TW// some heavy conversation

BRAYLEN.

I OPEN MY eyes to sterile sheets and white walls staring back at me. My head felt cloudy like it did when we dissected eyeballs in sixth grade and I fainted in front of the entire Biology class. Sebastian made fun of me for years after that; I never dissected anything ever again.

This felt different, though. I felt dizzy when I woke up after the dissection. Now, I just felt numb.

I'm tucked carefully underneath sheets and from my neck down, I can feel gauze. I lift my hands up, taking in the thick, white bandages wrapped around them and my stomach turns as I remember exactly how I got here. Wherever here was.

I'd finally lost it.

All summer, I'd felt on the brink of it. Of breaking down. There were moments where I'd felt full, like maybe I could hold off a little longer. It seemed I'd run out of time. My own craziness couldn't be contained anymore. And everyone knew it. Especially Roman.

My heart pangs at his name but then I remember something else. Him rushing into Sebastian's house, wrapping me up in his arms, carrying me out. I don't remember much after that; it must've been when I blacked out. I don't even remember what I whispered to him as he looked at me or what he whispered back. All I remember is the thought, "What have I done to myself?" and his warm hands along the bare strip of skin beneath my shirt.

Someone bustles into the room, quickly shining off the reflective glass of the mirror—a plastic, imitation mirror. Good choice. He's dressed in blue scrubs, not unlike a doctor's. But I didn't think I was at the hospital. Not exactly.

"Hey," I call out. My voice is throaty and hoarse and the man doesn't hear me. Albeit, he does have on old-fashioned headphones plugged into some device in his pocket. I can hear music playing from it, loud rock music that I couldn't recognize from this far away, though something about it felt familiar. I swallow hard and clear my throat. "Hey!"

The man turns around, cheeks flushed. I watch as he frantically pushes his headphones around his neck. "Shit. You're awake. Uh...hi. I'm Lionel."

I nod towards him. "You a doctor?" I ask. My voice still sounded foreign.

He gulps. "Sort of. I'm in training. Under Dr. Carter." He chuckles awkwardly but stops when I don't join in. "You're probably confused, aren't you?"

"Where am I?" I hiss.

Lionel sighs. "I am definitely not the one that should be breaking this to you," he mutters. "Malibu Treatment Center. A mental hospital."

"A mental hospital?" I croak, incredulous. "I did not sign up for this."

Lionel looks uncomfortable. "I don't know your record, sorry. I'll send the doctor in as soon as possible."

He turns on his heel, prepared to scurry out of the door. I felt bad. I didn't mean to scare the guy. "Wait!" I call out. He turns around at once, glancing at me with hooded eyes. I clear my throat. "Sorry, I just...never mind. What was...what were you listening to?"

Lionel's eyes bug out as if that were the last question he'd expected. "Uh, Evanescence. The band, you know?" I shake my head in response. "Oh, they're cool. You should check out their stuff."

"Evanescence?" I repeat, tasting the word. I'd never heard it before. I wasn't even sure it was a real thing. "What does that mean?"

Lionel looks at me. "It's the band's name."

"No, the word. What does the word mean?" I ask.

        He whips out his phone quickly. "Um," he mutters, typing away. "Aha! Got it. It's the concept of something fading away quickly. To vanish. Disappear."

        I lean back against my pillow, slightly disappointed. What a sad word. "Oh. Thank you."

        Lionel nods. "I'll send in that doctor for you."

I nod back, attempting a small smile. Lionel disappears until it's just me and the sound of static in the bedroom. I sigh, attempting to push myself to my feet with my hands before realizing my mistake. My hands were in far too much pain for me to do that. I let out a shaky breath in pain before falling back against the pillow, shutting my eyes. "Nice going, Braylen," I mutter.

The door clicks. I open my eyes to see a woman with hardened features but kind eyes. Oba trails in behind her with tired eyes and a worried expression. I mentally curse at myself. She must've been up all night.

"Hey," Aunt Amanda murmurs, taking a seat in the chair next to my hand. She eyes my gauze-covered hands before sliding hers around them gently. "How do you feel?"

I stare at her. "I'm fine. Really. I don't need to be here." I turn to the doctor. "I don't need to be here."

The doctor smiles softly. "I'm Dr. Harris. I wanted to talk to you about some things, Braylen. Is that all right?"

I narrow my eyes. "What things?"

Harris glances at my aunt who nods softly back at her. I frown. What was this all about? Why was I here and not at an actual hospital?

Dr. Harris turns back to me. "Your aunt assured me that you were very aware of your mother's condition back in Maine. I'm not sure how aware you are of the actual condition itself, however," she responds. "Bipolar disorder is characterized by two periods: depressive lows and manic highs. These periods can last for an extended amount of time—from weeks to months. Of course, your mother's condition was greatly affected by her drug and alcohol abuse. Which I'm sure you're aware of."

I shake my head in confusion. "Why are we talking about my mother?"

"Braylen," Oba murmurs, warningly. I sigh.

Dr. Harris doesn't seem fazed as she continues. "Oftentimes with mental health disorders, it can be difficult to identify their causes. However, with bipolar disorder, it's been deduced that the main cause is genetics. This means that the disorder can be hereditary, especially when between close family members. Like a mother and her son."

I stare back at the doctor with incredulous eyes. Realization hits me square in the chest. I shake my head. "No. No, I'm not like her. I'm not. I'm not bipolar."

"As I said, your mother's condition was worsened by her addictions," Dr. Harris says, glancing at Oba worriedly. "We think that you may show symptoms of a mild version of bipolar disorder. Brought on by the recent trauma of your boyfriend's death."

"I've been dealing with trauma my entire life," I spit. "Why does that make me bipolar now?"

Dr. Harris doesn't answer my question, only purses her lips. "We also have reason to believe you're suffering from an anxiety disorder and have been for quite some time. Your therapist gave me a detailed history of your panic attacks and paranoia. The important thing to note here, Braylen, is that all of this is normal."

Bipolar. Anxiety. Panic. Paranoia. Trauma.

Disgust bubbles up in my stomach. I swallow it down.

"To further explain bipolar disorder, I should explain manic highs and depressive lows. They often come with no warning and no expectations. A depressive low consists of lethargy, a lack of motivation, and a pretty low outlook on life. You may experience too much sleep or no sleep at all. Anger will be at a higher level and harder to control. You may become snappy, a little on edge. It would be harder to concentrate, make plans, to even eat. Have you experienced anything similar to this?"

I glance down at my wrapped-up hands. "Yes."

"Okay," she responds. "Well, manic highs are completely opposite. You may feel wired or jumpy—like you cannot control the energy inside of you. You may become more talkative, and more likely to go on long rants or ramblings. It also consists of several thoughts at once, often to the point where it becomes hard to decipher them. And, there will be a record of poor decision-making during this time. You may engage in behaviors you wouldn't normally do before, such as reckless driving or indulging yourself in harmful, and frequent sexual practices or harmful substances. Does any of this sound familiar to you?"

I think back to the summer. My mind instantly flashes to the moments such as me smoking one of Roman's cigarettes, something I'd never wanted to try before but decided I did that day. I think back to the countless amount of times he and I hooked up, how I used it as a coping mechanism and a catalyst for my pleasure. I think of driving speedily that night we had sex for the first time. Was our first time only because I was crazy? Because I was manic?

"I don't know," I whisper, a tear streaming down my face. "I—I don't know about any of this, okay?"

Dr. Harris nods. "That's all right, Braylen. We'll discover more about this as time goes on," she says soothingly. "As for why you're here...last night was dangerous for you, Braylen. Whether you were manic or not, you were found in a dangerous position. Luckily, your friends were there to get you the help you needed. But I have a few questions about that night. Is that okay?"

"Yes," I mutter, my voice short.

Harris nods again. "Do you remember how you got to the house?"

"I drove," I whisper. "I don't remember the drive, but that's how I got there."

"And the mirrors? What happened to the mirrors? Why did you break them?"

I swallow hard. "I—uh, I don't know. I was tired of looking at myself, I guess. I wanted it gone."

"You wanted your reflection gone? Or yourself?" she asks softly.

Tears well up in my eyes. Oba leans forward, wrapping her arms around my torso. "It's okay, Braylen. It's going to be okay."

"I just...I couldn't look at myself anymore. Knowing what I did. Or what I didn't do," I cry out, wiping my eyes with the back of the stupid gauze on my hands.

"What did you not do, Braylen?"

I glare at Dr. Harris. Wasn't it obvious? "Sebastian," I spew out. "I didn't save Sebastian."

Dr. Harris frowns. "Braylen, what you're experiencing is suicide grief. It's different than if Sebastian had died of natural causes," she says softly. "I understand these feelings of guilt that you have, but you should know, they are not true. Sebastian's death was not your fault. You must stop punishing yourself for it."

"I don't know how," I whisper, voice breaking.

Oba presses a kiss against my forehead. "That's okay. We can help you learn."

¥

An hour or two later, Dr. Harris finally leaves. She'd spent the rest of the session describing the medication I'd be going on. To regulate my emotions and anxiety. I wasn't too fond of the idea of it, but it seemed the only option for me at the moment. They wouldn't let me out of this place if I wasn't on some sort of drugs to make me better, anyway.

Oba is still seated next to my bed, her eyebrows furrowed in stress. I felt like shit. More than the cuts along my body. I felt like shit for making her feel that way. I clear my throat and her eyes lift to mine. "Um, is anyone else here?" I ask, eyes wide.

"They allow family only," she responds. "Devin nearly punched the front desk guy because of that." She chuckles at the memory and a small smile spreads onto my face. "Hiro and the twins wanted to come, but I decided it'd be best for them to stay home. I wanted them to see you when you're ready. When they're ready, too."

I swallow hard. "And...and Roman?"

Oba's face turns apologetic. "I'm sorry. I haven't seen him since we left the hospital. The other one, where they patched you up. I asked him to stay until you woke up but he seemed pretty adamant about getting out of there."

"Oh," I murmur.

Aunt Amanda smiles. "Not in the way that you're thinking, though. I'm sure," she continues. "I mean, it seemed more that he was going to lose it if he had to see you like that for a minute longer. Sort of panicked, actually. He really does care about you, Braylen."

I swallow hard. I didn't want to talk about Roman anymore. I was sorry I even brought him up. I fold my hands on my lap and stare at them, trying to imagine the jagged scars that would become a part of my skin after the gauze was removed. Tears spring in my eyes and I blink them back. "I'm really sorry, Oba," I get out, shaking my head. "I'm sorry for making you guys worry, sorry for hurting myself. I mean, it's what you'd been trying to avoid all summer. This. Me, breaking down."

"There's nothing to apologize for," she murmurs. "I should be the one saying sorry. My job is to protect you." Her voice gets closed up with emotion and I look at her, surprised to see tears running down her face. "And I couldn't do that. I'm sorry."

I chuckled sadly, shaking my head. "It's not your fault. I just feel awful that I'm too much of a whack job that I couldn't hold it together until after your wedding."

She smiles a watery smile. "Oh, Braylen." Her arms wrap around my shoulders in a tight hug, one that I fall into quickly. I cry softly against her shoulder as I breathe in the scent of the woman that had raised me, the woman who kept me alive all this time.

"You're not a whack job," she says, voice firm and final. "You're my son."