Happy Pills and Razor Blades
warning: self-harm and suicide
He feels her pressed against him the moment he wakes up. He also feels his body pulsing, pain in every muscle and bones aching. He manages to open his eyes. Small slits looking out into the pale darkness.
Where was he?
There was a steady beep, soft sounds of feet hitting porcelain floors, whispers in the hallways, some urgent, some lacklustre.
Where was he?
He feels movement next to him and he opens his eyes fully, turning his head to his side. There she was. April. He didn't think he'd see her again. But here she was. Curled up against him, almost in a foetal position. Her head tucked under his armpit, her hands laced around her bent knees, pressing against his torso. He marvelled at how small she was, at how perfectly she fit in his creases.
He concentrated on her face. She had been crying. Her face was red, puffed up. There were notable lines of rundown mascara on her cheeks, and she looked tired. So tired. His instinct was to hold her, comfort her. He didn't know what was wrong. Why was she sad? She didn't deserve to be sad. No one did, really.
He noticed that her eye was twitching subconsciously. There was a single curl that had fallen on her face, on her eyelid, that she was sleepily attempting to push away. He remembers how they feel against his face. He never felt an inclination to push them away. There was something comforting about the softness of her hair on his rough skin, especially when they grazed the lines on his arms. They reminded him why he stopped himself from going too far, every time.
He attempted to bring his arm up to her face, brush away the curl when he realised his arms were restrained. He pulled, pulled, but they weren't coming off. What? Why? Where was he? Suddenly the room jumped into view. There was a clinical coldness about it, and loud. So loud. No longer were there quiet whispers, but loud noises. Like the voices in his head that told him, he was worthless, stupid, not good enough, never good enough. Loud. Pounding. Insistent. He felt his breathing quicken, his heart pounding erratically in his chest. He was going to die. He had to get out, or he was going to die.
He pulled roughly at the constraints, feeling them rub against his skin. There was a pain, but pain had always comforted him. He pulled some more. He wanted to scream.
Get me out of here.
Get me out of here.
There was no sound escaping from his throat, all he could hear was a distant scream, tortured cries and a wetness. On his face. He was crying. He was screaming. He needed to get out.
"Jackson! Jackson, baby, it's okay. Jackson, please, Jackson it's okay."
Her voice grounds him. He blinks, chest expanding, lungs threatening to break through his ribs. He concentrates on her and does what has been helping him lately. He counts her freckles. One by one.
One
Two
Three
Four
Thirteen
Twenty-one
Twenty-five
His breathing slows, and there is no longer an outpour of uncontrollable tears. Just the aftermath of his fall from masculinity. He was pathetic. What kind of man cried from fear, what kind of man felt fear in the first place.
"I'm going to call the doctor, okay? Just… I'm going to do that." She says but doesn't move. Her hands on his eyes, cold but warm. Her eyes burning into his in silent panic. She was scared. Of him? No. For him.
He nods, and she leaves and there's a slight second where he feels an overwhelming emptiness and she comes back. Not alone this time, but followed by a man whom he doesn't recognise. It was a doctor.
"Jackson, I'm Dr Harrison. I was assigned to your case. How do you feel?"
He's middle-aged, short, stout, Santa Claus beard. Non-threatening. He spoke slow, almost as if he was consoling a child.
What a joke.
He refused to reply, casting his eyes away and concentrating on the closed window. He noticed the grey blinds, and then his eyes drifted to the edges of the pane. They were bolted shut.
"He had a panic attack when he woke up. I think it's the constraints. Could you remove them?" April replies on his behalf.
"Of course. Those were just protocol. Let me take them off right now."
Dr Harrison walks around his bed, removing the clasps from his hand, and he quickly pulls them towards him, almost afraid they'll do it to him again. He checks on his pupils, listens to his heartbeat, strong, unfortunately.
Fortunately?
He wasn't sure yet.
"Well, physically he is fine," Dr Harrison says, and Jackson doesn't miss the emphasis.
"Um…."
"April."
"April, how about you give me and Jackson some time to talk. Get some food, coffee. You've been here for a long time."
"I…."
"April."
"Okay."
He feels her look at him, although his eyes are closed now. He couldn't bear to see her after what she witnessed. He couldn't bear to see her after he learnt that she had come for him, even after everything.
Dr Harrison pulls up a chair and sits down on it. Jackson watches him as he takes his notepad out of his coat, his pen ready.
"Do you know where you are?" He asks, smiling softly.
Jackson shakes his head. It's a hospital he knows that much.
"Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital, psychiatric ward. You're on suicide alert. Do you know why that is?"
Jackson balls his fists, his eyes scrunching, and shakes his head.
Yes.
No.
I don't know.
"Do you remember what happened last night?"
Flashes.
A blade. Skin. Pain.
A blade. Skin. Blood.
A blade. Skin. Pain.
Blood on water. Thick, unforgiving, a layer of shadow on the crystal-clear surface.
Worthless. Stupid. Not good enough.
Worthless. Stupid. Not good enough.
Worthless. Stupid. Not good enough.
Blood.
Pain.
Darkness.
"No."
"I think you do, Jackson."
He sneers, toughening up. Fuck this guy. Fuck him for making him look crazy.
Fuck this guy.
"I told you, I didn't. Take it or leave it, doc." He says, arms crossed in front of him.
"You have bandages on your arms. Why do you think that is?"
"What is this a pop quiz?" He laughs, but it sounds maniacal.
"Why do you think that is?" Dr Harrison repeats.
Jackson doesn't say anything.
"Jackson, I think you have severe anxiety and clinical depression. I can't make that diagnosis, however, without having you open up to me. I can help. You can get better-"
"I'm not fucking crazy." Jackson retaliates. Depression? Fuck that. He was sad sometimes. He wasn't depressed. It wasn't that deep.
"I never said that."
Jackson huffs, nodding towards the window, "What you think patients will jump off the balcony? Jumping to your death is messy doc. Too much risk you don't end up dying. Same with pills. And a gun? Fuck no. That would be too ironic for me."
"You don't think it's strange that your brain normalises suicide this way?"
Jackson shrugs, "It's just death. I'm not scared."
"We're all scared to die, Jackson."
Jackson shakes his head, "I'm scared to live."
"Is that why you did what you did?"
"Slit my wrists? Just say it. Why are you so afraid to say it?" Jackson asks. He screams, actually.
"I'm not, but I think you are. Do you want to tell me why you did that?"
He thinks. It wasn't one thing. It was an accumulation of a lot of things. It is never one thing. It started with her. She left. She left because he'd told that she had been a notch on his belt he'd promised his friends he would score. He didn't expect to love her though. But he was a man, and when you were a man you had to constantly prove your masculinity.
Strong, emotionless, unaffected.
I am a man.
He was a man. He was a man. And then she left, and it broke him because he broke her. But he wasn't allowed to break down. He wasn't supposed to.
What a joke.
"Man up."
Dr Harrison looks slightly confused for a second, but recovers, "Man up?"
He nods, "My dad always said that. Man up, Jackson. Man up. You're a man. Men don't cry. Man up. Man, the fuck up. Don't cry, Jackson. Not even when your mother is dying, or your father beats you in an alcoholic rage. Man, the fuck up, Jackson. Men don't cry."
There's a beat, "You had an abusive father?"
"No, don't make this a sob story."
The doctor nods, quickly jotting down something on his pad.
"Tell me about April."
Jackson's heart quickens for a second, and he sighs.
"What do you want to know?"
"Is she your girlfriend?"
Jackson chuckles darkly, "She's… too good for me."
"Well, she certainly doesn't seem to think so. She came in here as soon as we called. You didn't have an emergency number, so we called the first person on your speed dial. She was frantic. She didn't leave your side until you woke up this morning."
"Exactly. She's too good for me. I don't deserve that. I don't deserve her." Jackson sighs.
"You need to learn to accept the love you're given."
Jackson snorts.
How cliché.
"She's a risk."
"How?"
"She makes me feel too much. I can't… I am going to let her down. One day, I will let her down. I'm my father's son after all." He grins, but there's a deep sadness behind it.
"You are your own person, Jackson. We are never our parents." Dr Harrison say, crossing one foot over the other.
He doesn't reply.
"I know you feel like you have to be closed up. You were taught not to feel anything too deeply because it'll threaten your manhood. It's a hard lesson to unlearn. But sadness, anger, self-doubt, they're not gendered emotions. It doesn't make you any less of man to cry. It makes you human."
Jackson ponders over that for a second.
"I don't want to die." He says, finally acknowledging what almost happened.
"Okay."
"I have to die."
"Why?"
Jackson looks up, facing his doctor directly for the first time.
"Because it's so hard to stay alive."
He feels tears pricking at his eyes, and he pinches them, willing them to stay back. He cannot cry. Not again.
"Let yourself feel, Jackson."
He shakes his head, "I don't want to die. But I don't want to live either. I just… I want to be happy."
"What makes you happy?"
The answer is immediate, "April."
"Well, then Jackson. You have to let her."
April walks into the room sometime after, holding a cup of coffee. There is still so much sadness in her eyes, but she looks less morose physically.
"Hey. You're awake." She plasters on a smile and walks up to him.
He nods.
"I was just getting some coffee. The machine in here is always broken, apparently, so I had to go outside and they only had a Starbucks. $4 for a coffee? Are you kidding-"
"I'm sorry."
She stops speaking and looks at him. She sighs heavily, "For what?"
"For hurting you."
She nods, "and for hurting yourself?"
"That hurt you too, right?"
She thinks about that and nods, "I don't want you to feel guilty."
"I don't. I just… I'm sorry it hurt. I'm sorry everything hurt."
She frowns, "I can't live without you. You can't leave me because I can't live without you."
It's hard to think about the people you're leaving behind when you're knee deep in misery, he thinks.
"I'll try not to," He won't make promises he can't keep, so he'll make one that he can, "I'll get help."
She looks at him for a long time before she seems satisfied with that answer.
"I love you. Even if you don't love me, I love you. So, when you're in your worst moments, I want you to remember that there's someone here who loves you."
He nods, and his heart feels heavy. She loves him.
"I do love you, you know. It's just… not easy for me to say."
Her face lights up, and for the first time since yesterday, he feels… something. That's enough for now.
She climbs back on to his bed, and tosses an arm around his torso, cuddling up to him, "You'll be okay. I know it. You'll be okay."
He kisses her forehead and chooses to believe her.
She won't save him. He knows that. But when he's drowning, and he's swimming against the current, when he pulls himself out of the water, eventually, she'll be there on the shore, waiting for him.
She can't save him, but she's the reason he'll save himself.
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