The Art Of Series

Being Enough: 1

I watched as the fan continuously whipped around in circles above me.

The only consistent thing in my life right now was an inanimate object meant to bring me comfort.

But for me, it was just another nuisance. In the way that the metal pull cords clicked together in an inconsistent rhythm. And in the way that the speed was never just right, either too fast or too slow.

The pattern is uneven, yet I continue to watch it circle, waiting for something to happen.

Anything.

I feel as though that's how I've been living for the past couple of weeks. Just in anticipation of something to happen, but it never does.

A knock came on my doorframe, and my eyes flickered over toward the noise.

There was no door on my doorframe, consistent throughout the house. The only room with a door was on Parker's bedroom, my older brother, which he kept open anyways. The bathroom door had been replaced with a curtain, to allude to a sense of solitude.

But it wasn't the same.

"What do you want for dinner?"

I didn't answer him, which I think he expected. He just sighed, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Well I'm going to make spaghetti. If you want some, it's there for you."

He knew I wouldn't, but the offer was the same at every meal time.

He disappeared, and I found my gaze traveling back up toward the ceiling fan.

It was the only consistent thing I had in my life at the moment. And even that was broken.

Time seemed to pass in a blur these days. Parker would come around every so often, encouraging me to eat as well as bringing me medication.

I didn't have the energy to argue with him. I hardly had it in me to take care of daily, vital tasks, such as using the restroom.

Everything was a chore these days.

Next time there was a knock on my doorframe, it was Emmett, my brother's best friend.

"You're still up?" he asked.

I didn't answer, as he knew that I wouldn't.

All attempts at conversation were predestined to fail, as they wouldn't be reciprocated. I'd be surprised if my vocal words still had the ability to form syllables at this point.

Emmett sat on the edge of my bed. "I forced Parker to go to bed." He continued speaking when I didn't. "He hasn't been sleeping, you know."

Was that supposed to be my problem?

I felt the burning return in my wrists. Of course that was my problem. All of this was my problem.

No one prepared you for the aftermath of an unsuccessful suicide attempt. They told you about the depression, about the suicide itself, but nobody talks about what happens if it were to fail.

That you're left trapped in a body that you don't want to be in, stuck living a life that you don't want to participate in.

I felt a hand on my wrist, and I immediately jerked it away, my eyes narrowing at Emmett.

"Let me grab something for that."

I glanced down at the fresh cut on my wrist, feeling the tears prick at the back of my eyes.

When did everything become so fucked?