"I knew something was up whenever I found my semi-automatic Ruger in Cal's room."

"Wait, you found a gun in his room?! Steve why didn't you tell me?!"

"I didn't want you to worry. I went looking for it after that night we thought we heard an intruder, remember Anne? Well anyways, I went to go get it but it was gone, so I decided to look around for it. I was really hoping I wouldn't find it in Cal's room; but I did. It was underneath his little lamp stand thing."

"Oh, that 'intruder' was me, sorry. Cal called me in the middle of the night because he was having an anxiety attack. I should've asked, I'm sor-"

"No need to apologize Cal, you've done so much for us, for him. If Steve wouldn't have went looking for that gun, he'd probably be dead. We're so grateful that you could save our son."

"Don't mention it. I just really did not want to see another one of my patients deceased in the same week. Or ever. Especially Cal."

"He really likes you, you know?"

"I think you might have given him another reason to live."

The voices surrounding myself are muffled yet coherent.

The first belonged to my father, the second, my mother. And the third, Adam Olivas. That's odd, surely they were not all damned to hell as I was.

Adam, or a spirit of himself, replies, " I'd be lying if I didn't say the same. He gave me a different perspective on mental illness that was very useful in treating other patients. I just wish I could have helped him more."

Oh god, this really is hell.

"Please, don't beat yourself up, you did all you could," my mother's voice adds, "The important aspect of this is that he is alive. And I think he will finally receive the proper hospitalizing he needs."

Impossible.

No fucking way did I survive such a violent and motivated attempt. The red rolled off of my arms like a goddamn roaring rapid; so how could I have possibly survived?

Why can't I accomplish one easy task? Why must I succumb myself to such failures? What did I ever do to deserve this life of self-deprecation and solitude?

My head burned still, the pain aching rather than loud and unavoidable. I attempted to grip the bleached sheets, however, my body does not respond.

Aggravated and indefinitely, morbidly sad, I let out a despondent sigh.

The muffled voices cease.

I open my eyes slowly, the light harsh and blaring.

My father is the first to say something, "Calvin? The doctor said you wouldn't be awake for another three days."

"Oh, Cal," my mother begins to break down immediately, messy tears forming in her eyes.

I do not feel the slightest bit of guilt. Rather, I feel guilty for in fact not taking myself away from them. I should've tried fucking harder; I should have slit my throat. There's no way I could have survived such an attempt to that degree. Although I interpreted cutting my wrists as a sort of art form, it was the beauty of it all. The beauty of an ending.

My mind is clearly a bit haphazard in nature due to the loss of blood (I'm assuming) so anything that I comprehend is probably going to be completely insignificant otherwise. This is unfortunate for myself because I've got so much to think about. Theories upon how exactly to get myself out of this. I am desperately trying to stay calm, but the rage is boiling over, and soon enough I will begin to scream.

Probably not literally, but internally I will be screaming.

Nonetheless, my unfathomable anger resides in the last to inquire about my alertness: Adam.

He is avoiding eye contact, which must be fucking convenient for himself considering he is most likely taking the blame for all of this. For me.

I disagree with him though; it isn't his fault at all. It's mine, I'm the fucked up one, the incurable suicidal mess. The depressive kink within his circuits. I am the one who has stopped the light from burning completely. His light, which was once burning so fucking bright, now a flickering mess of fried wires. I've burnt him out, perhaps. I've burnt everyone out. And now they've got me here, restraints pressing against my ankles and forearms, just above the canyons of red.

He is so consumed with guilt that his breathing pattern becomes uneasy.

I clear my throat and sit up as much as possible, "This is all of my-my own doing."

His eyes flicker to mine, "What?"

I let out a violent cough before continuing, "Do not take fault for what I've done. This was in-inevitable, bound to, bound to happen."

He parts his lips to say something else, yet is interrupted by my mother, "Cal shh, you don't need to talk right now, just go back to sleep."

I huff in a brief moment of angst before falling into a jovial, bottomless sleep.

❧

I was discharged from the hospital a few days prior to my second awakening, or whatever, only to be admitted to the Oregon Mental Health Clinic just outside of Eugene. This "invitation" to stay at such a facility was provided by of course, Dr. Scott. He had said to my mother that he should have done this two months ago after my first two attempts, rather than letting myself try to work it out on my own. I didn't mind, everything was over for myself anyways.

The overwhelming feeling of emptiness was long past the raw, painful state. Every emotion was numb to myself now, which in turn was so much easier to deal with. Especially in a place where everything was bleached to the absolute extreme (even the grass was a lighter, greying color).

But perhaps the most sustainable component of all of this white is that this faculty just so happened to be the one Adam was volunteering at.

That did not necessary help myself at first, considering he was a small part of my third breaking point, but eventually I was able to talk to him as my therapist.

I was unable to even make any sort of contact with him for months as in unjustified thanks towards Dr. Scott, which I guess could be rationalized in the spectrum of things.

Those months presumed to be some of the most challenging.

I did not eat on any means of a normal schedule.

I did not participate in any group activities (not that I would anyways) or group therapy.

I did not speak to Dr. Scott for the first three weeks.

At the first month I caught a brief glimpse of Adam through my window. He was leaving the faculty for something else, I'm not sure.

By the end of eight weeks, or two months, as aforementioned I was able to talk to Adam.

The first means of conversation were incredibly awkward and forced.

Adam was the same, except more careful, more scripted. This had made me upset, but I decided not to let it bother myself.

After a couple more sessions with him he had dropped the act a bit, becoming more of his normal ebullient self.

This made everything so much easier.

Although I was limited to the amount of time spent with him, due to policies and their knowledge of our previous affairs, I learned not to rely on him so much for stability or reassurance. This was proven to be useful at times whenever he was away at San Diego or anywhere else he wanders off to.

My time at the clinic had the appearance of a never ending, uphill battle with myself and the others, but as I was nearing the end of my allotted time of recovery, things began to lighten up an awful lot.

I opened myself up to all aspects of empathy once again, allowing myself to reflect on the good and bad. I also learned how to look past the bad, and to not dwell on the unchanging.

This made my once nonexistent hope a strong one, now the days passed by quickly. My anticipation for release growing by the hour. I was finally ready to start myself over, to become of something other than the definition of my depression.

Adam had mentioned a change in myself as well, which was all of the confirmation I needed.

I am scheduled for release today, after a daunting yet necessary eight months of recovery.

Dr. Scotts sits at his desk adjacent from myself, his office overly neat, painted in a dim light blue.

He finalizes a few papers before sliding them across the wood to me, "Signature here, and you're good to go. I think your parents are out in the front lobby already."

I beam at him, which was something I was doing an awful lot more now, "Alright."

I sign my name across the line and set the black ball-point pen back down, hard against the wood.

He gives myself an odd look, "You excited to finally leave?"

I shrug, "I'm more of excited to be free from my suicidal motives. Oh how they bind and confine."

"Always so dramatic," he mutters under his breath, "Anyways, congratulations Calvin Bennett, you have been released from the Oregon Mental Health Clinic. Good luck out there kid, and remember, you can call me or the facility anytime okay? Don't hesitate to."

I simply nod, exiting the office.

My mind finally felt at peace, rather than the depressive hold my impending death played upon myself. I was finally free from my own devices, and how liberating that would be.

I push the glass doors outwards, my eyes falling upon my parents, whom were sitting on one of the waiting room peach sofas. I fucking hated the colors in here, but that clearly was not up to myself.

Perhaps the component I missed the most away from my parents' house must of course be the yellow and red trees.

They would be green now, considering summer was more than halfway through, but that was besides the point. I missed the woods.

"Cal!" My mother practically pounces towards myself, her arms surrounding my entire body securely.

"I think I hear the bones snapping," I say to her playfully.

She laughs in such a flippant manner, "Oh stop it! We've missed you so much, and we're so proud of you."

My father rustles my hair a bit which I find to be slightly redundant for a father role, but whatever, "Yes, we are proud. We always knew you were strong enough, that you would never give up."

I cannot help but think this to be untrue, but I do not argue for the airy ambiance of the situation, "Thank you. I've missed you both, and everything else."

"Well we've got a surprise for you when you get home, come on," my mother suggests, taking us out of the facility and beginning towards home.

❧

The drive as approximately an hour an a half, all the while filled with conversations of the faculty and experiences within it. I did not mind though, I became fond of recollecting on things.

When we arrived at my parents' house the overall mood had changed once again.

I felt a sudden wave of paranoia and regret when walking through the front doors.

This was where it all happened, where I attempted to end my life twice.

I made my way into my room, an apparent smell of citrus, obviously sterilized in some sort.

However, when I had fully entered the room, I was overcome with the most intense of emotions.

The walls had been littered with various excerpts of poems and literature. But perhaps the most evoking element of all must be the giant fucking mural of the red and yellow woods painted in the middle of the wall.

My eyes became clouded with tears as I ran my fingers against the texture of Acrylic paint. It was perfect, everything about it.

My parents lingered in the doorway behind myself, "Do you like it?"

"I absolutely love it. Who did this?" I inquired.

My dad huffed, "Who do you think?"

An involuntary smile spread across my face, "Adam Olivas did this?"

My mother nods, "He said he took a painting class just for this reason alone. He also tore out some pages of one of those Romantic books you like and hung them up. I think one of them has something written on the back. I don't know, I didn't want to read it because it might be personal."

"Oh," I say, not entirely sure how to respond.

"Well, we'll leave you alone now. Dinner is at seven, okay?" My mother says, closing the door behind themselves.

I sit in the center of my room upon the chestnut wooden flooring staring at the trees. The rug, which I had figured, was no longer where it previously had been. That was just better that way, easier.

The only other person on this entire goddamn planet that I wanted to see next was him. I wanted to thank him for everything that he has done for myself, and for always trying even when I was completely hopeless.

He never gave up on myself, even whenever I clearly was not trying to get better.

And for that reason alone, I needed to thank him.

Admittedly, part of myself was concerned about what he had said to me before all of this shit show had happened; about how he would want to be in a relationship after I had recovered. Although that was more than eight months ago, I should not expect him to even remember such a promise.

Still, my mind played at the idea of him and his perfect fucking lips. I was missing them.

I decided that I would at least talk to Adam, considering I had just been discharged, so I borrowed my mother's cellphone to call him.

He answers almost immediately, "Hello?"

My breath hitches, the nerves of talking talking to him always apparent, "Hello, it's Cal."

"Cal! What are you doing calling on your mom's phone? Unless....you've been released?!" He yells a bit too enthusiastically.

"Yes," I comply.

Without hesitation he responds, "Okay, I'm leaving right now. You're at your house right?"

"Yes."

"Great, I'll see you in ten."

He hangs up the phone and my stomach begins to do flips.

What would I even say to him? Could I even bring up what he had said? Was it even still relevant? Definitely not, he has moved on for sure by now.

I should not let this hold myself back from enjoying things within my life. Summer would soon come to an end, and then I would begin my senior year, and then college. And who knows what could follow after such inquires upon education and experiences? Perhaps I will become a therapist myself, helping others to overcome the defiant sadness within themselves.

Minutes pass as I ponder other irrational things until a knock upon the front door.

Again, my stomach violently flips as I open the door, my eyes met with his for the first time outside of the hospital.

"Oh my god you're okay now," he says before pressing his body firmly against mine, "I've always had hope for you. I never thought any less of you, even when I saw your face the first time I met you on the overpass. I knew you weren't hopeless like you thought you were."

I let myself cry this time, the hot, wet tears staining the back of his shirt, "You have done everything for me."

A few more seconds pass before we part from each other, making our way into the yellow room.

"I cannot believe you painted this; it's implausibly amazing," I say to him, either of us staring at the mural.

He puts him arm around my left side, "It really isn't that great, but I tried to make it for you. I know how you love the trees in the autumn."

I step away from his touch to face him, "Thank you so much."

He beams, "No problem, anything for my favorite patient."

❧
FIN

--
There's an epilogue.