Whispers In The Dark

Reximus

Reximus

His funeral was two weeks later, on a Saturday.

I had never been to a funeral before. When my grandfather died, I was only seven. My parents decided that I was too young to have to experience something so awful and morbid, and so I never went to his funeral. But I was sixteen, almost seventeen, and there was no escaping my own father’s service.

My mom requested a closed casket. She told her sister, Aunt Jamie, that if she saw her husband of almost sixteen years lying still in a casket, she might be tempted to just climb in with him and die. They had been high school lovers. He never even lived to see his fortieth birthday, and suddenly, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to, either.

Aunt Jamie made her an appointment with a therapist the next day.

No one spoke to me during the funeral. I mumbled the same prayers under my breath as everyone else, and did my best to ignore the looks my grandmother was sending my way while trying not to cry. I had done enough of that already.

Robin wasn’t allowed to come to the funeral. My grandmother would have thrown a fit, and though it seemed disrespectful to bring one of my friends (who I had made out with), to my homophobic father’s funeral, it would have been nice to have him there for support.

He was there when I left the cemetery, though. My mom was carpooling with Aunt Jamie, Johnny, my grandmother, and a few other friends and relatives. I knew that my mom was barely functional at the moment, but I also knew that Aunt Jamie didn’t trust her to be on her own. If I was being completely honest, neither did I. I was such a hypocrite.

I knew that that would be the night I finally fell. I had been holding onto a thin string for days, weeks even, but it was wearing thin and my hands were blistered. I couldn’t hold on. I didn’t want to hold on.

My father’s homophobia had been a rat that chewed at the rope constantly, eventually turning it into threads. His death had cut those threads, reducing them to a single string, weak and quivering. The funeral had been the scissors that finally just snapped it. It offered both pain and relief, because sure, I was falling fast and hitting the ground was unstoppable, but at least my hands didn’t hurt and I didn’t have to worry about losing grip, anymore.

My mom was staying at Aunt Jamie’s house, and after a bit of convincing her that I was fine, I was allowed to stay at the house so long as I wasn’t entirely alone. I chose Robin, of course. There was one rule of him staying over:

“He has to sleep on the couch,”

Aunt Jamie had said with sparkling brown eyes and a small smirk.

I sighed and handed Robin a pillow and blanket. I didn’t bother telling him where anything was; he had been around enough over the last two weeks to know my house better than me. “G’night.”

He kissed me quickly and smiled reassuringly before retreating into the living room. “Good night, Rex.”

I groaned softly and ran a hand through my hair. He was kissing me like I was going to crumble before his eyes at any moment. There was no more making out in my bedroom, or crushing hugs that lifted me onto my toes, just tentative pecks and hugs that made me feel like an eggshell.

I didn’t go to my room. I went to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I didn’t stop to stare at myself in the mirror and reflect on the stranger I’d become, like I had so many times before. I didn’t turn on the shower, either; no need to add an explosive water bill to my mom’s long list of worries. I was tempted to break the mirror, just to get it out of me before it was over. I didn’t do that, either.

I grabbed the full bottle of Ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet and opened it. For once, my hands weren’t shaking. My mind was racing, though. My thoughts were banging pressure points in my brain, a blitzkrieg of emotions ravaging my nerves.

I put my mouth to the bottle and tipped a myriad of pills into my mouth, so many that I had to chew them. They smeared orange across my teeth and left a bitter, chalky taste on my tongue. I gagged and held my hands over my mouth to stop myself from spitting them out.

I went slower after that, swallowing three at a time and washing them down with water because my mouth was a desert.

The bottle was almost empty by the time I started to throw up. I was scared, to be completely honest. There was puke on the toilet seat cover and my hands just couldn’t lift it. I crawled to the bathtub, instead. My hands were shaking then, but so was the rest of my body.

In the back of my mind, I realized that every movie I had ever seen had been absolute bullshit. Overdosing was not peaceful and painless, the easiest way out. No. Overdosing was puke and stomach pains and convulsions.

The realization was short-lived, soon replaced by terror and a headache so agonizing it seemed right to assume that my brain was splitting down the middle. In the midst of it all, I still managed to be afraid that I hadn’t taken enough pills, or maybe I threw up too many.

I was shaking so hard my bones were rattling against each other. My stomach was crippling me, shooting pains into my ribcage and muscles.

The door hit the wall behind my head and I opened my mouth to scream, but all that came out was a dribble of vomit. I couldn’t even find it in myself to be embarrassed or disgusted. I just wanted it to stop hurting.

Robin’s eyes were attached to mine and his hands were reaching for me. I opened my mouth to apologize, tell him I loved him, thank him for being there, but my tongue felt like lead. I could hardly breathe. He was crying. So was I.

He was speaking, but I couldn’t understand a word he said. I shook my head to show him that.

I read his lips. “Sorry.” He took a deep breath as more tears fell down his cheeks.

He stuck his fingers into my mouth, and maybe if I hadn’t lost consciousness, I would have tried to stop him.