*Please refer to introduction for summary of sensitive content*

May 30, 2016

Blood ran down his arm. The cuts stung with every flick of his wrist. His vision blurred from the tears welled up in his eyes. The brush was held in a death grip. His teeth were clenched. His eyes were red and blue and green. His lips quivered in a snarl.

You're not good enough.

You don't deserve anything.

The bloody knife was on the table next to an empty pack of Menthols. His left hand clicked the lighter on and off. On and off. The flame singed the side of his finger every time it flickered on. Flicker flicker.

"You're killing me," he whispered to the painted canvas.

His eye twitched. His breaths were uneven. The brush dropped from his hand and fell to the floor, barely making a sound. He passed the lighter over to his right. His left hand reached over and grabbed the knife. His drunken eyes looked down at it in his grasp. They jumped back up to the painting in front of them. His unsteady breaths got heavier, and he stabbed the canvas, ripping the bloody knife across, the cut mimicking that of those on his skin. He threw the knife across the room, and it stuck perfectly straight into the wall. He shoved the lighter in his pocket and took the red ink pen from the table to write 02/11/17 on the bottom right corner of the canvas.

Something snapped in his head, and he took a step back. He allowed the pen to drop from the clutch of his hand. His heart started to race with his thoughts, and he ran out of the room, slamming the door shut. He didn't ever want to open it again. His shoes crunched the glass as he went down the hallway, then the staircase, and into the kitchen. His wrist went straight under the faucet, water washing the blood down the drain. The tears rolled from his cheeks and into the sink. He could see his reflection in the window, and it reminded him of why he did it to himself. Everything he'd ever done to himself.

He wrapped his right wrist in a paper towel and pulled his sleeve back down. His stomach twisted. He wasn't sure if it was from hunger or the thought of what he'd just done. His hand shook as he pulled his phone out of his pocket.

"Atticus? It's two in the morning, what're you—"

"I did something bad."

"Atticus, are you—"

"I'm lonely. I wanna die."

"Don't do anything. I'm coming right over, okay?"

"Why doesn't anyone love me, Chris?" Atticus asked, sinking slowly to the floor. "I've never been enough. I'm so stupid."

"Don't talk like that," Chris said. "And don't you dare hang up the phone."

But Atticus already hung up. His thumb hovered for a quick second over Jake's contact, but he didn't know that the lawyer was actually a disaster, and Atticus didn't want him to know the truth. Jake didn't need to see his other side.

He curled up on the hardwood floor, shoulders shaking as he cried. He bit his fingernails so he wouldn't scratch at his wrist. He squeezed his eyes shut so tight that the blackness started to flicker.

He didn't even look up when he heard his door open and Chris call out his name. He stayed silent, holding back tears as he choked. He heard footsteps, and he felt Chris's arms wrap around him.

"It's okay. I'm here," Chris whispered in his ear, trying to calm him down. "I'm always going to be here."

But Atticus knew that. If it wasn't for Chris, the two of them wouldn't have been together at that moment or any other. He buried his face in the crook of Chris's neck to hide.

"What did you do, Atticus?"

"Nothing."

"Did you—"

Atticus jumped back, shoving Chris away. Chris's eyes widened and Atticus's twitched. He felt like he was being attacked and prodded at. Chris thought Atticus was insane. His heartbeat picked up as he looked Atticus over.

Atticus's eyes were a burning red. He stared off at a spot behind Chris. His breath staggered. Tears were streaming down his cheeks. He had one knee pulled against his chest. Blood was soaking through the paper towels around his wrist, covered by the sleeve of his shirt. His lips were muttering words that Chris couldn't make out.

Chris looked over his shoulder at the knives Atticus was eyeing on the counter.

"You don't get it," Atticus whispered, words slurred by his tongue pushing against the back of his teeth.

"What don't I get?"

Atticus let out a breath, and his fingers pressed against his lips.

"I just want to help you," Chris said gently, moving towards Atticus.

The latter scrambled backwards until his back was against the wall. Chris froze. Atticus had only ever moved away from him like that once before. And it was a time he never wanted to remember.

"Atticus? It's only me."

Atticus shook his head. It didn't matter to him. His hand reached back to try and grab the drywall, sending a shiver down his spine. Atticus grimaced from the touch and pulled his shaking hand away, squeezing his eyes shut.

Chris was afraid to speak. Atticus didn't want to. He regretted calling his friend. He regretted leaving the front door unlocked. He regretted leaving it unlocked all those years ago. He regretted yelling at his mom. He regretted letting his dad go. He regretted thinking about it all again.

"You should go," Atticus muttered.

"I'm not leaving you here alone," Chris declared.

Atticus's eyes shot open— two swirled circles of green and red.

"I don't need a fucking babysitter," Atticus growled.

"Atticus, I just don't want you to—"

"Hurt myself?" Atticus scoffed, lips twisted in a maniacal, closed-mouth smile. "You're a little late."

"Atticus, you didn't."

He didn't say anything. He hugged his wrist to his chest. He didn't want Chris to see it. But on the other hand, Chris's seen worse from him. Much worse.

"I'm fine," Atticus whispered. "Fantastically so."

"Atticus, please."

"Christopher, please."

"I just want you to be okay."

"I won't ever be, don't you get it?" Atticus yelled. He stood up so fast that he got a rush to his head. "You can stay and sit on the floor, but I'm going to bed. And if the door locks behind me, I'm not dead. Just sick of you in my face."

Atticus stormed off, and Chris stayed sat on the kitchen floor. Atticus's words didn't affect him anymore. Atticus had always been blunt and cruel. He grew up listening to Atticus's constant bursts of anger and ridicule. He just let Atticus go. He knew how the lawyer's thought process worked. It didn't. So he stood, went to the living room, and laid down on the couch, knowing that Atticus would wake him up.

*****

Atticus kicked the side of the couch at five thirty in the morning, just as expected. However, Chris didn't believe in waking up before seven, but Atticus threatened to tip the couch and dump him on the floor, so he stood, stumbling slightly. He knew that Atticus wasn't kidding.

Chris yawned and followed the scent of coffee into the kitchen. It was cold, from Chris taking so long to get up, but neither lawyer cared.

"Sorry I yelled at you earlier," Atticus muttered, grabbing two mugs off of the rack. Apologies weren't his favorite things to give out.

"It's okay," Chris said, taking the red mug from Atticus's unsteady hand. "You're always yelling, anyway."

Atticus glared. Chris cracked a smile. Atticus rolled his eyes. Chris laughed. Atticus threatened to dump his coffee on him. Chris kept laughing. Atticus emptied his mug on Chris's head.

"That was so uncalled for," Chris said, grabbing paper towels and trying to dry the lukewarm coffee dripping down his face. "Now I have to wash my hair before six in the morning."

"It was completely called for," Atticus snapped. "Don't trail coffee through my house."

Chris held his breath to keep from screaming as he went upstairs to the bathroom, showing off his middle finger as he left.

"Just for this, I'm using the good shampoo," Chris called down. "And I'm taking whatever clothes I want out of your closet."

Atticus didn't bother replying. Chris was going to do whatever he wanted regardless, and Atticus didn't really care. He was more concerned about other things. He had his cell phone in his hand, contemplating whether or not to do it. But he figured he couldn't possibly lose anything more, so he went for it.

Atticus: Are you awake?

He set his phone on the counter and anxiously tapped his fingers. He wasn't expecting Jake to answer, but when he heard his phone ding, his hand pounced on it.

Jake: I am now

Atticus: Sorry

Jake: No it's okay. What's up?

Atticus: Idk

Am I really so awful?

Jake: What r u talking about?

Atticus: Idk

I'll leave you alone

Jake: No wait what's wrong?

Plz talk to me. . .

Atticus sighed and sat down on the floor, leaning back on the cabinets. He called Jake's number, and he picked up on the first ring.

"Hey," Atticus whispered. "Sorry I woke you up."

"No, it's perfectly fine," Jake insisted. He tried not to let Atticus hear him yawn. "You can wake me up whenever you need to."

"Then I'm sorry that I'm such a chore to deal with."

"You aren't. Talking to you is the absolute best part of my day. Now tell me what's wrong."

"I don't know."

"Okay," Jake sighed. "'I don't know' isn't going to be your phrase of the day. You sound sad. And kind of angry. Something's upsetting you."

"Maybe," Atticus admitted. "I think I'm just a total jerk. And I hate everyone and everything."

"Do you hate me?"

"No, of course not you."

"Then you don't hate everyone. And you're not a total jerk. There's no one that I like more than you. You're important to me, Atty."

"I don't think so," Atticus muttered, thinking of the boyfriend Jake was too stubborn to leave.

"I haven't even known you that long, and you're already my best friend. Whatever's bothering you, you can tell me about."

"I don't know why I'm like this," Atticus sighed, holding the phone closer to his ear. "Maybe once I figure it out we can talk."

Jake bit his lip in frustration, but Atticus couldn't see it, and Jake was glad for it. "I miss you, you know. Can I come harass you later? Maybe we can talk?"

"We're talking now."

"Fine." Atticus heard Jake scoff a little bit at being caught. "Maybe I'm looking for an excuse to see you."

"Okay."

Jake sighed. "You need to laugh. So I'm going to tell you a story that makes me look like an absolute idiot for your amusement."

Chris was concerned as he walked down the steps and heard the sound of his friend's rare laughter. Chris crept down the hallway and peered into the kitchen, hoping to not attract Atticus's attention.

Atticus was sitting on the floor, leaning on the corner floor cabinets. His cell phone was as close to his cheek as he could get it, like it was bringing someone else closer to him. His smiling lips were shaking; his teeth bit down on his lip to stifle the obnoxious laughter.

Chris knew it was wrong, but he couldn't possibly help himself. He took a step back around the corner and listened to Atticus's side of the conversation.

"Jake, that's insane. . . No, it's your own fault. . ." laughter ". . . Yes, of course you are. . . I know. . . I promise. . . I wouldn't do that to you." His voice got lower as he whispered, "I miss you too. I'll call you later. I promise, honey."

Chris's eyes widened, and he held his breath.

"I know, I know. . . Call me on your lunch break then. . . Of course I will. . . I always wanna talk to you."

Chris stepped into the kitchen. Atticus's tired eyes looked up at him.

"I gotta go," he said into the phone. He sighed, but there was a smile on his lips. "Yes, Jacob, I swear. . . Okay. Bye."

When Atticus hung up, he stared at the screen of his phone. He couldn't look at Chris any longer. He knew that he was listening. Invading any sense of privacy he had left.

"Does he make you happy?" Chris asked, projecting his voice into the silent room.

"Do you want the truth or the answer you want me to say?" Atticus asked, the corners of his lips twitching.

"The truth."

"Then no. He doesn't do anything to me. Maybe he can for a couple minutes, but I can't shake it." Atticus sighed and stood up, suddenly a lot angrier. "We don't have time to talk about this. And I'm not going to make time."

Chris just followed Atticus out the door. It wasn't worth arguing with him. He wished he knew Jake. He wished he knew what Atticus was thinking. He wished he never lost his best friend.