help. - a Scömìche short story

a late night.

My attention is drawn to the clock when my eyes pop open. I reach toward the other side of the bed, immediately more alert when I find it cold and empty. My mind races, trying to think of too many things while I come to the conclusion that Scott must have been gone for at least ten minutes already for the sheets to be so cold. I drag myself to my feet, only half awake, and try to think of where he might've gone. Almost subconsciously, I walk to the kitchen, where normally, most nights, he goes. 3:27 am. This is a typical occurrence, as Scott has severe insomnia and wakes up at ungodly hours every night, but nearly every night for as long as I can remember, he has gone into the kitchen. When I find it empty and dark, worry sprouts in my stomach. This is where he always goes.

"Scott? Where are you, honey?" I turn to corner to check the living room, but am only met with more darkness and more silence. "Scott?" Although I realize by now that calling his name is near pointless, I call one more time. Desperately, I go into the basement. "Please, are you in here?" I am just about to go check a few more places upstairs, deeming the room just as empty as the rest, when I hear a small whimper come from the closet under the stairs. Slowly, I pull the door open and find Scott squeezed into the smallest possible spot, beneath a step, knees tight against his chest and his face contorted into a blank expression, clearly trying to mask something upsetting. His glazed over gaze seems to go straight through the wall even when I say his name one more time. "Sugarplum, what's wrong?" Although all I can see is his shadowed profile, the glistening tears show prominently in the half light. I drop to my knees at his side, reaching for his hand. He cringes away, yanking his hand back, but still staring at the wall. I have never seen him like this.

"Please talk to me. I can't help if I don't know what's going on." He mumbles something, biting his lip immediately after. "I'm sorry, baby, I didn't quite catch that."

"I...I said that I'm sorry." He tips his head down, looking at nothing but his wringing hands in his lap now, and new tears replace the drying ones on his cheeks, dripping down his jaw and the tip of his nose. His shoulders shake with a new ferocity with each sob.

"What on Earth for?"

"For everything."

"Please look at me." He shakes his head. I reach for his hand again, and this time he lets me take it. I lean back against the wall, squeezing into the space between it and him so that our knees are pressed together, and then set our intertwined hands halfway between us. "Please, don't make me beg." Slowly, he lifts his gaze to meet mine, but only for half a second before he slips his hand away.

"Why do you love me?" He looks down, and for half a second I wonder if the question is rhetorical. When he glances up again, the look in his eyes tells me otherwise.

"I..." So many answers force their way to the forefront of my mind that I struggle to form a coherent answer at first.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked that. It's a stupid question."

"Uh-uh. Never once in my life have I heard you ask a stupid question, right now included. There's just so many reasons, I don't know where to start." I think for a second. "One reason is because I trust you. I trust you with my life, my death, and otherwise. If you said you had to kill me, I would trust that you had a reason and I would let you. Also, you're the only person who can make me smile, no matter what. If I'm in a horrible mood, if I'm depressed and won't get out of bed or eat anything but ice cream, you're right by my side, eating ice cream and laying in bed with me. You love me even when I'm a mess, physically or mentally, and we both know I've had my fair share of both. You put up with me. You put up with my friends and my lifestyle and for some odd reason you've wanted to stay friends with me for eleven years, and you haven't broken up with me after all this time. Sometimes I still can't figure out why. I love you because when I imagine my life with you, it's perfect. But if I imagine it without you...well, let's just say it's chaos. Do you want me to go on?" Slowly, unsurely, he nods, reaching out to take my hands again. A bit of tension relieves itself inside me at the small gesture. "I love you because you're you and we complete each other. Sometimes I swear we came into creation with each other in mind, because without you I wouldn't be me and we go together. Our souls are kind of just," I lace our fingers together. "intertwined. That describes it best, I think. More than anything physical, although I do love kissing and hugging and being carried by you, I think the biggest reason I love you is because I have this feeling. And I only feel it with you. I don't even know how to describe it, exactly. It's like...when I'm with you, I feel safe. I feel like I'm home, because you are my home, and I love being home."

"Will you hold me?" he whispers, his voice seeming to catch in his throat. I spread my legs, followed by my arms, and he moves forward to lean into my chest and sob his heart out.

"It's okay, honey, I've got you. I'm not going anywhere, and neither are you." He tightens his arms around my waist, seeming to hold onto me for dear life.

"I didn't mean to do it, Mitch." Something that feels like a dagger of ice shoots through my stomach, disrupting everything inside of me in a quick moment.

"What do mean, darling?"

"I couldn't stop myself, and it felt so good. I just wanted everything to stop. And I'm sorry for doing it. Please help me."

"What are you talking about?" He leans back, setting one hand on my lap and slowly pulling his sleeve back with the other. The first mark is jagged, showing before the rest. His eyes screw shut as he reveals more bright red lines, slowly uncovering each, all the way up to his elbow.

"I'm so sorry."

"So, earlier, when I grabbed your wrist..."

"I'm sorry I lied to you."

"You don't need to apologize for anything." For a few seconds, all I can do is stare at the cuts showing brightly against his pale skin. "Why did you do it?"

"Everything felt heavy." he mumbles, dropping his sleeve again and leaning back against my chest. "Please forgive me."

"I have nothing to forgive you for. I just want to help."