Words by Belle Ryan
Art by Suzy Jones
Content warning: contains discussion of depression, references to suicide
“I know maybe sometimes you don’t feel like it, but I think the room feels lighter when you’re in it,” she said.
He swallowed. “I feel heavy,” he said, his voice small and wavering.
“Never too heavy to support,” she replied. Her voice was gentle. A caress to his cheek as he held the phone to his ear.
She couldn’t see him, but she could picture him. Sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hand, phone pressed to his cheek, knuckles white because he always gripped his phone with such ferocity when he was sad; like it was a weapon he was about to throw. She could hear his breathing and the rustling of his jacket.
“It’s okay,” she said in the most reassuring tone she could manage.
A strangled sob cracked through the phone. She cringed away from the speaker. Her mouth pressed into a thin line.
“I’m coming over,” she said.
“No -,” he began.
“Yes. See you in thirty minutes.”
She hung up the phone.
She was still in her clothes from the day. Her shoes are still on her feet. Recently, it’s been hard to settle when she wasn’t with him. There was a looming fear that if she sat down without her shoes on, she wouldn’t be able to get out the door fast enough to get to him. Her keys jangled in her hand as she hurried down the stairs of her apartment building. The trees scratched on the windows. It was an eerie dragging noise, like someone was trying to slice the glass in two.
Her steps were quick and quiet on the footpath as she ran to her car. The streetlights pierced the early evening. The orange glow pushed away the shadows. Moths fluttered and perched, and then fluttered again. They never settled when they were attracted to a flame.
When she reached his house, she sat in her car for just a moment. Engine off, the car clicked over, cooling down.
His depression consumed him. It was eating him alive and leaving nothing but a hollowed-out carcass.
She would take all his suffering and sadness, if she could. Even if she knew it would be almost unbearable, she would do it. She would drag the weights off his back, lay down, and shift them onto herself. She would swallow the cloudiness around his brain and let it consume her instead. She’d rub the aches from his bones along his back, down his shoulders to his fingertips, until the pain oozed from his pores. She’d collect it like an oil, rub it into her skin, and let her body absorb all his hurt. She’d give him her softness in exchange for his hardness. She’d take his dark circles and dry skin and give him her suppleness and brightness. She’d give him everything she could and take anything he didn’t want.
Sometimes, she would walk into his room and he would be lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling. For a second, she’d wonder if he was dead. Her heart would stop and her breath would hitch. But then, his eyes would flick to her, and she’d see him breathe deeply. And while he didn’t seem happy to see her, she was happy to see his chest rise and fall. Crawling onto the bed, she’d lay on her side and hold him to her. His fingers would trace her back sometimes. Lazy and shaky. Sometimes, he’d bring an arm around her. Other times he’d even turn to face her and look at her fully. Mostly though, he’d lay there and continue to look at the ceiling. She’d close her eyes and enjoy the feeling of his chest rising and falling beneath her arm.
His mind seemed entirely detached from his body. Like something had come along and severed the chord which connected his spirit to his physical self. She rubbed his temples and traced the corners of his face. Maybe if she touched him in the correct way with the perfect combination of patterns, he would come back into himself. Like a code, attempting to communicate with the deepest part of his mind. I’m here. They used to watch all those films where the explorer had to crack the code. Find the pattern and outsmart the temple to get to the treasure. She wasn’t an explorer, but she knew this person like he was a place. She’d combed each corner, everywhere the shadows touched. His favourite rooms and pieces, the hidden treasure and the cursed heirlooms. He was her temple and she just had to touch the right piece of pavement to find the path of salvation.
Now his body was a temple without a God to worship. There was no one home. No presence lingered. It was empty and cold here. No candles lit, no incense burned. It echoed when she walked. There were no voices but her own, bouncing off stone and marble. Lifeless.
She opened her car door. His bedroom window was street facing. She could see the room was unlit.
A few months ago, he had given her a set of keys. Nothing was said as he placed them into her hand, but they felt heavier than normal. He’d picked her favourite colours which made her smile. The corner of his mouth quirked to the side because he knew why she smiled as she looked at them. A smile for a smile.
Butterfly wing eyelids hung heavy and low as he looked at her. Looking right back she said, “thank you. I can let myself in whenever you need me.”
“I’ll try to leave a light on for you,” he said.
