Burn Before Reading(5)

"It's okay," I smiled, jumping up and fishing a paper cup and his pills from the cabinet. I filled it with water, and handed it to him. I tried to dredge up what little I remembered from the books I'd checked out. I shouldn't be confrontational, the books said, but I should always keep the focus on the patient's well-being. "If you don't want to take them today, that's fine. It's just, you might feel better if you do."

Dad stared at the pills, then looked up at me.

"Alright."

I watched him swallow the pills with water, and though his smile afterwards seemed forced, it was still a smile.

"Well, I burned dinner. So."

"Spaghett about it!" I crowed. "I can order us a pizza."

Dad nodded tiredly. "Might as well."

I watched Dad as we settled in to catch crappy soap operas on the couch. It was a thing we'd always done together; grab a bowl of popcorn, find the most hilariously bad show, and make fun of every overdramatic plot twist. That used to be my ideal Saturday night.

Now, though, it was a different story.

Dad tried - at the beginning of his diagnosis, I know he tried his hardest every day to act like nothing was wrong for me. But that lasted four months. The days when he wouldn't get out of bed began to get more and more frequent, and he'd come out feeling bad about staying in bed so long. It was a vicious cycle. Mom was understanding, and she loved him, but their fights had been getting more and more frequent. They weren't really traditional 'fights' - most of the time Dad would retreat to his basement workshop before a real fight could break out. When he came up, Mom would accuse him of running from his problems, of being a coward, and the whole thing would start all over again, on another day, during a different dinner. Sometimes, she'd go down there after him, and I'd hear crying from the basement. When they'd come up, they'd be a little friendlier to each other. I don't know what happened down there, and I never would - I couldn't stand to listen to the crying for more than a few seconds. It always felt like the sound itself was a monster trying to rip my chest open.

I started to think I was the real coward. I couldn't even comfort Dad, or Mom, when they needed it the most.

The pizza arrived, and Dad and I dug in with gusto. I suggested more TV afterwards. TV was always a nice way to spend time together, without demanding too much from him. But Dad insisted on cleaning the burnt pot, so I went upstairs to my room and cracked open the spines of my new books.

'Above all,' the book said. 'You must remember depression and suicidal thoughts are a result of a chemical imbalance in the brain. It is a sickness, not a condition of the patient's character, and should be treated as any sickness is - as a malaise not under anyone's control'.

"Not under anyone's control," I repeated, and wrote it down in my purple-leather notebook. It's the same one I'm writing in now, actually. I started keeping one just to have all the important stuff readily available, should Dad have a particularly bad episode, or I forget what not to say when talking to him. I couldn't afford to say the wrong thing and make him hate himself even more. I promised myself I would only make his sickness better, not worse.

A knock on my door made me look up. "Come in."

Mom peeked her head around the door, and I smiled.

"Mom! They let you off?"

"Denise took my shift," She said. "Said she really needed it. And she gave me a ride home, too, the sweet thing. How did it go tonight?"

She was referring to Dad. It's the same question she asked every time she came home after a long shift. I opened my mouth to tell her about the pan, his pills, then stopped. Her eyes looked so tired, the circles under them a bruised purple and her hair in disarray. The faint smell of antiseptic clung to her. I shook my head.

"It was fine. We had pizza, and watched TV."

"Ugh, that sounds like heaven," She heaved a sigh. "And how're you doing? Is school still okay?"

"Aside from the fact I'm pretty sure I'm the only one who knows how to clean my own room on that entire campus, yeah, it's great."

Mom chuckled. "That bad, huh?"

"I swear I saw someone wearing a diamond necklace. In P.E."

Her smile made my heart swell a bit - even tired, she was so pretty.

"Incredible. I can't believe you chose that school."

"You'll see. When I'm world-famous and obscenely rich, you'll regret ever questioning me!"

"Alright, tiger." She laughed again and looked around the room. "Don't you miss all your old posters and pictures? The walls look so bare."

"It's called atmosphere, Mom. I can't concentrate on algebra if a shirtless boyband keeps staring at me."

“What about your old books? The fantasy ones? Did you put those away too?”

“I’ve got textbooks to read now.”

She shook her head. "Alright, I get it. Leave your uniform out and I'll iron it when I get up. But for now, I'm crashing."

"Okay. Sweet dreams."

"Sweet dreams, Bee." She said, and closed my door behind her. I let out a long sigh, and stared at the blank walls. They used to be covered in things I liked - boybands, anime, the occasional musical and old TV show. I hoarded books, too, on a massive bookshelf; all my childhood favorites meshing with my new loves. Like a fanatic little squirrel hoarding for the winter, I used to collect figurines, band t-shirts, the newest fantasy trilogy signed by the author - anything and everything about the people and media I was obsessing over. But especially books.