Eve

AUTHORS NOTE: This story’s protagonist is non-binary, meaning they use they/them pronouns. I wanted to explain in case some readers are not aware of how these pronouns work within this context.

He/Him/His are male pronouns.

She/Her/Hers are female pronouns.

They/Them/Theirs are non-binary pronouns.

There are several other pronouns that can be used for non-binary people, but in my story, Eve uses They/Them/Theirs.

For instance: Eve goes to their school, where they teach English. Thanks!

Trigger warning: mentions of depression, suicide, self-harm, and eating disorders

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Tock.

Tick

Tock.

Ti-.

Eve is staring at their ceiling in the early hours of the morning. What day is it? They can't remember. Is it the weekend? Or a weekday? What time is it? They want to look, but they can't. They have no energy.

The clock ticking is getting louder and louder, and then it stops, suddenly, halfway through a tick. Eve lifts their head from their pillow and scowls slightly at the broken thing. The clock stopped at 4:27 a.m. They lay their head back down on their pillow and start thinking again. 

Thinking. Jesus. Why is thinking so exhausting?

Eve is exhausted. 

Every day is the exact same as the last. Monotonous, pointless nothingness that they can't escape.

Every day they wake up and lay in bed, thinking. And thinking. And thinking. And then they get up and go to work. 

Eve is an elementary school teacher.

They teach English to fifth graders, which can be hard, but they have to follow a curriculum, which is harder. Why does it all have to be the same?

Eve thinks so much that they start to be unable to focus on just one thought.

They think back to one of the teachers a the elementary school. He had asked Eve out on a date. They had agreed, thinking it might be nice to get out into the world. Later, they walked around the corner and heard him talking. He misgendered them sixteen times in one conversation.

It had happened so often, but it still hurt every time.

So Eve went home that night and mixed up their usual routine by crying a little bit, too.

They think back to the school nurse, Ms. Reynolds. She had been walking by during th lunch break (The children were at recess) and had seen Eve eating lunch alone in their classroom. So she knocked, and Eve jumped, and they both laughed about it, and then they had lunch together and chatted about nothing, and when lunch was over, Ms. Reynolds ("Call me Connie, dear, everyone does,") gave Eve a hug and whispered that they would be okay.

So Eve went home that night and made themselves dinner for the first time in a few weeks.

They think about a story that one of their students, Delia, submitted recently. The assignment had been to write a story with the same sentence at the beginning and the end.

“I can fly” the sentence of a girl jumping off her porch with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

“I can fly” the sentence of the girl stepping off the bridge, her shoes sitting neatly on the concrete behind her.

Eve is aware that Delia’s mother had killed herself, but reading that story wrenched something in their heart. It was the first thing they had felt in a while.

They had pulled Delia aside and talked to her in a hushed tone.

"I'm okay," the girl had said, even while tears welled up in her eyes. Eve had hugged her and whispered sympathies in her ear. When Delia finally pulled away, she sniffed and looked up at Eve.

"You're so nice to everyone, but not yourself."

Eve had been taken aback as the girl skipped away, comforted and seemingly a bit happier.

They realized with a start that she was right.

And then they went home and did the same monotonous things they had always done.

Why shouldn't they also be treated with kindness?

They had convinced themselves they didn't deserve it.

But maybe...

With sudden energy that they haven’t felt in months, Eve sits up. It feels wrong, so they lay back down. But now, restless and unable to do anything but think, they get up once more and go to their desk in their room. They open up their computer and begin to type.

I want to be selfish for just a moment.

Take a breath and stop dying for a moment.

Breath.

The world is so angry.

It turns you against yourself, and you have to, need to hate yourself. 

There’s no other way. 

I cut my flesh open at the alter of my sadness. 

She has become my Deity, and I would do anything for her. 

I sacrifice my blood, my tears, my love, and hatred, and she bottles them all up to give back to me, heavier than before.

I can’t remember anything but her.

She consumes all of me, my happiness, my youth. 

She drains them as her sacrificial lamb.

I hate being afraid all the time.

I want to be happy.

I want to be calm.

I want to be still.

I don’t sleep not for fear of going to sleep but for fear of waking up and having to face a whole new day.

Having to exist day after day for the rest of my life.

Simply to be.

I simply am.

And I don’t want to be.

But maybe if I have to be,

I can make the best of it

Eve leans back in their chair, and energy courses through them, something they haven’t felt in months.

For some reason, writing all that down made them feel better.

This is the first day that hasn’t been the same, and they want it to continue.

They look at the date. It's Sunday.

Maybe I'll go shopping. Treat myself a bit.

They smile softly at their computer screen and hit save.

Maybe today will be good.

Different, anyway.