Eli stood in front of the mirror, the surface fogged up by the steaming hot water in the bath. The bruises were finally beginning to heal, though the bruises on his shins where they kicked him when no one was looking were only growing.
He hadn't been at school on Monday. He'd been dreading it all weekend, especially after the boycott on Saturday. Then when he woke up on Monday morning, he freaked out. He didn't remember all of it, had blocked it from his memory. He just remembered being so scared, and not being able to breathe. His mum told him he wouldn't stop crying, wouldn't talk to her, it was almost two hours before he told her what was wrong.
She was so worried about him, hadn't stopped fussing about him for the rest of the week. She kept saying he was sick, but he wasn't, he was fine. He'd been sick with influenza 4 years ago, and that was very different to how he was feeling now. He didn't understand why she was so worried.
She kept saying he was sick, and that it was her fault, it was dad's fault. Eli didn't understand that either. Neither she, nor his dad were sick, so he didn't get how they could have affected him.
"Oh, Eli, my darling," she'd whispered to him, holding him close after he'd finally stopped panicking and allowed her to hug him. "This is my fault, I'm so sorry, I'm so so sorry, baby. I thought it was getting better, I really did, but you're still sick, aren't you, Eli? Talk to me, darling, talk to me."
He'd stayed silent, not sure what she meant.
He'd gotten through the rest of the week with little problems. School was as expected, and Peter was distant as expected, but he'd caught him looking, keeping watch over Eli whenever he could. It was nice, knowing he was there for him.
He wasn't having a good day.
There were good days, and bad days.
Good days were when he had energy, he wanted to get up and do things. He wanted to talk to people and be happy. Things would still sneak up on him and upset him, but he'd be over them quickly and could carry on. His mum said on good days, he reminded her of when he was just a kid.
Bad days sucked. Sometimes he could hardly get out of bed, didn't have the motivation to do anything. He was tired, no matter how much sleep he got, and nothing would cheer him up. He'd panic about small things. Would feel weird for reasons he couldn't explain. The world just seemed dark and pointless and he didn't even want to live in it.
Last year wasn't just a bad day, but a bad year, and it was when he'd taken action to actually leave the world he'd grown to hate so much.
Good days and bad days blurred; there were shadows in the good days, and sun shining through the clouds on bad ones. But recently, it was beginning to become more bad than good again, and it terrified him.
He'd got himself out of bed and into the bathroom. He looked down at the old, chipped sink, slowly turning on the rusty tap and splashing his face with cold water.
His mind was everywhere, but everything felt slow, like he was dreaming. Nothing felt quite real. He was thinking too much, but his body wasn't in synch. He looked down at his hands, water dripping between his fingers. It didn't feel like they were his, but when he tried to move them, his hand curled up into a fist.
He looked back up at himself, taking a deep breath. The person in the mirror copied. He shook his head slowly, moving to sit on the side of the bathtub. Everything felt off, he didn't feel right at all. He couldn't think where he was, even who he was for a few seconds before it came back to him.
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, just thinking, time seemed to slip by like nothing, or maybe no time had passed, and it had just been minutes.
He kept thinking about his friend, and how he missed him. It was his birthday, but he wasn't there to celebrate. It was also the second anniversary of his death. It didn't feel like two years. It felt like two minutes.
He'd been at the birthday party, watching as his mum put the candles on the cake. He was only 15 at the time, and Christian was turning 17. His mum insisted on having a proper party, with all their family friends, because Christian was leaving home to go work outside of Berlin, and his mum wanted him to have a good last birthday with them.
The party guests were all having a good time, with the music playing, and their glasses with some kind of alcohol he didn't know in them. Christian's dad had given him a glass to try. He didn't like it.
Christian was missing from his own party, which Eli thought was weird, so he'd gone up to try find him. His bedroom door was open, so he opened it, calling to him and waiting for an answer.
He remembered his mum's coat was hung on the curtain rack because there was no room on the coat stand in the hall so they'd had to find somewhere else to put them. The light from the lamp on Christian's desk was shining through this crystal Eli had bought him for Christmas, and it looked very pretty. It had every colour imaginable in it, and they all reflected onto the wall, making the prettiest patterns and colours.
Ocean blue, like Peter's eyes.
Dandelion yellow, like the flowers arranged neatly in the pretty floral vases on the table downstairs.
Grass green, like in the beautiful garden outside Christian's house.
Ruby red, like...
A year before that, Christian had taught him a trick. He said he'd figured it out, and it was his idea. He was a genius, he said.
He'd told him that if he hurt himself, it helped calm him down, quiet his mind. He said they never shut up, the voices in his head, but his trick made them be quiet. He showed him how to do it.
He remembered thinking it was stupid. Christian had told him so much about the voices in his head. Something so simple couldn't shut them up. Surely.
Christian handed him the knife, nodding to him.
"Don't believe me, you try. I'm a genius, Eli. Don't you tell me otherwise."
He held his hand tightly as Eli cut himself, the blood dripping off the blade.
Eli watched, back in his own body, the blood dripping on the bathroom floor. Christian wasn't a genius. It wasn't a good thing. It had killed him. He was dead because of his stupid trick.
Eli missed him.
But sometimes, it felt like he needed it, and then he just got angry at himself, at Christian, at his mum, because she said Christian was crazy, and that he should never have been friends with him.
He lost track of time, just staring at the bathroom wall, his vision blurring. The tap was dripping, and it was unbearably loud, filling his whole head, but he couldn't get up to turn it off.
Drip
Drip
Drip
Drip
"Eli?" It was quiet, muffled.
"Eli?" Louder
"Eli?" Louder, echoing, again and again and again and again.
"Eli?!" Too loud, far too loud.
Peter was in front of him, tears dripping down his cheeks as he knelt down before him, his gaze sweeping over him.
"Oh my god, Eli, what the fuck!?" He whispered, shaking his head. "What have you done to yourself?"
Eli closed his eyes, his hand twitching as Peter took it in his.
"Shhh."
"Don't you fucking shush me," Peter snapped, though his voice was laced with sobs. "Eli...why? Why would you do this?"
He was vaguely aware of Peter carrying him into his bedroom, his head lying against his chest. His heartbeat was loud, but comforting, and when Peter tried to lay him down, he clung to him, refusing to let go.
"Eli, stop it. Let go of me."
"I want to go home," Eli whispered as he sat on the side of the bed, gripping Peter's shoulders tightly.
"You are home. You're home, baby. Please just stay here while I get your mum to come back, okay?"
He prised Eli's fingers off him as he left to call Eli's mum. As soon as he told her what had happened, he was back with Eli, scared to leave him alone. He couldn't stop crying, seeing Eli in such a state upset him more than he could possibly imagine.
"Peter?" Eli said quietly, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "What's wrong? Why are you crying?"
"It's nothing," Peter assured him, squeezing his hand back even tighter. "Don't worry about me. It's nothing."