Chapter Text
It was all too easy to decide to give up.
I expected to at least have to put up a fight. I expected to catch myself trying, to have to remind myself that I’m waiting for them to ask me.
I was, at least slightly, aware that allowing myself to get worse in an effort to avoid having to ask for help was absolutely not the way to go. It would be much easier to go to my mom and tell her I was struggling to win some fight with my brain. But that required her asking questions of how long, why I didn’t tell her sooner, if it had anything to do with “the thing Valentine told us,” because no one in this house would actually say “the thing Valentine told us.”
It’s not like saying I’m gay is hard, it seems like saying “the thing Valentine told us” is much more work. Same as saying Floriano “just isn’t socially mature” when the word autism is much simpler and more truthful.
My family, I’ve realized, is something I’m mad at a lot. It’s not even necessarily because of real reasons, it’s just that they always manage to do things that rub against my nerves and make me feel so irritated I just end up going to my room for hours on end.
So, the decision to go into my room one night and stay there until they decided to drag me out and shove whatever medicine they wanted down my throat or take me to whatever ward they thought would work was an easy one. My bed is comfy anyway, so I just settled in it last night and this morning, when I wake up, I don’t force myself. There’s no need to. I’m giving up.
There’s a knock at my door. Valentine calls for me to wake up. I hear him shuffle away.
I stay in bed.
The door shudders with a pound. Paris yells through it. I stay still, but move around so he’ll think I’m getting up and walk away.
They send Flo up after a while, which tells me they’re desperate. He opens my door and walks over to my bed. I stare up at him, and he simply blinks down at me.
“I can tell them you’re still asleep,” he says.
“Thanks Flo,” I force out.
He nods. “I understand.”
He walks out, his signature pattern of odd stomps and shuffles giving him away as he makes his way back.
And no one comes back up.
I get up once to use the bathroom, and Paris asks me when I went to bed. I tell the truth, mumble a weak “four,” and go back to bed.
When lunch comes around, the cycle repeats: Valentine, Paris, Flo. This time, Flo stands at my bed and stares down at me.
“You okay?”
I’ve wanted someone to ask for years. I’ve prayed to a god that I’m not really sure if I believe in begging for someone to ask me that. To open the door, to give me an easy way out.
But it’s so hard.
“Fine.”
Flo doesn’t believe me. He stands there, stares at me. I don’t look up at him, I know that will make him uncomfortable, so I keep my gaze firmly on his knees.
“Mercutio?”
I look up at the ceiling. He seems almost relieved. “Are you okay?”
I’ve already answered that, even if it was with a lie. I feel some kind of irritation flare up. “I’m fine.”
He starts walking away. He glances at me.
“They’ll send someone else up.”
I shrug. “That’s fine.”
“Is that your word today? Fine?”
I almost laugh. “Yeah.”
“Do you want them to send someone up?”
“No. But it’s fine.”
He closes the door and walks back downstairs. I stay rooted in bed.
It’s funny. My brain starts wondering after a while, trying to entertain itself after the boredom of laying in bed all day. I imagine that maybe, if I stay here long enough, I’ll grow moss. Maybe roots will sprout from me and root me to the ground.
The door opens. I almost tell whoever it is to leave, because I’m tired of interacting with people today. My tolerance is short.
My mom is standing above me. She’s kinder than my dad, who’s approach is very much born of a neglect of mental health in his home country of Morocco. I’d rather it be her than him, but talking to her will be exhausting.
I sit up, and end up having to prop myself up against the headboard of my bed. I’m tired, my body protests every movement.
I’m wasting away. I’m in this bed now, I’ll die here.
She sits beside me, setting her hand on top of one of mine. She’s staring at me, eyes almost scrutinizing me.
“What’s going on?”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve not eaten today. You’ve not been walking around the house. Paris said he’s seen you once. Floriano has been trying to get us all to leave you alone.”
Flo told me once, when we were kids, that I was his favorite. We were hiding in a blanket fort he’d built in his room, which was filled with books that I remember him reading to me about cybernetics and how they work and how they’re made and how they can continue to expand and he read at least half a book to me, and I remember I loved it, because he was so excited to just be listened to. We’d hidden because of the chaos in our house, the result of having a big family living in our house. The yelling and constant chatter and laughter had grown too much and he’d insisted we hide in his fort. They leave me alone here, they know that’s my space. No one is allowed in here but me and you, because you’re my favorite. Don’t tell Paris or Val though, they’ll be upset.
I shrug. “You know how Flo is. He’s protective.”
She narrows her eyes. “That’s not what I’m talking about.”
“Okay.”
“What’s going on, Mercutio?”
“Nothing.”
“When was the last time you ate a good meal?”
“Yesterday.”
“You barely ate yesterday. You’ve barely been eating for months.”
I hadn’t noticed that. Of course, I knew I’d lost weight. It was hard not to notice that all my clothes had grown bigger. I just never thought about why.
“Okay. Sorry.”
She sighs. “Mercutio, listen to me. Are you alright?”
“I’m fine.”
“Stand up.”
I do. She does as well. She’s looking me over, pulling at my clothes and prodding at my body. She starts poking a trail down, and I silently pray that she doesn’t go-
She pokes my hip. I stiffen, try to hide a flinch as her finger lands directly on a still-healing cut. She trails down my thigh, and I can tell she sees the way I’m stiffening.
She stands and looks at me. “Mercutio?”
I’ve not worn shorts in years. It was something I did slowly, dwindling my supply so I had an excuse.
It’s not really my fault. I have a body that I hate and a life that I hate and so much hate and angry built up in my body. How am I supposed to get rid of it? Violence, the few times I tried to engage it, got me nowhere but grounded. Isn’t it easier to just hurt myself, to spare other people from whatever hurt this is.
She hugs me. I know she knows, even if she’s only said my name. I bury my face in her shoulder and cry. It’s almost relief, because she just holds me and lets me cry.
She tucks me into bed and brings me a plate of food. She leaves soon after, and I don’t even pretend to eat. I leave it on my desk and stay in bed.
Night comes. The lights stay bright, drowning out the stars.
I hear people moving around. I act like I don’t notice the slip of paper being slid under my door. I climb pitifully out of bed barely long enough to grab it.
You can come into my room if you wanted. I want to help.
- Floriano.
His handwriting is atrocious but familiar, so it takes me barely any time to read. The invite warms my heart, because his room is a space that most people get kicked out of before they even have one foot through the door. It’s his space, his fort made larger, and even his parents don’t go in there.
I shuffle pitifully down the hall, knocking on his door. It’s marked by a glowing sign that forms his name in stilted cursive. I remember him getting that for his fifteenth birthday two years ago. I still remember the way he lit up when he opened it, always a fan of bright lights but only when he can control them.
The door opens. An eye peeks out.
“Oh hey! Come in.”