Chapter 16

Monday morning saw me roll out of bed with dark circles under my eyes. My body was stiff, my limbs moving slowly, robotically, as I reached for my toothbrush, as I pulled open the fridge, as I slipped on my sneakers while suppressing yawns. After I'd gotten home the night before, sleep had evaded me and instead, I'd heard Ian's voice over and over again in my mind like a persistent accusation.

Did I still think he was weak?

No.

And, if I was being honest with myself: I never had. He had every right to stand up for his own beliefs, had every right to choose not to resort to violence. Perhaps, in my anger, I'd only revealed my own weakness by shaming him for not being able to fight back. Perhaps, deep down, I thought of his actions -- his decision to resolve conflict without violence -- more superior than mine and out of pride, had called him weak.

Ha, I thought. Some inferiority complex I seemed to have.

When I entered the art class that morning, just about the entire student body had heard what had happened over the weekend. I'd even passed by Ian's locker, which was decorated with get well gifts and cards, little tokens from sympathetic classmates and even, teachers. The sight made irritation boil in my stomach, to see students who had not even so much as given Ian a glance before then, now gushing and fanning tears out of their eyes when he was brought up now.

Nadia greeted me wearily, as I saw down with my art assignment, not in the mood to focus on it. Most students were still talking about Ian ("wait, why did he try to kill himself? OhmyGosh, he's in my Bio class! Once he brought his pet turtle to school. It was kinda cute.") I nodded my head in greeting to Nadia, but most of my attention was on what was being said about Ian. As the principal's voice drifted through the loudspeaker, listing off today's events and reminders, he mentioned Ian's name and I stiffened.

"A student, Ian Calder Smith, was hospitalised this weekend. I ask each and every one of you to keep him in your thoughts and wish him a quick recovery. Thank you."

Hearing his full name, made me think of when Ian had cheerfully introduced himself the day we'd first met. I suddenly drowned in a wave of guilt, wondering what would have happened if I'd chosen my words, if I'd kept my anger in check. Maybe, then he wouldn't have landed in the hospital, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Heard you visited him." Nadia interrupted my morbid thoughts, glancing at me.

"Uh, oh, yeah." I nodded, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

"How is he?" Nadia asked, quietly.

"...Distant."

"Oh."

"Did something...happen between you two?" She suddenly asked.

"What makes you think that?"

"It's just." She shrugged."You know, you two were close until like the last two weeks."

My shoulders slumped. Is that how obvious it'd been?

It felt horrible to know that I was the reason why we were here. It felt horrible to realise that, if it weren't for my words, we could have been fine, we could have avoided this turnout. I wrapped my head with my arms and hid my face. Besides me, Nadia laughed, shakily.

"Haha, come on now." Nadia mumbled, awkwardly. "Don't be so down. You're acting like you pushed him off the bridge yourself."

My head snapped up. "What the hell do you mean by that?"

"Woah, chill." Her eyes widened, surprised by my outburst. "I was joking."

"Don't joke like that." I groaned.

"Okay."

"I would never do that." I murmured, lowering my head into my arms. And the softly: "Right?"

I might as well have, I thought, the way I'd been acting around Ian. I was drowning in self-pity and resentment, eating my insides out by replaying my harsh words to Ian, over and over again. I felt like pulling out my hair, and I would've given anything to jump back in time and gulp down those cold words before they escaped my throat.

It made me think of my father who'd once told me that if I was to ever be successful, I had to know myself. He'd said it so bluntly, so obviously, as if it was some kind of right of passage. Like it was necessary and important and right.

"Abdullah," he's called me into his office one day. "Every successful man must know his weaknesses and his strengths. He must know himself."

Just like that. And, at the time, it'd made sense to me. It was a pretty simple idea: success and acknowledgement went hand in hand. At that time, I'd thought that my strengths included focus and book-smarts, memorisation and mathematics. My weaknesses were made up of my poor performance in gym class. I hadn't realised until now, that my father was talking about my personality, not school.

What kind of personality did I have? What were my strengths, my weaknesses?

Because I could probably add "crappy friend" to the latter.

- - -

After school, I was surprised to see Salma and Nadia already in Ian's room when I walked in. I'd stopped by my father's room, to check on his condition, when I'd arrived. He seemed the same as ever, eyes closed, heart monitor steady. I'd taken a moment to sit by his bed and wonder what would happen if he'd woken up to my pathetic life as it was now. 

Nadia looked up when I walked in Ian's room, and offered me a small smile while my sister continued to talk to a more brighter looking Ian. She was saying something about school, telling him about his glammed up locker but what made me stop mid step was Ian sat up in bed, actively listening.

And then Ian responded to her.

I stood there, mouth slightly agape, and Nadia noticed this and smirked. Slowly lowering myself into a chair, I watched as Salma switched to having an enthusiastic -- two sided -- conversation about how disgusting the food in the hospital was. Ian was openly agreeing. Nadia was listening with a grin. I was still processing the scene before me.

It wasn't that I didn't expect Ian to recover. It was that Salma had been the one to put Ian is better spirits. Salma, who once she decided she didn't like someone, vowed to hold a grudge on them forever. Salma who didn't appreciate it when people questioned her decisions. Salma who despised "cute, small" people who were "obviously pretending to be weak and pathetic so others would be more considerate towards them." Salma, who did everything because she wanted to.

I knew my sister pretty well. Or so I thought, as I watched Ian happily nod his head and make remarks and offer opinions. He didn't even seem to realise that I was there.

Until he did. His eyes suddenly went blank when they landed on mine and even Salma was taken back, looking between us both. I noted Ian's suddenly awkward posture and thought: I did that. He still isnt comfortable around me. Nadia cleared her throat, breaking the thick tension in the air.

"So, Ian." She addressed him, politely. "When do you think you'll be able to return to school?"

"Oh, yeah..." He sagged a bit. "I dunno. A few weeks maybe. They, um, want me to talk to therapists and stuff."

"Oh, that should go well." Salma supplied. "What do you think?"

"Yeah...maybe...I don't know." Ian mumbled, sounding unsure.

The reason why he had to meet with said therapists, went unsaid. I felt cold, just thinking about distant professionals deciding his mental state, fussing over brain scans and blood tests and long sessions of counselling.

I also noticed that Nadia had went deadly silent at Ian's response. She froze, smile still in place, as she stared ahead, unblinking. I thought, with a shiver, that she resembles and a mannequin. Beautifully posed but cold and lifeless. Ian, meanwhile, also reflected a sense of the same coldness, as if his limbs weighed a thousand pounds and he would much rather pause than keep on moving. Freeze over. Stop.

Sometimes, I also wondered, what it would be like if time could just stop. And if there was no need to keep moving on. How much easier it would be, how much more convenient. But time didn't and it probably couldn't and so we continued to be dragged forward, unable to catch out breath or take a break, always on the edge, always on the brink of something unexpected.

Like a white hospital room. And all that was implied with it.

"...sure it will all turn out okay, Ian." Salma was telling him, when my attention returned, and he nodded, halfheartedly.

I caught a quick glance thrown my way, behind the blond curls that seemed longer than how I'd remembered them. Ian jerked, when our eyes met, as if I'd electrocuted him and he rapidly averted his gaze, looking at anything but me. I wondered with a sinking heart if he still resented me, if he would ever be the same, cheerful Ian I'd gotten to know.

I was the one who'd ruined that.

Salma and Nadia, who hadn't spoken since, finally took their leave. Nadia smiled stiffly at me as she got up and shouldered her purse, sticking out her hip and resting a manicured hand on it, while she waited for Salma to gather her stuff. She looked detached and faraway, and blankly exited the room with my sister. Ian continued to avoid my eyes after the two girls left, taking the life out of the room with them.

"I should get going soon, too." I declared, and then paused. "Um, do you want anything before I leave?"

"Yeah." He said simply, "I need you to stop pitying me."

"I don't--" I paused. "Wait, what? You actually think I pity you?"

"Don't you?" He snorted, bitterly. "You must think I'm so pathetic. I can't even defend--"

"Stop." I interrupted and he stopped, flinching but before regret can seize me, I continued, loud words pouring out of my mouth. "I don't pity you. I pity them. I pity myself. ...But not you, Ian, Not you."

"If I could have just fought back." Ian ground out, his hands trembling. "We wouldn't be here. I wouldn't be here."

"Would that have stopped them from coming back?" I asked, lowering my voice.

He blinked. "Maybe not, but..."

"But, what, Ian?" I asked. "You're not the one at fault here."

"So, then, what?" He asked, loudly. "It doesn't matter, what I do?"

"Of course it does." 

"Then, why am I so weak." He suddenly cried, covering his face. "I just want to stop being a burden."

But you're not.

"If I don't fight, I get hurt." He continued, voice cracking. "If I do, it doesn't matter because they'll come back. What do I do?"

I don't know. I don't know anymore.

"Why me?" He sobbed into his hands. "Why do I have to be the weak one?"

You're not weak. 

I am for letting it get to this.

I'm the weak one.

- - -

When I got home, night had nearly fallen. I gazed up at the sky, as I fished out my keys, tracing the patterns that the glittering white stars made in the sky. It was freezing out, and my breath fogged around my mouth. As a warm blast of air engulfed me when I stepped into the house, I let out a sigh in relief and kicked off my shoes.

When I passed Salma's room, I realised that something was really wrong. It wasn't unusual for my sister to be yelling into her phone, making snarky comments about fashion or passive aggressive remarks about other people but this time she sounded hushed and fearful.

"Breathe." She said, and I heard footsteps as she paced her room. "Do you want me to come over? Okay, okay, I won't. Just breathe. That's good. Sit down and close your eyes."

It made me realise, with a start, that Salma sounded rehearsed, as if she'd done this a million times. There was still panic in her voice, and I hoped the person on the other end of the line was too distanced to detect it. With horror, I wondered if she was talking to Nadia. I knocked softly on her door.

"Give me a moment, Nads." She said, "I'm putting you on hold."

When she opened the door, I pounced.

"You seriously need to tell her to get help."

"Why do you think she's freaking out?" Salma glowered. "She panicked when Ian mentioned therapists today."

"But..." I stammered, utterly confused. "Doesn't she want to get better?"

"Of course." Salma hissed. "But she's terrified about opening up to someone. She's ashamed and hiding and I'm trying to convince her but it's stressful when she's so determined not that she can get over this by herself."

"Okay, okay." I backed off. "It's just hard....to see her like this."

Salma paused, and looked up at me thoughtfully. "Yeah."

"I mean...it's like we can help...but we can't."

My sister doesn't respond, and instead looked down to stare at her phone, where the screen brightly declared that the call was put on hold. Her fingers are white, grasping her phone case tightly. When she spoke, she sounded defeated.

"I don't know what to do anymore." She admitted. "I don't even think it matters."

"What the hell?" I asked. "Of course, it matters. You're her best friend. You can support her."

"But she doesn't want help," she murmured. "She's still the same. She still has panic attacks, and hides her problems and pretends everything is okay."

"So?" I pressed. "You can't just give up on her."

Salma looked up at me, looking torn, and what I found in her eyes scared me. She looked afraid, and ashamed. Like she really  did want to give up on Nadia. Like she was too tired to keep on supporting her. 

Too tired to care anymore.

____________________________________________________________

it seriously all starts with you. If you want to change, then you can. If you want help, then ask. If you want to get better, than you have to take that first step.

nothing is gonna change unless you want it to.

also, if I made therapists sound like a shitty option, I don't mean it. I think alot of people are scared to open up to counsellors/therapists which is fine and it is pretty scary but keep in mind that these people are there to help you and if you allow them to, they can make big, positive changes in your life. It's all up to you, in the end, and they all mean well.