Long Day
Each step seemed as though it were somehow heavier than one that had come before it and the white flakes that fell from the sky did nothing to help. In such wee hours of the morning the world seemed void of life in a way that was peaceful... in the same sense a mausoleum after the last internment was. It was grim, weighted and suffocating. It rested on his shoulders which slumped under it and mirrored in downcast, hollowed eyes.
Tired. He was tired, right down to his very core. The exhaustion of it all had sank into his bones just like the cold had. He wasn't even sure which was the more numb; his heart or his crimson-decorated fingers. The latter of the two he could at least see turning purple. Not that he cared. No. He didn't have it left in him to care. He could lose his fingers and be entirely unbothered by it right then. It wasn't as though they were doing much to hold together the fraying edges of his life as it was ripped apart at the seams. Right then they were only a partially frozen reminder of the grip he didn't have on things, like the grip he had trouble keeping on his keys. Who the hell even locked the door? Someone probably smarter than him.
He plopped down upon the landing of the stairs just inside the front door... and just sat. Somewhere in the back of his mind he was trying to will himself to take off his boots, hang up his coat and move, but the rest of him was slow to cooperate. He stared at his boots wet with melting snow and slush, at his calloused hands that weren't quite obeying his commands. A heavy sigh finally left his parted lips before he set about stripping off all his winter gear. It was slow going, and his speed did not change when a shadow came over him.
"You okay, Nol?"
He could detect the concern in the voice of his cousin.
"Yeah," he found himself answering while his mind screamed otherwise, while his heart, shriveled as it was, cried out it was a lie, "It's been a long day."
Lies. Lies! It had been a long week. But it was also true. He hadn't been a night without nightmares in weeks. Anxiety haunted every moment, gave him no rest, gnawed at every shadow his mind had in existence.
A rough hand scrubbed over his face, briefly resting thoughtfully over his mouth as if to keep in the truth. Then he simply nodded, letting it fall. "Just tired."
"Try gettin' some sleep."
Another numb nod.
"Yeah, nah, I'll try," his voice was so hollow he almost wondered how no one else heard it, how no one else seemed able to see through him. Tired. He was tired, but not in the way that sleep could fix. He was tired of not being good enough. He was tired of trying so hard and coming up short. He was tired of fighting every day. He was tired of the nightmares, of the anxiety, of being helpless. He was tired of things going wrong. He was tired of feeling so alone, tired of lying to the world, tired of clutching to threads and straws. He was tired of existing.
The shower washed the dirt and blood off of him, but it didn't wash the exhaustion away. It didn't wash the ache away. Cold that had settled in his bones outside remained even after the steaming water had carried away the traces of what he'd made it through.
Just breathe.
He repeated it to himself as a mantra as it felt like the universe itself was clawing up his throat and trying to strangle him. In the mirror, he saw every flaw in a face that felt like a mask, a face he didn't want to wear. He saw eyes that had something missing in them. But what?
He slumped to the floor in his room, back against the wall, to bury his face in his hands.
Just breathe.
It was weaving through his rib cage. It was tightening around his lungs, constricting like a boa around him. There was no escape. His hands fell. His breath caught. His eyes clenched shut, tight. He fought. And it didn't matter.
The first one slipped free and rolled lazily down his face leaving behind a salty trail. The second one followed not to long after. He shuddered, hand flying to clamp down over his mouth as it all finally caught up with him. The tears fell freely, even as he tried to blink them away, tried to make them stop. He couldn't even do that.
Broken, he sat on the floor and cried.
And a weight came to slide down beside him, shoulder to shoulder. For a moment, there was silence as his twin sat with his hands in his pockets. Nothing needed said.
"It's been a long day," his twin spoke, and the broken man felt the grip of a hug wrap around his shoulders... and he found himself leaning into it. "But it'll get better."
Because every person's life is a story, and everything always works out by the end of the story. All this pain meant was that he still had a great many chapters before his story was done. There was still so much more left to write and to read.