dreaming |fillie au|

|forty six|

|forty six|
i'm okay
1 day later : saturday

Millie's POV

I feel like a young child who never learned how to swim. I'm drowning in my own internal battles but I also have to deal with Finn's problems.

Is it completely wrong of me to consider them his problems?

At least it is my favorite time of year: sweater season!

Internal battles. Everyone has them, right? Mine aren't worse than others' and I don't want people to look at me as if mine define me.

I used to suffer from... sorry, I used to "carry" depression. Like a pet on my shoulders that became a part of me.

I haven't written about my history with this subject for a while. And I can't tell if it makes me feel strong or humiliatingly pathetic.

People were mean. Beyond mean and they formed rumors. Whispers of crude names danced along everyone's lips when they talked near me. But often, many weren't afraid to speak up and call me disgusting names right to my face.

Every label that my peers gave to me didn't describe the real me. Students created their own ideal monster to poke and stab for their amusement.

That happens to be the reason for my family moving houses and schools just a few towns over. The short distance was even capable of offering a fresh start. And daily running improved my mental health even further. It's the thing that really propelled my new life.

Out there, among the trail and trees around our lake, all you have is you. You push your limits until you form new ones. You block out the pain in order to run faster, farther than you've ever been before. And if you can push yourself out of that boundary, you can push yourself out of any pain.

It was obviously tough at first. Dad.

My pencil made a small indent in the journal page as I sat, paralyzed and my mind raced.  What do I say about him?

To put it simply: my dad was a drunk. But mom let him come back once he realized he had no one else in his life to crawl back to.

Karen, my previous therapist, and I discovered that might be the reason I despise drinking. I don't want to become like him. I'm scared that I'll lose control and lose everything if I take a sip of alcohol.

There are plenty more reasons for why I hate my dad, but I've already written about that far too many times in my stupid, little journal. So we won't get into that.

•••

Finn's POV

I wish I could hate my dad. I wish I could blame him for his death so it wouldn't be so painful to miss him. To deal with his absence as though it means nothing.

Drugs don't fill the holes in your heart. You're in a constant race with them to fill the holes but they just keep building more. And drugs always win against you.

On drugs, your face gets all tingly and itchy. At first, it was a horribly sickening sensation. But I can't even remember the specific feeling because it seems like such a foggy long time ago. I wish I could remember the disgusting filth crawling across and stinging the lining of my stomach. That way, I could remember the destruction that they bring and forget the burning itch of an addiction quickly forming.

If only I knew the last time would be the last time.

"Ok, dad, I really have to go. I'll call you later."