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It's been.. You can't even remember how long it's been. Not very long, you know that.
Actually, you remember now. It has been exactly 300 days since you lost the ability to walk, the ability to move. It's been 300 days. You have had 300 days to get used to it yet when you wake up you still try stretching out your legs, you still think about going on walks, you still try to stand up, try to walk, try to run, try to jump. It has been 300 days and you're pretty sure that even in 300 more days you still won't be used to it. You're pretty sure you won't get used to it until the day you die.
Your friends always ask how it's been, getting used to your newfound inability to walk. You always say “oH, uH, iT WAS HARD AT FIRST BUT, uHM, yOU GET USED TO IT AFTER A WHILE,” But you're lying. You lie straight through your teeth. You can't tell if your friends know you're lying but considering that you're almost 100% certain none of them even like you, you don't even care. Well you do, but you're always contradicting yourself, you're a wheeling, blabbering, contradiction.
300 days.
You think some people would consider this something to celebrate. 300 days being like someone new, but you never wanted to be someone new. You liked who you were before, yeah you thought you were stupid and a sissy and you got in the way but you would prefer being a stupid sissy that gets in the way than a stupid sissy that gets in the way AND one that can't walk.
300 days.
300 days of the same cycle. Over and over again. 300 days of paranoia. 300 days of ignoring your friends. 300 days of passing out from the amount of physical and mental pain. 300 days wondering if you even want to wake up again. 300. That seems like such a big number, but when you’re Tavros Nitram, it could be counted as a lifetime.
Sometimes you wonder, if you were even cut out for life.
Sometimes, you sit and stare at your posters for hours, crying, not knowing how you're gonna make it to tomorrow. Sometimes, you lock yourself in a storage closet for days, forcing yourself to stay awake and off your meds trying to get used to the unbearable pain until you start to hallucinate.
Sometimes, you think about it. It flashes into your mind, sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for hours. It keeps you up. How you're gonna do it. The before, the during. Never the after. You don't know what would happen after you do it. The what ifs, the buts. You think of it all. All of what would happen if you did it.
300 days, too afraid to go outside, too afraid to talk with people outside. Surviving off of the smallest portions.
300 days of sleeping too much, or sleeping too little.
And now you’re starting to think 300 days was too many days.
You look at your husktop, you just glance at it. No messages, you never get texted. People don't text you unless you message them first, even then they'll ignore you. Yeah, it's pretty messed up, especially when you need help but, what can you do, you're a huge burden anyways. Well actually you know what you can do.
There's always that thing. It eats away at your thoughts like a parasite. That thing lingers for days, weeks at a time. You'll never tell anyone this thing with a conscious mind, never in your life. You will never tell a soul how tempting that thing is. How that thing whispers to you while you're talking to your friends. That thing wants you to give in, and you want to.
You look out the window in your block. You should probably go outside, it is healthy to get fresh air, even though your window is open. It’s always open. You look out, all you can think about is falling. You miss that rush. The rush that came with almost dying, it was probably the best thing you ever experienced. It's been 300 days since then. You hear a sound from your husktop. Someone messaged you.
apocolypseArisen [AA] began trolling adiosToreador [AT]
AA: hell0 tavr0s
AT: hEY, aRADIA
AA: h0w have y0u been
AT: uHH,
How have you been? Lonely, desperate, sad. Do you want to tell her the truth? No, not really. You know she’ll probably realize that you're lying but you hope she won't say anything about you lying.
AT: i HAVE BEEN, fINE, wHY
AA: n0 reas0n i just wanted t0 kn0w
Weird, things are weird. It has been 300 days, that feels like a day she would remember. I mean, it really is nothing. Just 300. Not a sweep, not even half.. It's just 300. 300 days. 300. 300.. 300…
What are you going to do today? To celebrate. You could do what you want to do. Staring at everything you want to do. Remembering how you cry, wanting to do what you want to do. What do you want to do? You can't say.
You remember now, what 300 meant. What 300 means to you. Besides today, it was 300, you kept track. 300 times you've thought about that horrible thing. 300 times. It's never stopped being on your mind. 300 times, 300 days.
You wheel outside, you want to stand up. You want to get up and start walking, go on a nice walk. You cant, you cant do that. So now, you have to use the way less flattering descriptor for going outside. Wheel… you never wanted it to be this way. You never wanted to wheel, you would much prefer stumble over wheel.
So you wheel outside, out to your lawnring, out to the overgrown grass. You haven't been able to deal with the plants, you've been… preoccupied. But it's okay, maybe soon you won't have to. Maybe 300 is the last day you have to care. Your hive is a mess, but you don't care right now. You probably look horrible, but that's the least of your concerns. You remember 301 days ago. You cut the grass, took a shower, went on a walk, ate some good food, played a game, talked to your friends, slept in the morning. You don't get it. Why? Why did it all go wrong? This is all your fault.
You wheel out, forcing your wheels to move through the matted grass. Your whole body is burning. Burning with what? You don't know. But you wheel out to where you used to run. You used to run. You used to run. You just remembered that you used to do that. You wheel out to the shops, the shops you used to run to. Hands on your wheels, you would wave at the people you used to see but then you couldn't move. You aren't even sure if they recognize you, you can't even recognize yourself anymore.
300
You took 300 steps, 300 days ago, give or take. 300. That number keeps coming back. You hope it's the last time. The last time that number comes back. That number is worse than the thoughts eating at you. You cross a bridge. You would've gone for a swim if it weren't for your wheelchair.
You aren't exactly sure where you're wheeling to, you just know you're going somewhere because you don't want to be there anymore. Tinkerbull is probably scared, but you've seen how he gets after your little outbursts, you wouldn't say it's been 300 times but it has been close. Too close. And maybe now he can stop. Stop worrying. You pass by a tree. You wonder what it would be like to have a tree swing. That would be cool, you want a tree swing.
You passed by the doctors office you usually get your medication from. You don't have another appointment for another week and you're already out of your medication. Everything hurts, maybe that's why your body was burning.
You wheel faster, you don't know where you're going but apparently your body knows. Your body doesn't know a lot of things, you wish it knew more. You kept wheeling. You managed into a forest. Still not knowing what you really do want here, you just look.
The leaves are falling, there's probably over 100 on the ground right now. It's so calm here you could die. You could sleep. You could…you could do something. You see a tree, you would've climbed it. You want to. You regret ever sitting down in the past. You would kill to stand again. You would rather walk than fly. You never thought to wish for that.
You stare at the trees, it feels like they're almost staring back. You don't know what to do. Digging in your pockets to find something to remind you as to why you were there, you find something. You pull it out, it's cold. What are you even supposed to do with this? You're panicking now. 300 days. It's been 300 days. As you stare at this something, you wonder. Is 300 too many days? Maybe you can handle another day. Maybe you can. Maybe 300 was just enough. You can do this. So you drop it. You drop that thing. That shard. That blade. That knife. Whatever it is, it's lost in the leaves. You felt that regret, but now the feeling is back. 300. Was too many. Days.
You continue, out the forest to somewhere else. You would probably go to a friend's hive but you don't want to. Right now you hate everyone and yourself. You don't know what to do. You want to do it. You regret dropping the knife. You keep going and going and going and going. You make it to a lake, it's covered with trees. Nobody will see you. Nobody. Picking yourself up and out of your wheelchair, you bring yourself to the edge. You think about it. You won't just go, you'll have to wait a long time. So you stop. You get back into your wheelchair and continue. If you had the right legs, you would be swimming. Swimming was so fun.
You go to a store, a sporting store. They obviously have some type of rope. Getting into the store is hard enough but choosing the right one is worse. You can't figure it out. You pick the most sturdy looking one but one that should still fit for the freak you're hanging. You make it to the register. You hand the guy the money and the rope. You see him judging you. He probably knows what you want to do. You're very predictable.
soRRy man, cant sell this to ya
wHAT,,?
new stupid Rule, believe me man, i would sell you this so you could get it oveR with but uh
boss told me we cant sell Rope to guys who aRe obviously suicidal so
no can do
bUT IM, pAYING YOU
yeah but Rules aRe Rules man, i cant let you kill youRself unless youRe a Rustblood like me
,,,,iM NOT GOING TO, kILL MYSELF
uhuh..
He hands you the money back and puts the rope…somewhere? You dont know but you do know that you werent going to…kill yourself. You leave. Wheeling out. It has always been embarrassing to wheel out.
You barely go out anymore, thankfully. 300 days. You refuse. You refuse. You refuse to let it become 301. You will walk, you will run, you will
fly.
Making it back to the same cliff you were at 300 days prior. You wheel to it. Looking down. You would say there was a breeze but there wasn't. The wind was stagnant. Unmoving. Uncaring. You looked down. Down. you remember when you flew. You move back, away from the edge. You can't do it. You can't. You wouldn't be able to stomach it. You remember the way your back felt. You remember the way your legs didn't feel. You remember not knowing why. You remember 300 days ago. Remembering it made it worse. You want to jump. You want to jump. But you can't. And wheeling off sounds so much more stupid. Stupid like your life. Stupid like this. This stupid plan. 300 days, what a waste. What a waste you are. You feel yourself crying and you can't help but let the tears flow. Nobody can hate you more than you hate yourself. You want to throw yourself off, you want to throw yourself off. You can't do this. It's unbearable. You want to kill yourself. You need to kill yourself. You have nothing going for you. All your dreams, everything. You need to kill yourself. You have nothing left in store. You wanted to walk, you wanted to run, you wanted to jump. You wanted to do so much. 300 days. 300 days of this feeling. 300 days of not knowing. 300 days of nonstop mental and physical pain. 300. 300 days. No less, you wished no more. And as your bronze tears puddle into your cupped hands, you realize that there will be many more than 300. She was right, you're too much of a wuss. You will never amount to anything more than her, and that's why you can't die. You can't die to make her feel better. So she doesn't hate herself. Because you wouldn't want anyone to hate themselves. 300 days. No less. Many more. 300 days and 300 more. You will continue to feel this way. But in 300 days you'll know you can't do it. You can't do anything right, you're just a wuss.
And so you wheeled back to your hive.