Work Text:
Initially sitting on the Thinking Chair, reminded of others’ presence, and unable to identify or articulate what else you need, your throat tightens even more. Shakily standing up, you can’t look.
Circling a flat hand. “Please.” Crossing fists to opposite upper arms. “Hug.”
Cry like a baby,
Screaming and shaky.
These rotten daisies,
Look just like,
Just, just like you.
Arms sweep under yours, assisting you to slump over. Your head rests on a shoulder at your level. This permits a choked sob. Then a wracked one, spilling tears, kind of like when Steve left, but louder and painful. It’s impossible to exhale quietly.
Sweetness, gentle.
Kinder, mental.
Your voice still can’t form words, only short wails. You’d collapse if you weren’t held up, most of your weight falling into someone else. The more you crumple, the more securely you’re supported. So, physically unburdened, you outpour as much of your pain as possible.
Black hole, black sky.
Angel cries, and cries, and cries.
It hurts. You wish it weren’t this loud, that it wasn’t practically screaming out of you, that everything went away if you’d only let go of it. Your heart swells and competes with your lungs for room, or air, or something. Your vision blurs. Your eyes sting as every bit of energy drains through them.
Flowers around,
Your body, found.
You can’t help it. You can’t help what brought these feelings to surface. You can’t help anything. There’s no words or signs or thoughts, no memories, no feelings, absolutely nothing else remotely tangible. You’ve no reality but right now. It’s cathartic in the sense that it needed to happen, and you couldn’t bind up everything inside forever. It’s sad in the sense that it needed to happen, and you exceeded your capacity to bind it up.
It’s most unfortunate that you carried it alone. There’s no room for shame, either.
Sick mind, sick heart.
Loveless, apart (just like you).
Your physical form calms enough to detach and sit back down, though you don’t stop crying, nor do your eyes meet anyone.
You’re left to rest on the Thinking Chair. Josh lends you the blue blanket his lola mailed him. Blue lends you Polka Dots to snuggle with. Mailbox lends you his headphones, which play whatever you want. Sidetable Drawer lends you her night pillow, and holds a striped tissue box on your right. There’s a yellow spiraled bin on your left. Mr. Salt and Mrs. Pepper leave a snack for you, because you’re tired and you need to eat. The felt friends nap in their frame above Sidetable. The yellow frame by the window holds one of your favorite drawings. The window is closed, its curtains drawn. Only the far lamp bathes the living room in a dim warm light.
You like rotting in your bed.
When was the last time you were fed?
Enough love, enough love, but instead,
You pretend like you are dead.
At some point, you’re uncomfortably alone, tearstained, immobilized by emptiness. Your call is no more than a croak. Intangible reality becomes a waking nightmare, flooding in from every sensory-deprived angle. Isolation grips your throat. The room looks darker. You realize with disproportionate guilt that you never ate the snack. The silence is suffocating. It hurts again. Everything hurts again, and there’s no one else to feel it. The welling tears threaten to drown you, but they can’t seem to fall. You could implode. Maybe you should. Maybe nothing else will do. The darkness could swallow you whole.
“Hey.”
Miserably count how many,
Shadows you see right above me.
Violently biting off flesh,
Of your own, of your own body.
You look up with indescribably fear-ridden eyes. Fear of being alone, fear of consequence, fear of taking up space wrong again, fear of disappointing everyone, all amplified by your incapacitated state. Nothing will reach you, and you won’t reach anything, even at arm’s length. Shame creeps in. It’s so silly and useless to be like this. Selfish to linger. No one asked, not that you could answer. You so dearly want to express something urgent, but every method fails you. The moment is going to slip away again, and it’s your f
“Hey, hey, hey.” Soft absolving urgency, head shaking, kneeling to eye level. “You’re safe. It’s okay. We’re here.”
Your body finally catches a train of thought. “Please.” Thrusting a Y hand. “Stay.”
“Of course we’ll stay.”
Sweetness, gentle.
Kinder, mental.
A cup of water with a paper straw and the plated snack find your hands. The window is opened up again, letting in much-needed sunlight. Josh and Blue sit on the carpet, facing you, and play with blocks amongst themselves, having intermittent softspoken chatter. They look really comfortable to share space with you. Eventually, you get through the water and snack. This feels nice for some time.
Black hole, black sky.
Angel cries, and cries, and—
Fear seems comfortable to reside with you, too. Somehow, the quiet playmates seem to drift farther and farther away as you continue to struggle to correct your state. You’re not fully here yet. You’re somewhere unkind, no matter the reality presented to you. What you see is normal. What you are is obviously not. You’re present to a painful degree, one you can’t act upon. Maybe they’re actually comfortable ignoring you. At least they don’t seem to be affected by whatever haunts you. That’s probably for the best.
Sweetness, gentle.
“Do you wanna play with us?” Noticing you staring.
Kinder, mental.
Your body floats, for all you know, to sit down beside them. You’d not grasped they’d switched to crayon drawings. Blue sets some paper in front of you, and you pick your favorite color from a small pile of crayons, which have a comforting scent.
Black hole, black sky.
You absently doodle something, maybe an abstraction of your feelings. Art is a form of communication, after all. At the end of this coloring session, the materials are carefully put away.
“Let’s go put these on the fridge, Blue!”
(“Bow-bowr!”)
Standing to legs you weren’t quite sure worked yet, you tentatively follow them to the kitchen, drawing held close. Josh magnetizes his art of some musical bunnies. Blue has a little chat with him. He smiles and nods in agreement.
“Blue was wondering if you’d like to swap drawings.”
You look at yours self-consciously.
“So we could put yours on the fridge! And you could take Blue’s home, if you want.”
You move to protest, because your art doesn’t feel worth much, but can’t figure out how. You sigh and present your drawing questioningly.
“We love it.” (“Bowr-bowr.”) “Because it’s you.”
You look directly at them, eyes astonished, throat tightening in a good way. You step closer, then settle on handing the drawing over. Josh magnetizes it next to his own. Blue cheers and gives you her drawing.
It’s a sketch of you three in a group hug, smiling. Each outlined in their favorite color. Happy together. Your hand brushes over every paper crinkle and wax imprint. You look at Blue. “Thank you.”
(“Bow-bowr!”) she reciprocates.
You fold up Blue’s drawing and hold it tightly in one hand. It feels like the most solid thing all day. Hopeless as life may feel sometimes, this objectively adds a brighter thing to it.
The two walk you to the door, then to the sidewalk. Blue gives you her signature last hug. Josh offers another, which you accept. You hug back, standing on your own weight, as long as it takes for everything to feel real this time. The Skidoo Express pulls up and opens its door, ready for you to board.
“See you soon, okay?”
Oh, right. There’s life after this. Somehow, inconceivably distant it may feel, everything stays. You’ll always be welcome here, no matter what. It matters all the more because you leave. You board the bus and sit down. Josh and Blue wave with you through the windows until you’re out of sight.
You focus on the drawing in your hands all the way home.