"Fuck," he shakes his head, looking angry at himself. "Fuck! It's like a fucking curse I passed to you."
I frown, considering his words. It was like a curse in a way, trauma passed onto Silas, passed onto me, passed onto Wendy, could have passed onto our boys, but Wendy... she was strong enough for us to stop it in its tracks.
To be the shield between me and our sons.
To make me recognize that I needed help.
"After, you know—" I start, and he nods. "I started pulling away from Wendy and the boys. Just little by little. It was like my brain was telling me that by being close to Wendy, I would cause her death or... she would die and I would just be left alone."
Silas flinches and scrubs his hand down his face, sighing deeply.
"Fuck, I am so sorry, Atlas."
"It's not your fault."
"It is, though. I traumatized you."
"And Carrie's death traumatized you. That's not her fault. There are no villains here. Not you, not me, not Wendy, not mom and dad. It's just... life. Life fucking happens. Tragedy strikes and we don't know how to deal with it sometimes."
Silas doesn't look completely convinced, so I continue explaining, "I was neglecting my wife, being mean to her,pushing her away, rejecting her because I was scared. Because my OCD was barraging me with thoughts and nightmares of her dying."
He tilts his head, "OCD?"
"And PTSD."
"Shit, Atlas..." His face crumples and he drops his head in his hands.
"But, I got that shit under control now," I say proudly, thinking of how far I've come. "My fear doesn't rule my life, especially after it almost made me lose my family, the one thing in this world I cannot live without. I was drowning, and Wendy pulled me out. Even after everything, she stayed. She never abandoned me, and God, I wouldn't have fucking blamed her if she did. I was an asshole, I treated her and our sons like shit."
Silence lingers between us for a few long moments, before Silas breaks it quietly. He sits up and takes another drag of his half-burnt cigarette.
"Dr. Wilson's pretty great."
"He is," I grin, nodding. "I met a lot of great people through this journey. People who cared. People who stuck by me. Was that how it was for you?"
"Yeah, Dr. Wilson got me in contact with grief counselors. The girls and I go every week. They smile a lot more. We visit Carrie's grave every week after, bringing flowers and little gifts. They talk to their Mommy, and I do too."
"We miss her," I nod, reaching out to lay a hand on my brother's shoulders. A tear trails down his cheek, and he roughly wipes it away before taking another drag of his cigarette. "We all do."
"She was... she was something," Silas says with a smile, before meeting my eyes. "You have to cherish every single second, Atlas.Every. Single. Second.Because you'll miss her every second she's not here."
His words are delivered almost harshly, his voice low and desperate-sounding, making sure I understand the meaning.And I do.
A couple of months ago, that statement would have sent me into a panic spiral.
Not anymore. Because I almost lost Wendy twice now.
Once by my own hand, the other by someone careless.
But now I understand my mental health. I can differentiate between fact and fear. I take my medication that dulls the panic noise.
When I encounter a thought, I think of that engine—I check everything first before writing it off. If nothing is wrong, then I've created the problem myself. I can talk myself through it.
God, and I almost gave it all up, while Silas wishes for more time. I gave up a year of being with her and my boys, cherishing them every day, because one day it could be taken away.
Never again.
I will keep my head facing forward and put one foot in front of the other. I will be grateful for all the time I'm given.
