This was an improvement. Baby steps, Dr. Draya told me. Improvement. My breath hitched, a lump started forming in my throat. I felt my arms shake and quiver as I clenched harder to the bathroom counter. I closed my eyes, swallowed hard, and pushed back tears. Improvement. I was improving.

I couldn't fall back into that pit of sorrow and despair. Which is why I was improving, because I couldn't do that to my mom. She has no one else there anymore, no one to comfort her as she sobs and weeps, not after dad left this summer. I had to be the man of the house, I had to take care of her. I don't think she could handle it if I tried to commit suicide again, even if I failed. It would shatter her to pieces. I can't do that to her.

Last year I was nothing but selfish. It was selfish of me to take more pills than my body could handle to escape my problems instead of solving them, just because the monsters in my head told me it was the only way to get rid of them. I never thought of the consequences of my outcomes. My mom would be alone. Alone.

There's a part of me that still wants it, a part of me that's pulling on my hair and begging and crying and yelling at me to go back to my old ways. And a part of me wants to listen.

It's weird, but I find comfort in that pain, comfort in the tears, comfort in the blood. I know it so well. So well. But I can't.

I'm the only person my mom has. And she's the only person I have, too. So I'm stuck in this state of "improving" that feels like it's been going on forever without any actual change. Everyday just feels the same and I don't feel like I'm getting better, but my therapist says otherwise. She says I'm improving. And she's the professional, with the diploma hung up on her wall like a trophy, so I guess she's right.

I shuffle downstairs, my backpack already over my one shoulder as I step into the checkered kitchen. Dirty dishes are piled up in the sink as my mom spoons something out of a pot I assume is breakfast.

"Oatmeal?" I asked as I pulled up a chair, squinting as the kitchen light flickered. Her head snapped up, startled, like she hadn't noticed me coming in. She squirmed over to the kitchen table I'm sitting at and handed me a bowl of flavorless oat with a white plastic spoon stuck between the oats.

"Mhm," She hummed quietly in response. I shoveled in a few bites before speaking.

"You okay, mum?" I asked with food still lingering in my mouth, tilting my head a little in concern. She looked up at me.

"Yeah, just tired. I didn't sleep much." She offered me a smile before looking down at her hands in the shapes of fist as she rested them on the counter. Her smile fades. I swallowed hard.

"Did you already eat?" I questioned, though I know she hadn't.

"Oh, yeah," She nodded, smiling again as she met my eyes. "I had a bowl of fruit."

I sighed a little. She didn't eat much anymore. I didn't know if it was because she's barely affording food for the both of us, or if she just can't eat. She's grown skinny, and it breaks me seeing her like that.

"Mom, I'm worried about you," I spoke softly, placing my spoon on the counter.

"Don't be," She brushed me off. "I'm your mom. I'm the one that's supposed to worry, Micheal."

I lowered my eyes to my bowl. "Did you take your meds?" She asked. I looked up.

"Yup." I lied. "Did you?"

She looked away, avoiding my eyes.

I couldn't take this. I shifted out of my seat, it squeaked against the floor. I didn't bother to put away my dish.

"Bye, mom." I said as I left.

"Bye Mikey," She called out as the door shut behind me.