Dylan

∥frozen pizza∥

There was an egotistic part of Dylan that sometimes made him unaware of the things that didn't concern him. For example, when he stopped watching South Park, he thought the entire population of America lost interest. When he left Martin alone on the school bus, he assumed the kid's life got a whole lot better.

It obviously didn't, because otherwise Martin wouldn't have slit his wrists and Dylan wouldn't be sitting in the hospital's waiting area right now.

"I thought the bullying stopped?" Dylan asked Sean, who was next to him with an expression that clearly stated that he wished he were somewhere else.

Sean exhaled. "No, it just switched to less public places. Look, he doesn't want to see anyone. Can we leave?" 

"Maybe he'll want to see you later. You're his only friend."

"No, I'm not his friend."

Dylan raised his eyebrows. Sean was suspiciously reluctant through this visit and Dylan practically had to drag him by the neck over here. "You stick up for him all the time? Remember that time when they cornered him outside the art building and you made them stop? You're his hero."

"I did it because I had to, that's all." Sean sounded defensive, and even a little irritated. His eyes scanned the waiting area. They were the only two people from their school who showed up. "Please call your mom to pick us up."

Dylan picked at the cuticles on his thumb with his index finger. Had to distract himself before panic took over like quicksand. He didn't like to be here, either. He was repulsed by and terrified of the hospital. It scared him with its gleaming, emotionless whiteness, and the smell of bleach was trying too hard to cover up the ugliness underneath. In one of those rooms buried his darkest memories.

He couldn't leave, though, not just yet.

He felt responsible. He was probably not the person that drove Martin directly to his suicide attempt, but he definitely played a part. If Martin was on a spectrum of emotions, at one end he was a carefree middle school boy who sang in the shower, and at the other end he was lying in the bathtub with a razor blade on the floor beside him, Dylan had no doubt which direction he helped push.

"I have to tell him I'm sorry," he said.

"You already apologized to him a long time ago," Sean pointed out.

"But it's not enough. I was one of the people that did this to him."

"No, it's not you. He's been dealing with the bullying for months...years..." Sean shook his head and muttered, as if to himself, "Bad people don't break a person. He's here because he doesn't have enough good people in his life. Or the ones he thought he could count on failed him."

When Sean was being all deep and philosophical, Dylan didn't always understand. What he did know was that Martin was still alive, breathing and moving around on a crisp white bed in the ward, which meant that there was still chance for him to welcome some good into his life.

Dylan wanted to be on the good side now. He could start being one of the good people. He wanted to do something to give Martin a hand, so that he could shift closer to the other end of that emotional spectrum.

They met Dylan's mom in the gift shop. Dylan looked at the teddy bears (so condescending) and flowers (hey, check out this bouquet I brought you. It dies a little more everyday) and fruit baskets (you almost killed yourself, but no worries! Here's an apple to cheer you up) and narrowed his eyes. They were all so wrong.

"What don't you write a card?" Dylan's mom suggested. Her voice was warmer than the chocolate drink sold at the hospital cafeteria. 

That card took Dylan almost an hour to write. While Sean kept up a polite chatter with his mom, his own fingers shook over his messy writings and even messier thoughts.

my dad left me last year and I was fucking pissed at everyone so I took it out on you I'm sorry I'm so sorry...I was at a dark place too and I know it's not the same with your situation but I want to tell you that you won't feel this way forever and you'll feel better and someday you'll be okay I'm sure of it

you're not alone in this I want to help so please don't give up and please tell yourself that you can hold on for another minute and another day and another week until you make it...that's how I do it. here's my number if you ever want to talk to someone and we can probably hang out if you want and we can do what you want to do

He kept on writing and crossing sentences out, until the card was a puddle of sentimental debris. He was too emotional for his own good, and when he saw how strikingly different his smudged paragraphs were compared to Sean's neat penmanship, a single line of elegant get well soon, he felt a little embarrassed at how his feelings exploded like that.

He also felt nice.

He was helping himself as much as he was offering help.

They slipped the card underneath Martin's door, a flattened piece of goodwill and wishes, before leaving in his mom's car. That evening, she took out slices of heated pizza from the microwave. She was busy with work, and dinner usually consisted of frozen food and takeouts, which was fine with him. He sat on the sofa when she carried the plate of food to the living room in front of the TV.

The plate slipped from her hand. It only took a split second. Her eyes widened and her hand shot up, as if trying to break the fall. The plate carried on its course with angry determination, until a clean smash slit the evening wide open. Broken china pieces mixed with melted cheese painted the floor an aroma of tomato and garlic.

Dylan got up to help, and to his utter surprise, he watched his usually composed mom break down in tears.

It was like watching her star in a commercial and the director yelled cut. Like she was tired of the perseverant career woman role she was casted as. 

It was the first time he saw her cry since that happened. She didn't cry at the hospital, not at the funeral, not during Christmas, not even when Dylan freaked out at the grave two months ago.

"Hey, hey, mom." He pulled her away gently from the ruined dinner. "It's okay. We'll just heat up something else."

"Dill pickle, I'm...I'm so sorry."

"Mom, that's only like four dollars." What's the big deal?

"I didn't pay enough attention to you. I didn't know you had so much going on at school. I had no idea. I'm sorry I didn't have time to show up at your games and we have to eat shitty food every night. I don't know how to take care of you—"

"It's not your fault." Dylan hugged her from behind and swallowed down the lump that rose clumsily up his throat. "Mom, it's not your fault."

He could feel the shudders that bounced off her shoulders and it broke his heart. She sniffled. "I really miss him."

"I miss him too. So fucking much."

"Dill." She sighed, but before she finished letting out that breath of disapproval, she said, "I miss him so fucking much too."

He knew she felt cheated. She had the perfect husband and the perfect life, but death slapped her in the face and now she was forced to accept a series of job she didn't want, forced to be the mother and the father and the breadwinner and the cook and the guidance counselor on top of being a widow with an angry teenage son who didn't tell her much of anything.

Mom had a spectrum of emotions too. When it got too overwhelming, even a slice of pizza could push one over the edge.

Martin never called and asked to hang out. But from then on, Dylan started to do two things.

He shared as much as he could with his mom and kissed her goodbye in the morning.

On the days that he didn't have basketball practice, he learned to cook dinner.