The Story Has Just Begun

It was the end of his rope. Too much was going on, Deimos couldn’t handle the thoughts anymore. It was his fault Rosie had gotten hurt again. He was never wanted anyway. His own parents said that. He wasn’t worthy of the love he was getting from Rosie. She’d leave him for someone better, someone kinder, softer. His mind kept reminding him of all the ways she would decide to leave him. Even after they got in a fight over that very thing, even though Rosalind herself promised him she’d never leave. He didn’t have prescriptions anymore, and he wasn’t drinking, which definitely made his thoughts worse, unsubdued with the lack of the cloudy fog alcohol gave him. But he couldn’t try it the way he’d done before.

His eyes traveled to the knife block in the kitchen. He’d always avoided cutting as a way of suicide, it was too messy. He wasn’t into messy. But that or a gunshot were probably the most effective methods of committing suicide. He could end it now and never have to deal with the guilt of what happened to Rosalind, his own unpredictability. However, as his hands reached for the knife, his mind reminded him of what he hadn’t been thinking about.

Rosalind told him she wouldn’t have agreed to marry him if she didn’t love him. She’d always stuck by him, from the moment they met. (Partially due to her empathy) She read him better than anyone else at this school, even better than the headmaster. She gave him a chance when no one else would.

And she would be destroyed if he were gone.

His hand retreated, and he stuck his hands in his pockets, before shuffling to the bathroom. He took a shower instead, trying to clear his thoughts. As he returned to bed, he searched on his phone for tips to avoid self harm. His chest hurt, knowing this wasn’t something that was going to be easy. Part of the diagnoses for bpd was suicidal tendencies. Meaning it was practically hard-wired into his brain before he got a shitty past built on top of it.

He got back up, this time going to his refrigerator and grabbing a couple ice cubes from the freezer. He went back to the bed, clenching the ice cubes tightly in one hand. The bite of the cold did do something - it hurt without actually creating scars, so there was something to that suggestion. But by the time the ice cubes melted, and he wrapped his hand in the blanket to try to warm it up again, the urges were still there. He bit his lip, how could he stop this? He searched again, and this time he saw a checklist of things, one of them resonating in his mind, Don’t be alone during times you typically want to self-harm.

He texted Rosalind, Can you come back?

He felt weak. Would this be a constant struggle? Would he be dealing with this for the rest of his life, however long that would be now? It was tiring, he’d rather find the next vice rather than better his health habits. As he held his phone above him, his eyes wandered to his arms. Most of his scars were pretty light, except a few scabs he still had from the weeks prior. He didn’t want more though. If he made more, he’d have more scars than skin on his arms, he was sure of it.

I’m in class, Demi… Was the text he got back. Of course he knew that, her text even sounded like she was asking why he didn’t seem to know that.

I really need someone right now. He texted back. He felt raw. He’d never asked for help. He had too much pride for that. He liked to believe because he was aware of his vices, he could stop them anytime he wanted. But as it turned out, addictions were stronger than him. And to admit that to himself, to acknowledge it applied to himself, was something he couldn’t do yet.

Rosalind looked at the text, running her thumb along the now-black screen. Something in that response unnerved her. She looked around, the class was amazingly boring. It had been since she took the first section when she started at this school. She couldn’t wait to be able to say goodbye to it for the final time at the end of the semester. The class was just working on stuff in their book, which was also what she was supposed to be doing, but was instead doing, well… anything but. She got up, going to the teacher. “Um.. excuse me.. I don’t feel very well.. Can I go?” She asked the teacher quietly. The teacher told her to make sure she finished the work and then let her go.

It wasn’t a total lie, her heart had sunk and she had an uneasy feeling that was making her feel almost nauseous after she received that text. What was wrong? Had Deimos done something bad? Did he start drinking again? A surge of anger bubbled up for a moment at that thought, but she calmed herself down. There was a high chance he’d relapse, she couldn’t fly off the handle at the first thought of it happening. Still, she hoped it wasn’t the case.

She didn’t even have to go in the room to tell Deimos was depressed again. Still, the feeling was stronger than it had been in… nearly four years. Her mind instantly went back to the week he had been gone, the week she now knew he was in the hospital for attempting suicide, and the feeling seemed exactly the same. Her hand shook as she reached for the doorknob, she was afraid of what she’d see on the other side of the door.

She opened it, and was relieved to see Deimos was not unconscious or bleeding or any other image her mind had flashed at her in the seconds it took her to open the door. No, in fact he was drawing on his arm in red sharpie. A curious, confused smile turned up the edges of her mouth. What are you doing?

Deimos glanced over towards her, the frown deep set on his face, and Rosalind realized the text wasn’t empty words, there was still worry to be had. Demi… are you okay? She asked him, going to the bed.

He shook his head, but didn’t stop drawing on his arm. As she got closer, Rosalind saw he seemed to be tracing his scars, trying to make random shapes with them.

I can’t stop them. Deimos told her suddenly, and she noticed his grip on the pen tightened. It’s like no matter what I do… He let out a sigh and turned away from her, crossing his arms tight around himself.

Rosalind was confused, putting a hand on his shoulder. Deimos, talk to me. She requested of him, kind yet firm.

I don’t want to do it anymore… I want to stop… He turned back so they could see each other, holding up his arms, the frown deepening, I don’t want anymore, but… the thoughts keep coming. It becomes easier to think of leaving everything… Just… quitting.

This was probably the most honest, raw look into his thoughts that Rosalind ever got from him, and it broke her heart. She didn’t know what to do. She laid down on his chest, closing her eyes and just listening to his heartbeat. He seemed confused at first, frozen and still staring at his arms. But eventually he lowered his arms, wrapping them around her tightly.

I want to live now, for you. But the thoughts, the urges, are so automatic. He confessed, burying his face in her hair.

I’ll help you. She promised, even though she still had no idea how she could. She tried to keep the tears from falling. She would help him no matter what it took, she couldn’t lose him just because she didn’t know how to help.

Deimos sighed, giving her a slight nod before looking up at the ceiling. He was reminded of the words the headmaster had told him, how at first, he only lived for his wife. How he got better because of the professor. And finally, Deimos understood. He absent-mindedly ran his hand through Rosalind’s hair. He was all she had now; they were each other’s family. No matter where they were in the world, they’d always have each other. He had more family than she did though, so he really couldn’t leave her alone in this world. He couldn’t leave Felix alone either. Even being on another continent was better than not being in the world at all, and Felix loved him. Loved him enough to learn Sign Language, and despite all his fuck ups, for reasons he couldn’t dream of beginning to understand, the boy seemed to love and look up to him. And Rosalind, also for reasons he’d never understand, loved him so much she refused to leave him alone in his darkest times. All the times before he was close to trying to commit suicide, she seemed to be right there. His light in the darkness. He finally understood. “Φως στο σκοτάδι.” He muttered, a light smile playing on his face.

What? Rosalind asked him, she sounded rather comfortable, like she was ready to fall asleep hugging him.

You are my Φως στο σκοτάδι - light in the darkness. He told her, his mind still on the conversation. Maybe there was still hope for him yet. Maybe one day, he could be an example for some hopeless hybrid kid. A success story.

Rosalind got herself cozier, hmm, okay. She said simply, not seeming to question it.

Η ιστορία δεν έχει τελειώσει ακόμα (The story isn’t over yet). He told himself. He took the sharpie, opening it to add one more thing over the deepest cut he had, though it had long turned into a much lighter scar. A thick, red semi-colon. He’d get better… and it wouldn’t be easy, but he’d stop letting his pride get in the way. He’d get help. He’d finish his story, properly.