Peregrination

一 Deracinate

Notes and potential trigger warnings will be at the bottom of each chapter.

Deracinate: to move (people) forcibly from their accustomed surroundings into a new and foreign environment.

~ Peregrination ~

"Becca."

I groan at the sound of my friend's voice and blearily open my eyes. The laptop screen that's been balanced on our laps for the past several hours has been paused and a few empty cans of cider are scattered on the floor. The only remnants of our anime binge is just a light blue-grey block of colour frozen on the screen. "Mmhmm?"

"You seem tired."

Snorting, I send her a wry grin. "Congratulations bae, statement of the century. You should win a award. 'For Sophie, the-"

"Yeah yeah I get it, Jesus." She sighs and gets up from her position next to me on the bed, moving the half of the laptop that was on her leg onto mine. As she stands, the bed creaks ever so slightly. She turns to face me. "Seriously though, I know it's late and we've had a few drinks, but you've been on medication for what, eight months? Shouldn't it be working by now? I swear I have your yawn face commited to memory by now."

"Haha very funny bae, I would be surprised if my yawn wasn't etched into everyone's faces," I shrug and shuffle my legs so the laptop sits more comfortably on my thighs. "But I dunno. It probably should be working by now yes. But hey, if it's not life threatening then why should the NHS even really care about it? It's not like I'm dying."

"Just because you're not dying doesn't mean you should be any less important to them." She says it with a firm voice and a shake of the head. Her dark brown hair swishes with it. "Quality of life is also at stake here."

I snigger and start to retort but she cuts me off.

"No don't you brush me off. I mean it. You're so tired all of the time you can't concentrate or focus on anything at all. It's a wonder you do so well at school! Just imagine how much easier everything would be if your brain wasn't foggy from your chronic fatigue all the time."

"It doesn't matter Soph, let it go. I'm used to it."

"You shouldn't be used to it!" She huffs. "Do I need to bring up other possible symptoms of hypo- whatever the fuck it's called?"

"Oh God please," I groan, rubbing my eyes with my palms. "Come on, you know you can't google stuff and expect an it to all be completely correct. All that hormone and medical jargon on those websites is a load of bullshit to a lot of peeps, and not everyone with thyroid issues has-"

"Depression?"

I wince. "I wasn't gonna just put it like that but, sure. Whatever floats your goat."

We had turned the lights off so we could watch the laptop screen with an enhanced atmosphere, but even in the darkness I can tell she's giving me a long and hard stare.

"You may not have clinical depression or anxiety or whatever," Her fingers drum a rhythm on the wall. "But that doesn't mean this illness isn't harming your mental health. Unless, you want to tell me why you came to my house late at night, crying and with no explanation?"

The silence between us speaks for itself.

"I didn't think so."

A grunt escapes my mouth as I lean back, head hitting the wall. "That's different."

"No it's not different!" She wrenches her bedroom door open and a faded blue light filters in. A heavy breath escapes her mouth.

"Where are you going?" I lift my head from its resting place on the wall.