You’re Not Alone

Images of the pages I just finished reading still twirled around in my head. I put the book down and try to catch my breath, I realize how hard I had been breathing. I had just finished reading “The Book of Lost Things” by John Connolly. I’m amazed at how much the story related to my unstable emotions. I look outside and notice a worrisome sun try to escape the aggressive clouds, slowly rolling in. The house is quiet, aside from the small squeak of the carpeted floors every now and then. The sun hits the blinds and creates a row of light streaks on my far wall. The warm light goes away as the sun is hidden behind the clouds. The dark room tempts me to lay down, and a long day allows my eyes to slowly shut.
I start to lose consciousness where I’m not fully asleep, but no longer aware of my surroundings. Uneasy thoughts and an empty house lead to my mind drifting to a past I’d rather not relive. I feel my numb body form itself into a more comfortable position as I uncurl. I throw my arms far apart on either side and tilt my head to the side, just a little. My legs touch a little, but still keep their distance. The semi-consciousness still floats around in my head. I see myself laying down, on a large folded up pillow in my cousin‘s bedroom. The room is dark, but still lit from the dimming light on the horizon. I hear a few people talking downstairs, having their dinner. Saosin’s album is also heard, set on repeat. I feel tears in my eyes as I hold a cold lighter. I flip open the top and an LED light, displaying the Eiffel Tower, flashes rapidly. I smile a little and wipe a tear rolling down my cheek. Another one rolls and falls onto a small wound on my arm, recently opened. It burns for a bit, but the feeling numbs down in a moment.
I shut my eyes for a moment as the piano interlude plays. A whimper is heard in the lit darkness and I feel an involuntary twitch, but then I realize the whimper was just me. My stomach also growled, but I was used to this sound. I hadn’t eaten normally in weeks. A breakfast of jam and bread and a dinner of eggs was my main diet. I couldn’t get the food past my tongue without feeling a need to throw up most of the time, so I just refrained from eating anything. The growling of my empty stomach stopped and I opened my eyes and looked around. I felt my legs sweating from the constant anxiety, but I made no effort to change. I fell asleep that night, lying against the same large pillow. I heard my cousins talking about me before getting into their own beds.
“What’s wrong with him?… Is he okay?… Maybe we should call over his mom?” All these sentences repeated for a few minutes, then they just stopped. My grandma, my loving grandma, walked into the room in the middle of the night to check up on me. I loved her so much and respected her limitlessly. She knew why I spent all my days in these depressing ways. She knew what was wrong with me. I heard her slow and unsteady footsteps walk up to me. She gently covered me with a thin blanket and picked up the fallen lighter, placing it on the windowsill above me. She wiped a tear from my face and kissed my cheek. I squinted at her and she smiled at me and said goodnight. The rest of the night, I spent rolling around and listening to my cousins’ snores or nocturnal movements.
As I saw the sun rising, I heard my grandma already up and making breakfast. The clock said seven o’clock, so I decided to remain in bed. The sun was out and the birds sang their summer songs as they soared the endless skies. The days usually went by pretty well, I was just calm and mellow. Sometimes, I would wander outside the acre-long front yard into the driveway. I would just sit on a broken down little bench and watch cars go by as my iPod blared in my ears. My grandma, especially, would attempt to have me eat something, but I always refused. Her attempts weren’t as forceful as they had been though. She knew what was bothering me and she knew to give me space.
That night wasn’t any better than the one before. My cousins were atop their bed, playing cards. They asked me to join, but I refused, muttering, “I can’t play.” In a matter of half an hour, they were all asleep, or so I thought. I took the lighter out from under my pillow and just stared at it. Tears again came to my eyes, but faster than the night before. This time, I couldn’t hold it in. At first, they fell down my cheek and I’d just sniffle a bit. But then, I let out another whimper, quiet enough to be discreet, but still loud enough to catch attention. The whimpers were more like hiccups now, accompanying the falling tears. I sniffled again and I heard a movement on the bed. I tried to quiet myself, but it was almost impossible. The worst thing about holding in tears is the dizziness that follows. My anxiety came into place and my heart was beating, hard. My veins pulsed and my body started to sweat. The wounds felt like they were going to burst and allow the night devour me. I let out a cough as if sulfur filled my lungs. My cousin quickly crawled to the edge of her bed and looked at me. I could see her clearly, despite my blurry vision. We just stared at each other for a moment that seemed like an eternity. She reached for my eye and gently touched right below it, wiping off a tear. She kissed her middle and index finger and touched it to my face and said, “Please sleep Anar.” I made no sound, but closed my eyes and tilted my head. My exhausted body let loose and my arms flung to either side.
I quickly sat up. I was in my dark room, sweating a storm. I checked the clock: midnight. I stepped outside my room and heard a light snoring coming from my parents bedroom, they were home. I went to the bathroom then back to my bed. The whole bed was warm, but once I got under the blanket, that cold feeling of the comforter and bed sheets relaxed me. I made myself comfortable and switched on my iPod. I set the sleep timer to thirty minutes and hid the iPod under my pillow and fixed my position once more. I thought about the previous dream, but the motivating music lead my thoughts away from depression. I fell back asleep and I dreamt of the same theme, except, better. I was at a park with him, my uncle, playing pool, just like we had four years ago. I made a ball into the pocket and my uncle gave me a high five. “I’ll dance at your wedding Anar,” which is what he’d always say when he was proud of me. He rubbed my head and I jumped up and attempted to rub his. He laughed at me and told me to shoot again.







Rest. In. Peace.
Uncle Akif
We Miss You