Slate | ✓

NINETEEN | WILL

"I don't know, everything just kind of hurts right now." My sunglasses offer some protection from John's penetrating gaze. Even with the glasses, the sunlight produces a dull, pounding ache at the base of my skull. The world seems too bright, like it's too much of everything. "I'm giving up smoking." I try to inject some enthusiasm into my tone.

I've already fucked up twice in less than a day. Both cigarettes were accompanied by an unexpected sense of frustration and an unreasonable amount of despair. Like, actual, bottomless-hole-despair. I couldn't even properly smoke. Instead, I found myself crying near a rosebush behind Damien's house as I tried to hide from Maggie. Nothing about that embarrassment was voluntary. The whole time what Charlie's girlfriend had said to me echoed around my brain: it's just a matter of willpower, right? Her voice repeated in my head until it was mocking, cold, and unforgiving.

I feel vulnerable. A walking, useless, angry scab of a person. Touch me and I'll bleed.

I see the concerned look that John and Darcy exchange. I look up at them from where I sit on a park bench. "What? Stop looking like I've killed your dog." This does nothing to wipe the expression off John's face, and I immediately regret it. "I'm sorry. I sound like Athena. I guess I'm a little irritable right now."

"No shit." Darcy swoops down to sit beside me. His blonde hair looks even lighter in the sun. "I get like that when I haven't slept too." He places a gentle, comforting hand on my shoulder, and I feel like I could sink into the ground.

"Why are the two of you even here?" It's an ungodly hour of the morning. The streetlights—still dimly lit—are being slowly overshadowed by the rising sun and semi-visible stars. There's a lingering chill in the air, and the ground is damp from dew. I have my pockets stuffed in one of Damien's sweaters, which I quietly stole from his closet before I snuck out the back door.

"Your brother was worried about you," Darcy replies. "Can't imagine why."

John places his hands on his hips. "I really think you should come home, Will. I can take a few days off work, we can figure this out, okay? If you're up for it, we can call that doctor and make an appointment for you." He sounds as if he's pleading with a toddler to eat vegetables.

"Oh, so this is an ambush." It's meant to sound like a joke, but my tone falls flat and some sense of desperate alertness crawls up my spine—almost like a survival instinct. "Not if Charlie's still there," I meekly add.

"We can do it together," John says. His voice rushes higher than normal. "I'd be right there. You wouldn't have to do it alone."

I shake my head and grip the armrest as I stand up. "I don't have the energy for this." 

"No." John blocks me from moving. "Let me help you, Will. Fuck. Why can't you just let me help you?"

"John..." Darcy stands between us.

"What do you know about it?" From my full height, I look down at my older brother. My temper rises way too fast, but still it feels better than the raw, aching, mashed-potato state of everything else. I don't even fully compute that it's John before me.

"I'm not here to attack you. That's not what this is." He doesn't back down.

"I don't need you people picking me apart." I shrug off the placating hand Darcy tries to place on my shoulder. "I know what's best for me. I don't need you talking about me behind my back." I sound irrational, erratic, crazy—but I can't help it. This is how they think about me when I'm not around. This is all they see me as. I fucking hate it more than anything.