C O M A

An area of dust or gas surrounding the nucleus of a comet.

T O T H E
M O O N & B A C K

I STARE AT the silver blade. At the sharp edge. The edge that could take my misery and pain from me in an instant. I take in the way that the yellow light from the ceiling bounces off the metal. I pinch the thin sliver of silver between my fingertips and suddenly, I'm taken back to the first time.

The first time I tried to kill myself.

I sat in the bathtub for hours just staring. I wish that I could say that I was thinking about my mother and my father and my sisters. I wish that I could say that I was thinking about all of the things I was going to miss like seeing my sisters have children and watching my parent's becoming grandparents. But I wasn't. I wasn't thinking at all. For the first time in my life, everything was silent. I could hear the rain outside. I could hear the thunder. I could hear the steady beat of my heart.

Just as I can now.

My door was locked and so was the bathroom door. My phone was off. I had submerged myself in warm water. And I just waited. I wasn't waiting for someone to find me and tell me not to do it. Fuck, I wasn't even waiting for the right moment—because God knows there isn't one. I was trying to build enough courage to do it.

Is this going to hurt? I remember thinking. What if it doesn't work? What if I don't go deep enough?

I inhaled deeply, and, I know that they say you can't remember pain, but I remember this pain. It hurt. It hurt so bad that all the emotional pain I had endured every minute of every day leading up to that point, was incomparable because this stung.

But I couldn't stop there.

I had to keep going. Four times, both arms. And then I laid back. It stung but it eventually faded. I watched as the water turned red. I felt the life bleeding out of me, literally. It was like all of the pain was leaving my body and mixing with the water.

And for one last time, all of that painful water swallowed me whole. I feel light. Weightless. I felt tired and calm. I felt peaceful. And then, I woke up in a hospital room and had to face everyone's faces of disappointment and the pain returned. But this time, the pain bought its friend who is far worse.

Guilt.

Ever since then, I have craved to feel what I felt in those last minutes of being on earth. The peace. Because in those last minutes, you feel the most loved, the most normal, the most worthy you could ever feel.

As a child, my mother used to bribe me to get me to go to school. Go to school every day, and on the weekend, I will take you to buy anything you would like, she would say. I would attend school every day, just to get that reward at the end.

So, to think that I waited over sixteen years for this. For this very moment. I spent years upon years barely surviving, until that moment. I could finally get my reward.

The thing is, I didn't even hate going to school because I was being bullied, but because I hated being away from my mother. I used to get picked on because up until I was ten, I would proudly hold my mother's hand everywhere. The kids at school would watch her perfect my tie and adjust my jacket before I would come into class each day and then they would call me names.

But never once did I give them the satisfaction of knowing that they were getting to me. It only hurt that they were saying such terrible things about my mother. And then one day I told my father about these boys and he told me to tell them to fuck off. He said that they're just jealous because I had a mother and they didn't.

So, one morning, I said just that. I felt so proud using adult words to tell these little imbeciles to fuck off. The teacher wasn't very proud, though. Neither was my mother when she got called into school. But my dad was with her and he couldn't contain his laughter.

My mother insisted suspension upon all of my bullies and as soon as we left the room, my mother told me she was so proud of me for standing up for myself, but there are other far more appropriate words than the ones my father had told me to use.

I realized this day that my mother was my best friend. I didn't care if that sounded weird. But ten-year-old me knew that if all else fails, she will never turn her back on me.

Ten-year-old me was wrong.

Because she did.

And it wasn't even her doing that caused it. It was mine.

And so, I stare at the blade. My eyes drift over to the broken razor on the floor, pieces of plastic everywhere. The water rises around me. It's Luke-warm and I'm wearing sweatpants. The yellow light casts its bright light down upon me. The water trickles out slowly.

My phone buzzes and Rory's name appears on the screen. I pick it up off the floor next to the bath and stare at her contact picture. It's her smoking a cigarette. A photograph I captured of her during one of our late night walks.

She's laughing, the cigarette trapped between her teeth as her hands raised to shield her face, but I managed to take the picture before she could cover herself.

The picture leaves the screen and all of my notifications are displayed on the screen. Two missed calls from Rory. Five messages. Want to go for a drive? I miss you. Are you okay? Can I come over? I miss your voice.

I exhale a shaky breath before turning off my phone and tossing it across the room, watching as it collides against the wall and then falls to the tiled floor with a thud.

I feel empty.

For once, my emotions which are all over the place and too much to decipher, have disappeared. I think of her, momentarily. But I don't allow her to consume my thoughts like she once did because if I do, then I won't go through with this. And it wouldn't be because she makes me want to live—because she doesn't—but because I love her too much to put her through pain.

And what a miserable way to live would it be when only existing for someone else.

I love her.

I don't know what love is or what it means or even how it fucking feels. But I just know. I know that I love her. But no amount of love that I can manage to have for her will keep me here.

The water spills over the edge of the bathtub, pouring onto the floor. I then notice that the entire floor is drenched. I lean forward, turning the tap off. My chipped nails catching my attention. The messy little red R she put on my index finger. She has an A on hers. You can barely tell that they are letters, they look terrible.

I lie back down, closing my eyes. I inhale deeply, preparing for what I'm about to do.

Please succeed this time, I beg. Please.

I make the first line across my skin and I wince. It doesn't hurt any less. You can't stop now, you have to keep going. I go again and again. But before I can move onto the other side, I hear someone shouting my name, and I freeze.

"Atlas?" my sister's voice calls suddenly and my heart sinks. "Atlas? Are you here?"

I don't respond. The door is locked, so she can't get in. But I don't want her to have to find me again. I can't keep doing that to her.

Her heavy footsteps near closer to the door before she stops and I see the shadow of her figure fill the gap beneath the door. "Atlas?" she says again. Her voice is lower this time. Calmer. "Atlas, your entire hallway is flooded." she says. "Atlas!" this time, she shouts, her fists colliding against the door. And then she begins to hyperventilate, her breathing vast and erratic. "Atlas, please open up. Please."

Unfeeling, I slowly stand up, the weight of my wet clothing weighs me down as I step onto the wet tile. Suddenly the door feels so distant as I walk toward it, but the sound of Alula banging doesn't lessen in the slightest. If anything, it gets louder and more vigorous with every second, but I can't manage to form any words.

Finally, I twist the lock, unlocking the door. The click sounds and slowly the doorknob twists.

I step back and the door swings open. Alula stands in the doorway, her mascara a mess, her eyes red, and her lip quivering. She hugs her hands to her chest, the skin all around her fingers and up the sides of her arms painfully red.

She sighs in relief, looking at me before her eyes move to behind me. She sees the full bathtub. She sees my drenched clothing. And then she sees the tips of my fingers dripping with blood. And then she sees my arm.

She opens her mouth to scream but nothing comes out, instead, she chokes. Unable to make out a single word, she lunges forward and wraps her frail arms around me, despite me being wet. She cradles me, crying into my chest.

I freeze and, seemingly, so does everything else. I don't feel anything. I don't understand why she's crying right now. I don't understand why I'm bleeding so badly. And maybe that's why I don't understand much because the entire floor beneath me is red.

Or maybe I'm hallucinating.

"Sit down." Alula says in a soft voice, gently backing me up against the toilet, pushing my shoulders down carefully.

I sit down and watch as she walks over to the towel rack, her sneakers slushing in the water with each step back. Grabbing a towel, she returns, kneeling between my legs. She takes my arm and presses the material to my cuts, applying pressure.

With droopy eyes, I look at her and she looks shattered.

"You haven't been taking your medication, have you?" she asks knowingly. When I shake my head, she sighs. It's been weeks. She sighs, dropping her head.

My voice catches in my throat. "I—" my voice cracks. "I'm sorry. I didn't—"

From where she rests knelt down on the floor, she wraps her arms around me and I start feeling again. The weight of what I just did and almost caused her to see washes over me and it hurts too much. I cry onto her shoulder, gripping her tightly.

"It's okay," she says soothingly. "It's okay. I'm here. You're okay."

For a long time, we stay here. She somehow manages to apply pressure to my arm, meanwhile hugging me, and comforting me. I haven't cried this hard in a long time. It just feels like I have been suppressing everything for so long, that now I am releasing it, it's too much.

I cry because my twin sister had to see me bleed. I cry because I worried her. I cry because I'm a drug fucked fuck-up. I cry because I disappoint everyone. I cry because I just want out. I don't want to be here anymore. I don't want to keep hurting the people I love.

I don't remember how, but we wind up in my living room. Me, sitting on the couch, numb and empty, and her, next to me, holding me tight. I don't know how long it's been—minutes. Hours, even. The concept of time has become timeless.

There's this pain. . .It's something that no one talks about. It's the pain where it goes beyond hurting. It envelopes you whole. Your throat closes up with anxiety, making it even harder to breathe. Your pulse speeds up so fast, that you feel as though you could have a heart attack. Your every limb aches in a way that is indescribable. It's almost like my insides are collapsing, bones strained from all the lives that I am not—and never will be—living.

It's not pain. It's agony.

Agony is also listening to my twin sister trying her hardest not to cry, her white skirt red with my blood. She's trying to be strong for me but I don't think that anyone has ever tried to be strong for her. I wish that I could.

"Atlas," her voice sounds strained and raspy as she says my name. I keep my eyes closed tightly in hopes that maybe if I keep them closed long enough, when I open them, nothing will be there. "You need to go to the hospital. You need stitches."

And unfortunately, my eyes open, and as expected, reality still exists. Sitting up, I shake my head, drowsily. "No." I say quickly. "I'm fine. Please don't make me go there."

I hate hospitals. I especially hate how familiar with me everyone is at the hospital.

"I'll come with you, okay? We'll be in and out."

We both know that isn't true. They are going to keep me for psychiatric evaluation and then I'll tell them I'm bipolar and they will double check my medical history, then give me my medication and keep me under observation for a few days until I'm stable. And if there is one thing I know, it is that going to the hospital will not result in me being in and out.

I shake my head. "Lula," I mumble as I lean back against the couch, staring forward at the blank wall. "If I go, will you forgive me?"

She exhales. "There's nothing to forgive."

She stands up, walking over to the counter, before returning to me, handing me an envelope. I only know of one person who writes letters. Eagerly, I take it from her. I don't know why I'm eager. Maybe it's because I find her words comforting. Maybe it's because she doesn't have an insight into my life. Or maybe it's just because I miss my little sister.

"She called me last night." Alula says. I look up at her, holding the letter in my hands. She forces a tight smile. "I thought she wanted to talk to me—and she did—but all she really wanted to know what how you are. Sometimes I feel like you two should have been twins, not you and I."

I give her a pointed look as if to say are you really jealous of our other sister?

Reading my expression, she rolls her eyes. "Just read it. She misses you."

I nod as she walks away. I hear my hallway cupboard creak open and I assume that she's cleaning up the water spilt in the bathroom.

I tear open the top of the envelope and begin reading her familiar, cursive writing.

Dear Atlas,

Do you remember when you found that bird with the broken wing in our backyard? Mercy told you to leave it. Alula suggested that we tell mother and father and get them to take it to a vet for us. When you came to me last of all, asking for me to help you hide it, I told you that I didn't want it? But you said if I helped you hide the broken bird and nurse it back to health, you would owe me a favour too?

We used one of mother's Louis Vuitton boxes from her wardrobe and even took a lamp from around the house to give it some warmth. It lived a luxurious life in that box. Mother wasn't very pleased that we used one of her priceless silk dresses to decorate the box, though. I don't know why we didn't just use an old pillowcase. I can still hear dad's laugh when mother shouted at us for keeping a bird inside the house, no less allowing it to sleep and shit all over her dress.

I think her shouting frightened it to death considering the poor sparrow passed the next day. If I didn't know mother thought of it as nothing but a rodent, I would have thought that she somehow killed it, but I know that she would never.

Point is, I would like to cash in the favour.

I need my brother.

Love,
Everly.

I sigh, staring at the piece of paper in my hands when Alula speaks up from across the room. "If you won't do it for me, at least do it for her." she can't seem to smile as she tucks her light blonde hair behind her ear, leaning against the white wall.

I furrow my eyebrows, confused. "What?" I question. "Go to the hospital? Or to Canada?"

The sudden mentioning of both the hospital and Canada in one singular sentence is enough for me to feel sick to the bottom of my stomach. I don't want to go to either.

Ever since my mother proposed the idea that I visit Everly in Canada, I haven't been able to stop thinking about it. That was over a week ago. And in the nine days since then, I have done nothing. Guilt gnawed at my insides until I became nothing but a lifeless figure in bed for days upon days on end. No food, little water, and too much sleep—if that's even possible.

I haven't seen Rory nor spoken to her. I've been reading her messages, though. She asked me at least three times to come to see her. She asked at least four times if she could come to see me. And she asked me at least nine times if I was okay.

What hurt most was the seventh message she sent. I stopped by your apartment but you didn't answer. What hurt even more was listening to her knock and call my name and not being able to move.

I wasn't intentionally ignoring her. My phone was on my nightstand and when you lie on your side and everything hurts too much to move when the screen lights up, you read every message ten times before your screen dims because anything is interesting when it's no longer just a bland, white wall.

This time. . .the depression was different. This time I didn't have someone barging in to check up on me. This time I didn't have fresh white roses decorating my counter each week. This time I didn't have someone filling my fridge with food and reminding me to attend college. It was like being in a coma. Completely helpless.

I haven't been to college in weeks.

These nine days have made me realize how much I rely on my mother and how much I love Rory. It's such a pity that it took nine days of miserable depression and a failed suicide attempt for me to realize that.

"Both." Alula finally answers.

I glance over at her, my eyes stinging. "Did mum tell you about what she said to me?"

Sighing, she nods, stepping away from the wall and seating herself down on the opposite end of my couch. "Yeah." she answers softly, knowing that it's clearly a touchy subject. "I overheard her and dad speaking about it. I'm on your side, Atlas. Always. But have you ever thought about what you might be like—what you might feel like if you weren't stuck in such a toxic environment anymore?"

I haven't. Because I don't care whether I'm living in some empty apartment in London or camped out in a different car park each day, I still won't feel any happier.

"No." I say and she inhales sharply, like that wasn't the answer she had been hoping for.

I'm not even sure that this environment is toxic, and if it is, it's only because of my doing, therefore yet again, a fucking change of scenery won't help if I'm the one fucking everything up.

Still, in wet clothes, uncomfortable and drowsy from the lack of blood, I lie back. Meanwhile, Alula's eyes dart down to my arm, covered in a white towel, which is now completely red. Subconsciously, I apply more pressure as she groans. "We need to go." she says impatiently. "Just think about it, okay?"

Standing up, I peer out the window and I'm greeted with heavy rain and grey skies. "Everly needs me. . ." I trail off, uneasy. "Maybe I could just go for a few days. But I'm coming back. I can't leave Rory."

Even though I almost just did.

A U T H O R ' S N O T E

hi everyone!

sad chapter, i know. I'm sorry. this chapter was hard for me to write and I'm sure hard to read also. I'm not just saying this, i