heart eyes

muted

You have to stay alive, no matter how dead you feel. No matter how dead you want to be.

When was the last time you felt something other than nothing?

Trigger warning:
depression

(this is a sad one, folks)

"What are you doing after school today?" Lucas asks as the bell ending last period rings.

"Seeing Justin," you say in annoyance.

Lately, people have been worrying about you a lot. You wish they'd stop. It gets really annoying when the whole world is breathing down your neck, watching your every move, every step, analyzing every word that comes out of your mouth and using them as excuses to ask how you're doing, or to say they're worried about you. Of course they're worried about you. You're worried about yourself.

Lucas lets out a sigh as he walks with you into the hallway.

"Don't you think..." he sighs again. "Don't you think it's time you stopped?"

"No," you grunt as you slam your locker shut. A few heads turn.

You wish they'd stop staring all the time.

"It's not healthy. Let him go."

"Shut up, Lucas, I'm not 12. I can make my own decisions." You sling your bag over your shoulder and leave Lucas at the locker.

Outside it is warm and sunny, exactly the opposite of how you feel.

Because lately, you feel like nothing. You feel like the world is crumbling to pieces around you, and you can't stop it. You can't stop people from judging you, calling you obsessive or crazy, or anything on the spectrum of insanity. You can't stop them from casting wary looks at you as you walk through the halls, wondering if you're still 'a little off,' or if you're finally the you that you were before. The pre-Justin you.

You feel like you don't have the choice of whether or not you want to live, and it makes you want to curl up and cry and shout and scream until your throat is raw. You have to stay alive, no matter how dead you feel. No matter how dead you want to be.

And mom and dad don't understand why you can't just let go, and Lucas tells you to stop, and Justin doesn't say anything. He just listens. He always just listens. Good listener.

Everyone looks at you like you're crazy, and they're worried about you, and of course they are, because have you seen yourself lately? When's the last time you slept? Last time you ate? Last time you were careful about how much medication you took? Last time you looked before you crossed the street? Last time you were careful using a knife, the last time you wanted to be alive, or the last time you felt alive? The last time you cared, last time you did something you loved, last time you felt something other than nothing? Last time you weren't helpless and numb and aching and nothing? When was the last time?

You know the answer, I know that.

It was pre-Justin. Well, pre-post-Justin, I guess.

As you walk to Justin's, you can't help from dreading that he will always just listen.

***

You get home later that night, and toss your backpack beside the front door. You don't bring it up to your room, because you won't do the work. You don't care enough. Even if you did, your mind isn't exactly focused.

Before you can escape into your room, your mother stops you at the bottom of the stairs with a sad look in her eyes. The only look you've seen from her lately.

"Hey honey," She says helplessly as she holds back tears, trying to feign happiness. Faking it for you. You wonder why you can't do the same. You wonder why you can't pretend like everybody else does. At least she tries.

"I just want to sleep." You use the same excuse you've been using for months.

"You're tired?" She gives you a sympathetic smile.

"Not really," you shrug and move past her. You hear her let out a silent sob when she thinks you're out of earshot. You wish you felt bad. You wish you felt something, anything.

You're in your room, but you're not moving. You're standing in the middle, not caring enough to get to your bed. You stand and look around, not seeing anything except for lack of care. The mess you've let build up; clothes, wrappers from the few things you've been eating, tissues that you stopped using a long time ago. You stopped crying a long time ago, about the same time you stopped feeling the need to.

You feel empty and alone looking at what would be left of your life if you stopped.

Your dad knocks on the door.

You don't say anything. You barely hear it. You're too busy standing in the middle of the room and feeling nothing.

"I'm coming in," he says in a fake happy voice. He notices you, empty and void of emotion, standing in the middle of the room, and says, in a choked-up voice, "What are you doing there, bud?"

"I don't know," you whisper. You don't know. You don't what you're doing, you don't know what you're doing to do, and you don't know why you even try. You don't know why you do anything anymore.

Your dad looks like he's going to say something, but you notice that he stops and grabs at his collar.

"Do you want to watch something with me and your mother? We want to spend time with you."

We want to spend time with you. Another way of saying, "We're worried about you."

Everyone is.

You feel yourself shrug and your feet lead up to the door, then down the stairs, then to the couch, where you stop and sit down. Your mother is already sitting there, and she gives you the saddest happy smile you've seen so far. You see through it, you always do. People don't have tears in their eyes when they're happy.

"What do you want to watch?" She asks you in a shaky voice.

You shrug. You don't care anymore.

Your dad pops in an Indiana Jones movie and the three of you sit on the couch in silence. No one is watching the movie. You see your parents cast nervous glances to each other from both sides of you, and you're too empty to enjoy yourself.

"We're gonna run to the kitchen real quick, okay, bud?" Your dad smiles as if he's about to cry and stands up along with your mom. They leave you alone on the couch with the movie playing. You mute it, and you can hear their conversation from the kitchen.

"I don't know what to do, Bea, it's like I'm talking to a skeleton. No, it's like I'm talking to a fucking ghost. He's not even here anymore! He's gone, he's been gone ever since Justin," your father says in hysterics. He speaks fast and sad and his voice is hopeless.

"I don't know either, okay? I just don't know. I can't talk to him. It hurts, alright? It hurts to look at my own son! He doesn't eat anymore, Ken," She's sobbing now, too, and you wonder how you're the one who's out of tears.

"I don't know what to do." Your father shouts, and you hear something break. A plate, maybe. "He spends all his damn time at some dead boy's grave. When I went to get him from his room, do you know what he was doing? He was just standing there! He was just standing and looking around and I don't know how he's even alive, because he looks dead. He looks like he wants to be dead, Bea!"

"It wasn't just some boy to him. It was Justin."

You sit on the couch and listen to your parents shouting in the kitchen. More angry voices slice the air. More tears are shed. More words that never should have been spoken, never should have been heard.

Indiana Jones plays silently in the background, muted.

You know exactly how he feels.