One year ago
I wake up with a pit in my stomach, the memories slowly coming back in small fragments.
Flashes of noise. Music. Someone’s laughter too close to my ear. Pills spilled across the sink that I had to hide from myparents. A bottle half-finished. A voice, I think it was mine. It was saying,I’m fine. I’m fine. Just one more.
I look down at my hands, then briefly at myself in the mirror, and gag.
What have I done?
I don’t get much time to dwell on it, because one moment I’m on the floor, and the next I’m rushing to the bathroom, hand pressed to my mouth, knees bruising against the tiles as I retch again and again.
It burns.
My throat, my chest, everything.
This is normal now. Routine, even. I’ve lost count of how many mornings have started this way. On the floor, trying to remember what happened, wishing I didn’t.
It’s not even because I’m sick. My body just starts rejecting me.
At least that’s what it feels like.
When it’s over, I collapse against the tile, back pressed to the cool wall.
Happy birthday.
Right. It’s today. Mine and Addie’s.
God, what a joke.
I don’t even remember what she said to me yesterday. I think she tried to talk to me. Maybe I ignored her. Maybe I said something awful. I usually do.
She probably hates me. And honestly? She should.
I don’t even know when it happened. When I went from being her brother to her burden. When I stopped being a person to her, but a problem.
I’m still trying to figure out if there was a specific moment, or if I’ve just always been like this.
She just doesn’t understand what it’s like looking at her sometimes.
I wash my face, though it doesn’t help much. The reflection still looks like someone I don’t want to know. Like something disgusting. Something ill.
For some reason, my feet take me down the hallway, to her door. I don’t knock. I just open it.
She’s not here.
The light coming through her window is gentler than in mine, I notice. Her books are stacked neatly on the desk, a jumper draped over the back of her chair.
I sit on the edge of her bed, careful not to mess anything up. It smells like lavender.
I don’t even know what I’m doing. Why I’m here.
But the guilt… it feels like it’s eating me alive.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen for a few moments.
Then, for some reason, I open the recorder.
“Hey… it’s me. Obviously. Um… I don’t really know what I’m trying to say. I guess, I’m sorry. For everything. For being the way I am. It’s not you I hate. It never was. It’s me. I just… there’s something wrong with me. So, I know I make it hard to care about me. But thank you, for trying anyway. Even when I didn’t deserve it.”
