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Is this what it’s like to truly feel low?
He’s had the fake lows. The ones he forces on so that he can write something that will make people be in awe. The ones that he can write away with 7 thousand words or so. Maybe a paragraph of lyrics. Whatever he needs. He has the ones that were never real; just a one-man show watched only by himself
And now he’s here. Arms are a dark red he wonders if it’s black, infected, the way he feels after a bad trip. Like there’s a parasite squeezed inside his body; he is the parasite that’s managed to fool itself that he’s truly this teenager
His life is a painting—one per year. And after 15 of them, you’d think he’d get the gist; and he thought he had too. Fall went like so, and then it bled into winter slowly, until he’s a frog in water and March arrived in all its jaded glory. He had it down to a T. And then— and then—
The colors bled. Falls orange became purple, winter's white became orange. The air is a stale wrong and nothing is real nothing is right he can’t put a word to this. There’s nothing to put this behind, no explanation. Something is unmistakably wrong and he can’t find out what it is . He isn’t real but everything around him is and yet it’s wrong
There’s good. There is always good among the grey suffocating dark. There are better grades and times to hang out and sobriety and a happiness he thinks is the start to his year. And then it, crashes. Again. Like it always does
“She’s in the hospital. Bad stomach ache for weeks. I think it’s all the smoking”
“I’m not ready for the first snowfall”
“My dad is being a dick again”
“The anniversary is soon”
“You got a 6/37. That’s… really bad”
“You’ve been angry with me lately. I just want to spend this weekend with you”
“He was sobbing, said he couldn’t lose her too”
Day by day. Day by day. Day by day. Jaded. Jaded. Jaded. He’s so close. So far. Something’s wrong. It’s okay. This is his highest, this is his lowest. His family is better, his family is plummeting. His brother is dead; his sister is sober. Everything is fucking wrong. It’s like the universe messed up on deciding what the problem would be this year, so it threw everything in. There’s a glaring error message that no one cared to fix. He is the glaring error message that he’s too scared to fix
“Take control of your life; be happy. What do you have to be sad about?”
Why can’t he be happy? Is it a curse? His own fault? Is this real or some fucking test where they got bored and threw it all in for laughs. Maybe they just want it to be over so they’re trying to kill him; rather, get him to kill himself
He never wanted to be real. He wanted to go somewhere else where he got what he wanted. The break. The breath. The— everything
And weed gave him that; sort of. If he takes enough he’ll end up in any place he desires. Or nowhere, and everywhere
Except the weed ruined this. It caused this. Now he can’t tell right from wrong, real from fake. How did his hand get there— why is the air in his chest wrong and why does it feel like October and December at the same time when it’s November. Why can’t he do anything right?
There’s supposed to be a part in this where he writes the comfort; where a character comes in and it’s fixed with a neat fucking bow and. And. And what
He sleeps. Because tomorrow is better. It has to be. What else can he do, if it isn't?
~_~_~_~
The first year, things were fine.
He got an email from his English teacher sending condolences. "Holidays are always rough when you've lost someone." Hey, it was really sweet of the guy. And Peter would come to appreciate the older teacher.
But it's not like the holidays actually were rough. Sure, his parents were a mess. But they always were. He could deal. Thanksgiving was held at his home, away from not-immediate family. But it was fine. It was quiet, and he enjoyed it. He was able to ignore the overbearingness of Christmas, and spend the latter half of it in his room with his new laptop.
So why was it this year that everything hurt so much worse?
He was sober. His grades (finally) went up (ignore the glaring F in his fifth-hour class; everything else was a C or higher). He had actual people in his life; friends that he hung out with almost every day. He wasn't just the quiet kid that was thanked by the teacher for voluntarily answering a question.
This was supposed to be good, right? It was finally going to work. So why didn't it?
Thanksgiving is a painful ache in his chest and he's gotten so close to slitting his wrists and texting his ex and putting himself in a psych ward because holy fuck what is wrong with him.
It's the same repetitive, "I'm happy but I'm not." At least the jadedness he felt last year was a product of the same thing. Not two opposing emotions at war with each other. There's an exhausting whiplash when one moment he's at what feels like his lowest, and just hours later he's fine again. His friends are around, he's gone through over half of the day, and there's nothing to worry about.
But when it all crashes again, and again, and again, how can he not feel insane?
How can he not laugh at the absurdity of what's going on around him? It's like his life is a fucking curse. His brother is dead, his sister is about to meet him with the way she's smoking, his mother is falling apart and his dad is using them as a crutch. He can't even tell if he's laughing or crying at this point.
What does it matter, when he's almost texted his ex three times just because the thought of him reminds Peter of a time when things are okay? When he's considered asking his mom to put him in the hospital so he doesn't have to deal with this bullshit anymore? What does anything fucking matter when no matter how good things get, there is always a crash?
His arms sting. His chest hurts. And maybe if he sleeps it'll be okay. For a bit. It has to be. What else does he have?
~_~_~_~
This is the part where the comfort starts, regardless of its realism, because how could it end without it?
It's finally getting warmer. It's still cold; it could never not be. But the snow is melting and it's a sold 45 degrees Fahrenheit.
He hates visiting his brother. His parents are always crying and telling the same stories. He's begging them to just drive home. It's cold, and windy, and there's no point in talking to a hunk of stone.
But he has a letter; a Thanksgiving letter, like the ones he would write as a kid.
There's a part of him that still thinks that his brother will read it. One of these days he'll come to the stone, find it, tear it open and come home. His brother isn't truly dead.
He can't be. If he is- If he never comes back, what will Peter do?
He sets the letter on the stone, next to a faded and rusted ring.
"A lot of people came to your funeral," he starts. "You always said no one loved you. But I saw your friend. He was the last to go."
Peter swallows. How do you talk to stone? How can people treat this like the actual dead person? He wants to talk to his brother, but is this really the way others do?
"They did a-" He laughs and scratches the back of his neck, "Health lesson on fentanyl. The shit that dealer laced your weed with. I was- was fucking fuming when I saw. But then it got hard to breathe. It felt like it does when you took too much Delta 8, you know? When your body feels detached from your head and the music from your earbuds is so much more prominent. But once that wore off, I couldn't stop crying."
He laughs even harder. He can't stop laughing. "Fucking pathetic right?"
He wipes at his tears. And then cackles. "I can't do this anymore. It's so fucking ridiculous. No one gives a shit- I don't give a shit. Maybe if I fucking slit my wrists, or find a fast enough car, I can see you again."
He swallows. "Who am I kidding? I'm going to hell. You've gotta be in Heaven."
His brother deserves the best afterlife. If he's not there, what's left?
The road is looking tempting. Who could blame him for walking down the hill, to the sidewalk, and just a bit too comfortably towards the road? The nearest car is a large black van, going just a couple miles over the speed limit. Fast enough to kill, right? He almost feels bad for the person that has to spend the rest of their life knowing they just killed a teenager that-
Oh. Oh shit. Oh shit, wait, he knows that car-
The foot that's stepped its way into the street then stumbles backwards. He falls flat on his ass and the car slows, pulling into the cemetery driveway (if it can even be considered such. The cemetery itself is on a hill, not very big, and its driveway is a strip of road that fits two cars at most).
Just his damn luck, Tony steps out.
Every step the man takes is spent in silence. Peter isn't moving. And once Tony reaches him, he's helped up. By helped, he's more of hoisted.
"Hey."
Peter swallows. The air is thick.
"Hi."
"Standing a bit too close to the road, huh? Be careful next time." Tony slaps his back, and Peter's confused. Is that it? He isn't complaining, but-
"Who're you visiting?"
"My- brother."
The older man looks sad. "Right, yeah, your mom- mentioned it. Hey, wanna get ice cream? I'm bored. Got free time."
He most definitely does not have free time; he's just ignoring all of the stuff he has to do. Not like Peter is any better at it. And fuck, he'd kill for a sundae.
"Sure."
The car ride is silent, minus the sniffles Peter lets out from post-crying. He hopes his eyes had lost their bloodshot puffiness and he just looked cold. Wishful thinking though; probably.
Tony orders ice cream and Peter takes a seat at one of the far away tables, where lesser people are. They start eating in silence, and he expects the rest of the day to go like that; palpable, awkward silence that he can settle with. But why would things ever be that easy.
"Why were you so close to the road?"
They lock eyes. There's a reason Peter has spent years avoiding eye contact. He looks down, but knows the man is still staring at him.
"I tripped..?"
"Try again."
Fuck. "Okay, fine, sometimes I jay-walk."
"Anyone tell you you're a terrible liar?"
Peter laughs. "No, but at least now I know my parents were just ignoring it."
"What?"
He clears his throat. "Nothing. Can you drop me off at home? I've got-"
"Answer the question."
Peter stares. Tony stares. Of course, the younger caves first. "You already know. I don't want to say it aloud."
"Why not?"
"Who does!" He shouts, more loudly than intended. "I was gonna kill myself, okay? At least- I was just thinking about it. Can't I at least do that?"
"No." Tony seems offended by the very idea. "You can't just walk out one day because you- you started thinking about it. Didn't you even try to think about it for a second-"
"My brother walked out," he interrupts. "He got to up and leave. For no fucking reason. For all I know it'll happen to my sister too. I can't go through another funeral. I was supposed to be the sibling that died, I can't be the only one left to pick up the damn pieces. The only thing keeping me together is the lie that my brother can still come back. I don't care anymore. I can't."
Caring hurts. Caring takes too much times and effort. He's so fucking tired.
"Hey-" Tony pauses, clears his throat. He stands and moves to sit next to Peter. "That's alright. If you need a break from caring, I'll care for you. Because I do, so fucking much." He puts his arm around the teenager and pulls him in closer. "I'll care as long as it takes to make you want to stay here."
The dam breaks. The calm fades. He's back to the ache in his chest and the overwhelming pain. "My room reeks of weed. It isn't- It isn't even me this time. My sister keeps coughing and every time it happens I wonder if she'll even be alive tomorrow. Mom is always in pain; always crying and telling me how much it hurts. Dad is barely getting by and in love with someone who hasn't loved him in- years. Why do I have to sit through this when my brother got to just... leave?"
"The world isn't fair. I know that's not what you want to hear, but it's true. Your sister is gonna make it, and if your dad could make it this far, he can make it farther. When things suck- just a little bit less- we can figure something out. But for now, the best thing you can do is sleep this off until you can find a solution."
"Things won't get better. There's no sleeping this off." He chokes on his tears. "I try, and it doesn't work. Even if I'm calm for a bit- it crashes. It always. Fucking. Crashes. "
He laughs. And keeps laughing. Laughter mixed with tears and misery. But isn't it just a little bit funny? "Whatever. It's whatever. Whatever. I just have to pull myself together, and make it to tomorrow, and fucking- Stop caring. Nothing fucking matters anymore, right?"
"I'll make sure you don't crash this time."
"You can't promise that."
"I can try."
Trying is what got him here. Trying is what never works.
But he supposes it's all there is.
All he can do is try.
And while wrapped up in arms that only give a miniscule amount of comfort, that's the closest thing he can get to calm.