I got you

TW: Alcohol abuse, neglect, suicidal thoughts and self harm...

I got you

 Where am I?

Wait… Who am I?

Fuck… What am I?!

All I see is darkness. A sort of red darkness, and I feel strangely light, like I’m weightless, or maybe I'm floating?

The world grows brighter with each passing second, or maybe it’s minutes? I don´t know, I can´t really be sure of anything right now, in fact I´m incredibly unsure of everything right now. As the red grows gradually pinker, my anticipation grows with it, and I am finally… elsewhere…

It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust. Once they do, the first thing I see is silver, a thin, sharp, silver blade moving away from the fresh cut where I came from, which I now realise was skin, pale white skin, that looks like it hasn't seen sunlight in years.

As I move further back, I start to see lines on the skin. So. Many. Lines. Some are even paler than the rest of the skin, some are pink and some of them are still red and scabbed. Some are bigger than others, some are raised from the rest of the skin, some seem to sink into it.

As I move even further, I see that the skin belongs to a boy, a boy's stomach, to be more precise. He was standing in what looks to be a bathroom stall, his shirt tucked under his chin, one hand on his stomach, seemingly holding the skin, so as not to stretch, the other hand holding that same thin silver blade, that was the first thing I saw. A single tear works its way down his cheek, before he wipes it away a lot harder than necessary.

I realise that I'm now standing next to him, he doesn't see me, but somehow that doesn't surprise me, somehow, I know that I’m not supposed to be seen. I'm not sure what I'm seeing. I mean, I know what I'm seeing but I have no idea, what is going on, and all I can do is stare, as my thoughts race around in my head.

Who is this kid? Why is he doing this to himself? What is going on? Where am I? What the fuck is going on? The questions keep swarming me, but at the same time, they also seem to be answering themselves, and suddenly my vision is flooded with memories that aren't mine.

I see a younger version of the boy flinching, as a man bangs his fist on a table.

I see him crying, picking up pieces of broken glass from a bottle, that a woman threw, while screaming.

I see him tucking a little girl into bed, in the middle of the night, sleep in his own eyes, while muffled yells crept under the door.

More and more memories keep coming, and tears start pouring down my cheeks, seemingly evaporating before reaching the floor. Then, finally, I see him in his bedroom, crying, no, sobbing, but silently.  I can feel his fear of being heard. He looks to the floor, where there’s once more broken glass, as he picks up a piece, and runs his finger down along the sharp edge. He flinches as the glass cuts open his finger, but he's finally able to stop crying. Focussing on that physical pain made letting go of all the other pain easier.

And I understand, finally, what is going on, even if I still have no idea, why I'm here, at least one of my mysteries are solved.

The boy grabs some toilet paper and wipes away the blood from wound from which I came, he throws is into the toilet and flushes, I’m stunned by the easy, with which he does this. I feel a twinge of… something… purpose, maybe? As he leaves the stall, slamming into my face, or he would've done, except I just went right through. Maybe the same way in which I’m not supposed to be seen, I’m also not supposed to be felt? It is damn near impossible to see by looking at him, that anything is wrong.

He washes his hands, even though he didn´t need to, I suppose to hide what he had really been doing in the stall.

As we leave the bathroom, and start moving down a hallway, I realise that we are in a school, with kids walking up and down the halls, in what seemed like seven different directions of chaos. I was so busy taking in our surroundings, that I didn´t realise that the boy was as invisible as I was to these kids. He was moving like a fly, trying not to get swatted, as kids bigger than him bump into his shoulder every other second.

Finally getting to the right classroom, he sits himself in a back corner, and pulls out his books. As more students fill in, not a single person looks at him, and the stone in my gut gets heavier. Throughout the lesson, he never raises his hand, even though he knows the answers. I don´t know how I know he knows, but I do, and he does.

The bell rings, and it must've been the final lesson of the day, because everyone started moving in the same direction, which turned out to be the exit. Making our way out the door, through the bustling crowd of students and on to the street, where the boy stops and looks before crossing, there's a car speeding down the road. For a split second, I can hear the boys' thoughts “just do it, just do it” on loop, incessantly he urges himself on. But he's fighting it, desperately trying to hold himself back. I see the fight behind his eyes.

 Time seems to slow, and despite knowing I can´t touch anything, I place my hand on the boy´s shoulder, trying with all my heart to impress upon him, that someone cares. I got you… because despite only having known the boy for a very short time, I have seen his life, his struggle and, most importantly his strength.  I have swiftly grown to care very deeply for him.

Inexplicitly, the battle seems to lessen in the boys´ eyes. Did I do that? Could I do that? With a deep breaths release, the car passes, and we cross the road safe and sound, and continued our way home.

We arrive at a shabby looking house that is practically falling apart. The paint job needs an update, as it´s cracked and chipped most places. The roof has several tiles missing, and one of the windows are broken, fixed up with cardboard and duct tape. You can hear the television blaring from outside the front door, is this really where you live? This is no place for a kid. It’s a shithole.

 The boy digs around in his backpack, pulling out his keys and unlocking the door. He opens the door slowly, clearly trying his best, to make as little noise as possible. He does the same when closing it, and once again I feel the stone in my gut grow bigger and solidify, because I can tell, that he´s done this too many times before.

Entering the house, one of the first things I notice is how messy it all is, making it clear to me, that the house has been shown as much neglect as the boy himself is shown. Even with the coat hanger right next to the door, the jackets still lay on the floor, or slung over a dusty chair with rips in the upholstery. The jackets themselves appear to have been shown the same amount of care as a used paper towel. The boy puts his backpack on the floor and cautiously removes his coat and places it on the coat hanger and picks up his bag.

We move into the living room and the stench of beer and old fast-food hits me before I even take my first breath. Based on the boy´s reaction, or lack thereof I know that this is anything but unexpected. Hell, it´s probably the norm. This shit isn´t normal, kid.

 A man, whom I gather from the boys´ memories is his father, is lying passed out on the couch. Half an empty beer bottle in hand, a cigarette between his lips and wearing a stained wifebeater. The cigarette isn´t really lit, but there is still a bit of smoke emanating from it, before the boy picks it up, out of his father´s mouth and puts it out in the ashtray on the floor. All this is done without the father even stirring. WAKE UP, YOU LAZY PIECE OF SHIT!

The boy turns the television off, and we start moving to his room. He sits down at his desk, and pulls his schoolbooks out of his bag, and starts to do his homework. We sat like that for a few peaceful hours, the fathers´ snores creeping in from the living room. Even though it was peaceful, I could´ve sworn that the boy never fully relaxed. What´s going on here, kid? He constantly seemed to be waiting for something, and I now understand why, as the father gives a big snore and wakes up.

“Who the hell turned off my television?!” He yells, and the boy gives a start, as if he´s been hit. His shoulders going up to his ears.

“Are you home, boy?!”, the father continues. Aren´t parents supposed to know, when their kids come home?

“Yes dad! I´m doing my homework!” the boy answers, and I can tell that he´s trying to sound as polite as possible.

“Get done with that and start making my dinner!” the father yells back, before he turns the television back on. I hear the clink of a bottle and the opening of what I assume to be another beer.

The boy and I go to the kitchen and he starts cooking, moving through the steps better and faster than most adults. You do this a lot huh? When he´s finished, he brings a plate into the living room for his father, who just grunts and starts eating, barely recognising his son´s effort, and seemingly, not noticing his presence. As the boy is about to leave the room, he grunts; “If only your mother hadn´t left you, we´d still be eating good.”

A tear starts to form in the boy´s eye. He doesn´t answer, and leaves the room, getting his own plate from the kitchen and bringing it to his room. In the hall on the way there, I spot a picture of the boy, and a younger girl, who looks a lot like him, and I can´t help but wonder, where the girl is. She´s with your mother, isn´t she? Your mother left you here?! He eats in silence, and when he´s done, he brings his plate, gets his father’s, who´s already back asleep on the couch, and he washes them up.

It´s barely nine o´clock but the boy brushes his teeth and climbs into bed anyways, it´s not easy being you, is it?

The next day, we do it all over again, my anger growing the more I see how this boy lives, though living seems like the wrong word. Getting to school was the same as leaving it. Every passing car seemed like an opportunity, and it seemed to get harder for me to get through to him. Please, don´t do it.

I started begging for a way to help the boy, but I can´t find a way, and honestly, I couldn´t blame him for thinking the way he did. No kid should have to live like this.

    Getting back from school, the dad is still on the couch, I don´t understand if he doesn´t have a job, or if he just doesn´t go. How do you pay for food? I just stand here for a while, looking at this useless waste of a brain, laying on his couch day in, and day out. His cigarette is still lit, and the boy hasn´t put it out yet. Today´s drink of choice isn´t beer, its whiskey, from the bottle… the boy goes to the kitchen and takes the trash bag out. He´s taking out the trash. I see my opportunity, and as soon as that front door closes, and I know the boy is safe, I cease the moment. All it takes is a slight blow to make the ember float the right way down. I bet this piece of shit won't even wake up…