To The Moon and Back

𝟐𝟐 | 𝐧𝐞𝐛𝐮𝐥𝐚

What would my family be like right now if I stayed the way I was when I was fourteen? What would my family be like if I succeeded on my first attempt? Maybe my mother's smile would reach her eyes again. Maybe my father wouldn't look so tired all the time. Maybe Alula wouldn't feel on edge so constantly.

I know people say killing yourself is selfish because it just passes your pain onto the people you leave behind but for some reason, I have never cared. If I could leave and be forgotten forever, I would. If I could leave without leaving a single imprint of my existence on this earth, I fucking would. Every breath of air I exhaled, every word I spoke to be absorbed by my surroundings, even the mere sound of my name. If I could erase it all, I would.

I think that saying is selfish because some people simply just don't want to be here—they can't bear it. That stupid fucking concept of suicide being selfish makes people's last seconds on this earth spent feeling guilty, rather than saying goodbye and feeling at peace, just for once.

Maybe it is selfish, in a way. But it's like telling someone with stage five cancer to just live because you want them to. They can't. And some would laugh if I told them depression isn't a disease, but it is. It never goes away; you can't get rid of it. You can ignore it, but that doesn't take away from the fact that it still fucking hurts. 

"Atlas," my father says my name, bringing me out of my thoughts. "Pills, please."

I turn to face him, seeing he's taken my two pills from my two containers and placed them on one counter. I take five breaths before I nod. And then I grab the glass of water handed to me and swallow each one individually. Two gulps, two times I swallow.

One mood stabilizer.

One anti-depressant.

Every morning is like this. But this is the first time in weeks that I have personally been able to actually place them in my own mouth. I don't know if that means they are working, or if that just means I got tired of being sober, so I did something about it. Maybe it's both. 

He watches me, unashamed, until he knows for certain that I swallowed them before he gestures for me to come over to the stove. I do so, walking over and he passes me the spatula, before using a ladle to scoop some of the pale mixture from the bowl and onto the non-stick pan.

We do this for the next fifteen minutes or so; him dispersing the mixture and me flipping the pancakes, then transferring them onto the plate. Alula remains silently scrolling on her phone and my father talks to me about college and working at the mechanic. He strays away from conversations like asking me how I'm feeling or if I'm okay, and for a little while, it's quite nice being spoken to like his son rather than a homeless dog that won't leave his house.

"Prim, that bowls empty now, honey." I hear the soft sound of my mother's voice. Even being twenty-two I still can't decipher whether my father and mother's accents sound more British or American. 

I keep my back to her, flipping the last pancake as she strides over to my sister. I hear the sound of her kissing Alula on the head before she comes toward my father and I. In my peripheral vision, I can see her in that floral silk robe she wears often, as she wraps her arms around my father's waist and hugs him.

He kisses the top of her head, smiling down at her and I cringe. How can two people be so overly affectionate and loving? And along with that, after almost thirty years of being together. I find it hard to believe that people can love one another as passionately as my parents do each other.

"Atlas," my father says, placing her hand on my forearm and I turn to face her and she offers me that usual smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "You're up. How are you feeling, baby?"