Autompne

two

TWO

Eleven days later and the fact that I was dying still didn't seem real. Even though the doctor didn't actually say that I was dying, I could see it in his eyes. He was practically screaming it. It was a tough job—letting someone know their loved ones were going to die and/or were dead.

The worst part about it was how my mom acted. She quit her job again and followed me around. She acted as if I were a bomb that was going to explode any second. I didn't blame her though—she had the right to be paranoid. After all, my dad had the same thing. He was no longer here.

The only symptoms that did show so far were my usual depressive episodes, lack of motivation and self-blame. I blamed myself for getting sick and I blamed myself for being depressed and I also blamed myself for my mom's situation. Things made more sense when you had someone to blame.

So this is what dying is like? I thought. Blaming yourself because it's easier that way.

I wondered if it was painful. Was I going to drift off to sleep one day and never wake up? Or was I going to drop dead from being awake all the time? Was I going to wait for death to come? And through all those questions, one stuck out the most.

How was I going to die?

Maybe if I killed myself it'd be less painful.

Why did I have to get sick? It was my fault. It was my fault. It was my fucking fault. I slammed my head hard on the desk as I clenched my hands into fists of rage. I was home alone for the first time in a long time and I chose to spend the day in my room. I was angry, I was mad, I was bitter and I didn't know how to let my feelings out so hitting my head on the table and punching the wall was my way to go.

I grabbed my notebook, opened it and started to rip random pages out, throwing them across the room and tearing up a few of them. I threw the cover of the notebook across the room and into the pile of torn up paper, taking a few steps back.

What is happening to me?

My hands shot up to either side of my head as I shook it vigorously.

Was this how most people showed their anger?

All I could do was let out screams and punch the wall. I was exhausted but that didn't stop me—I kept going and going until a firm hand gripped my own. I turned to the person holding me, seeing that it was my mom.

How did I not hear her get in?

"Finn, what the hell are you doing?" she yelled and I could see that tears were starting to form in her eyes and that was the only emotion I could ever get out of my mother. She'd cry at the sight of me and it pained me to see her in pain.

It was my entire fault.

"Your hands are bleeding," she gasped, taking my hands into hers and grazing my bloody knuckles slightly. I didn't even notice my hands were bleeding and as she grazed them; I felt nothing. My mom carried me to the bathroom and bandaged up my wounds.

I was angry at the world—or maybe it was one of my depressive episodes.

I never could tell anymore.