TW// Mentions of suicide

"MOM, PLEASE," I whine, tugging at her arm as she stares at the wall before her. "Please, just get up. Please!"

Her brown eyes stay fixated on the chipped paint in the wall and a heavy sob wracks my body. "Please, Mommy, wake up! I need you!"

I wipe away my tears with the back of my hand and press my fingertips against the hollowness in my stomach. I was hungry. I was afraid. And she didn't care.

I let go of my mother's arm and trek deeper into the darkness of the apartment—she must've forgotten to pay the light bill again. My feet pad against the floor silently until I reach the bathroom. Standing before the mirror, I don't see the scared six-year-old boy I'd been expecting. Instead, I see myself at the age of thirteen, complete with my terrible haircut and spots of acne on my face.

There's a loud crash and I jump, turning around to the noise. Suddenly, I'm in an empty hallway surrounded by lockers. Only, it's not empty. There are three boys in front of me. One of them was a boy named Nolan Walker.

"Just admit it," the first boy sneers. "You're gay."

I clench my fists against my side. "I'm not."

"Look at him!" the second boy laughs. "He's going to cry! Like a little girl!"

The third boy, Nolan, laughs even louder. "Poor, little Braylen. Should we call your mommy? Oh, wait. You don't have one."

"Shut up!" I whisper, tears streaming down my eyes. "Just shut up, please."

I shut my eyes tightly, taking deep breaths. "Braylen," a voice murmurs. "Braylen, it's just me."

I wasn't in the school's hallway anymore, but the boy's bathroom instead. I was locked in the furthest bathroom stall, the one I always hid in when I wanted time to be alone. Someone clearly didn't get that memo. "Go away," I mumble.

"If you don't come out right now I'm going to tell Mrs. Reilly that you fake your stomachaches to get out of PE. And that you don't actually have IBS," he says.

I wipe my tears and push open the door, staring up at Sebastian Grey. He'd always been taller than me. I'd always hated that. "You're evil."

"Why are you hiding out here? Your aunt came to pick you up after school, she couldn't find you anywhere," Sebastian says.

I roll my eyes. "Why do you care?"

"I care because she seems to think we're friends or something," Sebastian complains. "She's the one that asked me to find you. Now, why were you crying?"

I swallow back the lump in my throat. It was one thing to go through that, even worse having to explain it all to Sebastian. "It's nothing. Nothing important."

Sebastian clicks on his cell phone before pulling up a post from someone's Instagram account. "This have anything to do with it?"

I read the post slowly, a few times to make sure I saw it correctly. I'd never been called that word before, but I knew what it meant. And I knew how it made me feel. Tears well up in my eyes again. "Okay, go ahead. Laugh. It's just so funny, isn't it?" I hiss, knocking Sebastian's phone out of my face.

"I don't think any of this is funny, actually," Sebastian remarks, his blue eyes angry. "Nolan is spreading rumors about you, you know. That's bullying."

        I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Yeah, I'm well aware, Sebastian. Why do you care, anyway? Haven't you bullied me my entire life?"

        Sebastian almost looks offended. "You're not actually comparing me to these guys, are you? Braylen, I would never do something like this to you."

        I suck in my bottom lip. "Why not?"

        "Because it's wrong," Sebastian explains with an expression I can't quite place. "You should go find your aunt. I'm sure she's worried."

        I nod once. "Yeah. Thanks, Sebastian."

        He sends me a smile, opening his mouth to say something. No words come out. Instead, water trickles out of his mouth and onto his front, staining his shirt in seconds. "Sebastian?" I call out, reaching out to him. But I was too far. I couldn't move. I was stuck in place.

        Water gushes out of Sebastian's mouth at a rapid speed. Then, it starts coming out of his ears. His nose, his eyes. I'm screaming my head off, watching as his tanned skin turns a sickly shade of blue. "You...did...this to...me," Sebastian gurgles. "It's...your...fault."

       "No, it's not. No, it's not," I cry out, pounding my fists against my head. "Please, just stop! Sebastian, please!"

        He crumples down to his knees, holding a hand against his chest. "You...killed me." A cry leaves my mouth as Sebastian falls to the floor, his head cracking on the bathroom tiles. Blood combines with the water on the floor and I'm on my knees crawling through it in an instant, just to get to him.

        "Sebastian, please!" I cry, holding onto his lifeless body. "Please, just get up. Please."

        Sebastian's dead eyes stare right back up at me. "Please, come back," I sob, running my hand along his face. "I still need you."

        I wake with a start, climbing out of bed and beelining it straight to my toilet as I puke up the entire contents of my stomach. Sweat beads at the top of my neck and slithers way down to my spine, soaking through my shirt and dampening my hair. I flush the toilet and wipe my mouth, breathing heavily.

        The coolness of the bathroom tiles helped bring my body temperature down, but all I could see was Sebastian lying dead on the bathroom floor. "It wasn't real," I whisper to myself, smacking my cheeks. "It wasn't real."

        Except it was. Every bit of it. The memory of my mom in one of her lows, Nolan Walker, Sebastian finding me in the bathroom, him dying. It was all real. It all happened.

        I could feel my chest getting tighter and tighter and bring a hand to my chest. "It's in your head," I whisper. "Get it out of your head."

        I slow down my breathing as much as possible, massaging circles along my chest. "It was just a nightmare. It wasn't real."

"Do you think you have trouble differentiating between reality and fiction, Mr. Adams?"

I snap open my eyes and come back to where I am, wedged in this way too comfortable brown seat with Dr. Fritz across from me. I was rubbing my chest just as I had in the bathroom last night and stop at once. "No, I don't think that at all," I say, clenching my jaw.

Dr. Fritz takes a note of that—by typing it on her laptop, that is. I'm guessing she remembered my outburst about her annoying little notepad from the last session we had. "And this dream of yours...which was it? Reality or fiction?" she asks.

I let out a deep breath. "Both, I guess." She does a quick 'go on' gesture. I sigh again. "Everything in those dreams was real at some point in time. The thing with my mom, the thing with Nolan, with him. Maybe it didn't happen exactly the way it did in my dream but it definitely had elements of truth in it."

"Yes, let's talk about...him, for a moment," Fritz continues. "The water coming out of him—do you understand what that was supposed to represent?"

I swallow hard. "The way he died."

"Yes, I'd reckon so," Fritz agrees. "But I want to focus on more on what Sebast—on what he said to you afterward. About his state being your fault. I wanted to make sure you knew that it wasn't, Braylen."

I blink back tears at the mental image of Sebastian struggling to speak as water poured from his mouth. Not real, not real, not real. "I do," I murmur. "I do know that."

"Okay," Fritz says with a smile. "How have you been lately? Are you sleeping any better?"

I grab onto the crutch gratefully. "Yeah, loads. I get nightmares like that from time to time but I mostly sleep all throughout the night now."

"And your panic attacks?"

I shrug my shoulders. "I only experienced one this week. It was bad, but I got through it."

Fritz types that with her laptop, the clicking of the keys filling up the room. I was starting to miss her pen and pad. "And overall, your emotions this week? How have you been?"

"I don't know," I admit. "There was a lot I had to deal with. With the ceremony and Aaron and my friends. Those were kind of down moments. But other than that...good. I think. I've been okay."

Dr. Fritz grins widely. "I'm very glad to hear that, Braylen. I think we can wait a couple of weeks to meet. How does that sound?"

No therapy for two weeks? Like heaven. But I plaster a smile on my face. "Sounds good, Dr. Fritz. Am I free to go?"

"Of course. I do have a little assignment for you," she continues. "I'd like you to keep a journal, of sorts. Maybe write down everything you're feeling during the days. Almost like a diary. You can be as specific as you want to but I want to make sure we're documenting your feelings as they fluctuate. I won't necessarily read all your entries word for word but I will like confirmation that you've been completing them. Is that all right?"

My fake smile stretches wider. "Homework. Sounds great."

¥

"Dear, diary," I mumble, writing out the words into my notebook. It doesn't feel right. At all. I scratch out the words and try again. "Hola, journal."

Someone laughs from behind me. "'Hola, journal?' Brayls, you're not even good at Spanish."

I turn to look at Sebastian who is currently perched on my bed, the perfect vision of comfort. "You're back," I say. "Where've you been?"

"The underworld," he deadpans. My heart skips a beat for a moment just before he laughs. "I'm kidding. I've been here. You've just been too busy to talk to me."

I shake my head. "That's not true."

"Well, how would I know, anyway? It's your head, Braylen. I'm just living in it," Sebastian says, laughing at his own joke. "You know, Fritz is going to check that journal in just two weeks. Might want to get a crack on it."

I groan. "I know! But I have nothing to say! All I did today was dance to One Direction and eat pizza. How am I supposed to explain my feelings about that?"

"Maybe you should write about the stuff that's already happened first. Tell a story. You could start with when you came back to Malibu," Sebastian responds. "Come on, B, you're a writer. Aren't you always saying that the best way to write is to just do it?"

I chew my eraser, staring at the blank page. "I do always say that."

"Exactly, because you're a genius!" Sebastian responds. He's by my side in an instant, peering over my shoulder and glancing down at my notebook. "Look," he murmurs in a softer tone, "if it helps...write to me."

I turn to look at him. "Wait, what?"

"Write your entries to me," Sebastian reiterates. "Like a letter. Pen pals and all that jazz."

I gawk at him. "Sebastian, I already talk to your ghost in my head. Now you want me to write phantom letters to you?"

"One—I am not a ghost. I am a figment of your imagination," Sebastian grumbles. "Two—we were always, always able to talk to each other. About everything, Brayls. You don't know what to say because you're seeing this journal as just a piece of paper. But it doesn't have to be. Talk to it like you'd talk to me."

I drop my hands against my desk, frustrated. "Yeah, but you're not—," I start. There's a whooshing sound and when I turn my head back to look at Sebastian, I only see my empty bedroom. I bite my lip solemnly. "Really here."

I turn back around in my chair and stare at the page, the empty white paper waiting for me to say something to it. Anything.

"Talk to it like you'd talk to me."

I pull out my pencil, set it on top of the paper, and begin slowly writing. "Dear, Sebastian," I write. And I don't stop for a long, long time.