Chapter Text
Prologue
December 8th
Look out the car window.
Watch the trees pass by. They pass in a quick, green blur. The individual ones are too hard to focus on, but it's better to look at them and silence the thoughts in his head.
It’s taking forever. He wants to be at home. He feels like he's holding back a wild horse with a string. But he’s so close, almost there. He's driving on autopilot, as it comes naturally at this point, but he doesn't even take the time to notice any neighbors that could be waving at him or residents that could be staring. It’s like holding a glass bowl with his fingers, knowing he can’t drop it. Not yet. See the driveway, it’s just up the street. He knows exactly where he is. It feels like he's trying to silence music playing on a speaker. Pulling in, so close, and then he's scrambling out of the car.
Physically, I could be as silent as a mute person. Mentally, I’m screaming. Just screaming and nothing else. Screaming about how frustrated I am. I can't do anything. I have no control anymore.
He races up the stairs to the bathroom. He swings open the bathroom door and slams it behind him. Once the door is locked, the dam gives out. His eyes are bloodshot already. His legs buckle and he's on the bathroom floor. His chest heaves violently in a desperate attempt to breathe. He bites down on his lip and squeezes his eyes shut. There are tears, falling to the ground. He doesn't even realize how tight his hands were gripping onto the bottom of his shirt until it was wrinkled up and tattered.
Usually, people think the worst type of crying is when you’re screaming and wailing. They think that’s the most intense it can get.
It’s as intense as screaming at the top of his lungs. He's shaking noticeably at this point and sobbing so hard that no sound comes out. There's no sound- not a whimper, not even a choked sob. He's crying so hard that it’s a struggle to simply breathe in and out. There is nothing; his body is limp aside from tense muscles and a clenched jaw, and then there's a sudden gasp for air he desperately clings to until his body forces out the air. He struggles to inhale again but takes in as much air as he can during the window between the sobs.
Well, they’re wrong. They are so terribly mistaken.
“I can’t breathe, I can’t breathe” is like a chant his thoughts repeat. He could barely even think about breathing, let alone the hundreds of thoughts clouding up his mind. Somehow he gets hold of his phone. He shoves his earbuds into his ears and turns on the first song he sees. It leaves him as a mess propped up against the wall. It lets him breathe, but keeps him crying.
The most intense type of crying is when you’re crying so hard you can’t make any noise. You can’t breathe. The only movement you make is hitting something, anything, trying to make yourself take a breath. And I can't stop- I can't stop until I pass out. It's that kind of crying that just won't go down easy. I hate it, so much, because a man doesn't cry the way I do. I cry like a heartbroken twelve-year-old schoolgirl. This sucks.
All he could think of is how pathetic and weak he must've looked. He's not a cryer, and he never wanted to be, yet here he was. Barely functioning.
Then, a variety of thoughts began to flood his brain. He wanted to reverse time, go back before he could mess it all up. Except he didn’t mess it all up. He was just there, and maybe his very existence was a curse. He was the common denominator either way. He wanted to go back to the way things were. Back to the basics, back to the beaches, back to where he felt okay. He wanted control over his life, but it got out of hand really fast.
I don't belong here. They don't understand, and if I try to explain it to them, they'll think I'm a crazy freak. And I've realized that nobody really wants me here- except for Sam. For some reason, I keep doing this over and over, keep wanting to go home. I don't even know what home is anymore.
The thing is, this thing - whatever it is - is bigger than me. This feeling, these wants, these tendencies, they all make up some big problem. And it shadows over me and burdens me. I don't even know what to do anymore. I thought it was just depression or something, but I don't think it's even possible for it to get this bad.
His breath began to regulate. After a moment of keeping his breathing steady, the song ended. He reached for the counter to pull himself up. He unlocked the door, walked to his room, and rolled into his bed. He tiredly reached for his notebook and a pencil. He wouldn't write about anyone or anything; he wouldn't write about how filled with rage he was. Not this time. This time, he would write about how out of place he felt. He was a pest wherever he went.
He wanted to go home he felt homesick.
And then he realized that home is gone forever.