Numb.
That’s the only feeling that remains in my head as I slowly open my eyes.
It’s something strange. Being numb, I mean.
There’s nothing in there. No emotions. No thoughts. And most of all, no pain.
It’s like a blank canvas.
I always loathed blank canvases when Mum brought them over. At least she paid them attention and made them pieces of art.
People think the ‘nothing’ state of mind is the best to have.
It’s not.
Slowly, that nothingness morphs into irrevocable darkness that you can never escape.
A fog. A numbness.
While I never had Mum’s artistic streak, I always wanted someone to touch my blank canvas, paint on it, somehow revive it.
Make it a piece of art.
Slowly, too slowly, my surroundings register. The white walls and the bleach. The unfamiliarity and then…the familiarity itself.
The hospital.
I’m at the hospital because I cut myself. This time, I went in too deep that I had to be admitted. This time, I don’t have to google ways to stop the bleeding or hide the scars.
That’s when the most dooming realisation hits me.
I’m not dead.
A tear slides down my cheek as I soak in that reality, in the fact that I went all the way but still couldn’t die.
How could I be a failure even in death?
I’m still breathing, and the fog will soon cover my senses and envelop me in its tight embrace, and this time, it’ll never let me go.
The pain will be tenfold worse.
The harshness will be a hundred times crueller.
The reality will be so much more brutal.
Then that ‘something’ will attack me and I’ll find no reprieve from it.
Who found me? Why did they do it? Should I be thankful? Mad?
“Angel?”
My muscles lock at Dad’s voice.
No, not him.
Please, not Dad.
I don’t want him to see me this way. Why did he come back?
Facing away, I screw my eyes shut so tight, hoping against hope that he’ll think I went back to sleep and leave.
Just leave, Daddy. Don’t look at what I’ve become.
Big hands wrap around mine and I nearly lose the fight against the overwhelming emotions whirling inside me.
“Angel, please look at me. It’s Daddy.”
“It’s because you’re Daddy that I don’t want you to hate me.”
“I’ll never hate you, Kimberly.” His voice turns non-negotiable. “Never, do you hear me?”
My lids slowly open and I take him in, sitting by my bedside, holding my bandaged hand so softly, as if it’ll break any second.
Dad, Calvin Reed, is a clean-cut man in his mid-forties. A slight stubble covers his sharp jaw. He has a strong, tall build that gives him so much charisma and power. His blond-chestnut hair is always styled and perfected, his suits are tailored for him and him alone.
Dad and Mum are dubbed as one of most beautiful couples in the media, and while Kir fits in that picture-perfect family, I never have.
Right now, Dad isn’t in his usual impeccable attire. His hair sticks out as if he’s been running his fingers through it. His tie is gone and the first buttons of his shirt are undone. Black circles surround his eyes as a reminder that I disturbed his life.
“Did you have to take a night flight because of me?” I whisper, my voice spooked.
“I’d take a million flights because of you.” He reaches a hand to loosen his tie, then realises it’s not there and lets his arm drop to his side. “You’re not a burden, Angel. You’re my only daughter. I know I’ve been a failure, but I’ll work harder for you – for us and our family. I just need you to talk to me.”
My chin trembles and it takes everything in me not to take refuge in him. I can’t bother Dad. He’s a busy man and doesn’t need this whole mess in his life.
“Please, Angel. Please let me help you…” His voice breaks and the first tears flow down my cheeks simultaneously.
“D-Daddy, I don’t want to see Mum, please? I don’t want to see how much she hates me and is disappointed in me.”
His jaw tics and he says in an eloquent voice, “You won’t. I promise.”
“What if… What if Mum hates me, what if she –”
“Fuck her,” he snaps, then forces a smile. “If she hates you, it’s only because she thinks you’re a reflection of her ugliness. It’s not you, Kim. It’s her and her self-image and her damn artistic philosophy. I’m so sorry I didn’t take the time to tell you this earlier. I’m so sorry, Angel.”
Those words are my undoing.
I lunge at him, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my head in his shoulder.
The sobs that rise from my chest are ugly and unhinged, but I don’t stop.
I can’t stop.
It’s as if I’ve been waiting my entire life for a moment like this. It’s even better than the purge I felt whenever I cut or popped those pills.
Those were imaginary and temporary releases; this one is real.
All too real.
Dad smells of sandalwood and cosy nights. His embrace brings back my childhood days when he used to carry me on his shoulders and just take me out.
When he used to let me sleep in his embrace whenever I was spooked by a nightmare.
When he used to play with me and read me stories after Nana couldn’t.
That Daddy was a part of my armour against Mum.
I lost him to his job and was never able to get him back.
“K-Kir,” I manage between sobs. “I-is he here? Don’t let him see me this way, Dad.”
“Don’t worry, he’s with Henry.”
Oh, thank God. I can’t scar him again.
What is wrong with me?
How could I do this without thinking of the other people my life? How could I not think of Kirian and how alone he’d be in the world? How could I not think of Dad, who, even though he’s holding me and whispering soothing words to me, his chest rises and falls with harsh breaths as if he’s about to combust?
I was going to leave Dad and Kir behind. I was going to stab them in the chest and go without thinking about the depth of the wound I caused.
“I’m so sorry, Daddy.” I hiccough, my voice muffled with his shirt.
“I’m sorry, too, Angel. I’m sorry I didn’t see this sooner or protect you sooner.”
“D-don’t say that, Daddy. You always protected me.”
“Not enough.”
“Dad…”
He reaches between us and wipes my tears away. “From today on, promise you’ll talk to me.”
I nod, sniffling. For a long time, I’ve dreamt about a moment like this. I practised it every night, too.
Yes. I practised the time I’d open up to someone about the fog that’s been residing in my brain.
I couldn’t be any happier that it’s Dad, not some therapist.
“Promise you won’t hate me?” I ask anyway.
He strokes my hair back. “Never, Angel. You’re my only daughter.”
I inhale a deep intake of air, my heart slamming against its cavities so hard, I can almost hear it.
No idea how or where to start, so I let my gut lead me as I pour it all out.
“You know when you sometimes wake up and you’re disoriented and don’t know where or who you are? I’m that way every day. It’s not a phase and it doesn’t go away. Every day, I remember I’ll meet Mum, talk to Mum, and see the disappointment in her eyes. Every day, I remember I’ll go to school and see the boy who used to be my best friend, then realise I don’t exist for him anymore. Every day, I wonder if I’m invisible and if maybe I stopped existing altogether at a moment in time. Every day, I struggle with the need to stay afloat, to eat, to keep fighting because Kirian needs me. But other times, I think maybe he’s better off without me. Other times, I get too weak and can’t fight anymore. Sometimes, Mum snaps at me and I just have to relieve that pain someplace else, so I cut and watch the pain disappear with the blood. I know it’s wrong and I feel so bad afterwards, to the point I can’t look at myself in the mirror, but I can’t stop, because the physical pain is better than the emotional pain. The blood is better than being suffocated by the fog.”
I’m sobbing by now. A tear slides down Dad’s cheek, but he continues holding me close as if he’s afraid to let go.
I grip him by the shirt, digging my nails in. “Help me stop, Daddy. I need help.”
