The Flame Alchemist 13: Here's a weekend update for you! Hopefully Al will realize that killing himself won't solve anything and he'll stick around.
Amaranth Bun: Dude, I getcha. College sucks. I have one week left of classes then finals and then I GRADUATE PRAISE JESUS. Glad you got a happy surprise of lots of chapters after all your hard work! :) Yeah, hopefully Al will start feeling better soon. Now that Ed knows he's getting bullied, that will hopefully get better for him and he won't want to kill himself anymore. I guess it's good the writing was more intense, haha. Means I'm conveying all the emotions I want to :)
Hey, guys! Happy Friday! Here's your new chapter and I'll update Monday like always. Gotta tell ya, the semester's been hard and all I can think about is graduation. But I will update on the regular days until graduation and then after that updates will be sporadic but hopefully more often until I start my big kid job in June. Like always, I'll warn you about this chapter. There's descriptions of child abuse as Ed tells more of his story and there's suicide mentions as well as panic scenes. The whole chapter is like that so if it makes you uncomfortable, it's best to skip this one. Chapter thirteen will do a quick recap so no worries if you do end up skipping this one :) I think that's all the news I wanted to share so I'll quit rambling and let you read! See you next week! :D
Al's on suicide watch. Not like the hospital kind 'cause he hasn't actually threatened to do it or attempted to do it, but he's on the Dad kind. Since Al's concussion has been giving him lots of problems, he's not going to school right now. So, he's he's under Dada's complete and total supervision. Well, as complete as it can be, I mean. Dada still has to work, you know, and I gotta go to school. Yesterday, Dada went to work and left Al home alone 'cause there was no one who could watch him. When he got home, he found a bunch of weird things in our room, like knives and pill bottles. None of the bottles were empty, thank God, but it's clear that it's not safe to leave Al alone. He's low, almost as low as he was in his bad place if not that low. So, today Al went to work with Dada. But it's not just going to work with Dad; no, one of us has an eye on him at all times. When he's napping, someone sits with him. When he's working on the homework I bring home for him, someone's right there with him. Even when he has to go to the bathroom, someone's there, watching him. He's never alone because it's not safe and we're both terrified that if he is alone, he'll disappear. He seems a little embarrassed by it all, but I also think he knows it's for his own good. But yeah, having your brother sit with you while you pee is definitely embarrassing. But after learning he had hurt himself and is feeling suicidal, Dada and I don't really care all that much about preserving Al's feelings. We can't lose him. We can't.
But the whole thing is kinda weird. Even Al seems terrified about the idea of killing himself. And the thing is, I know that it scares him. I know 'cause he told me. He's scared of actually doing it, scared of dying, and scared of leaving me here alone. But his brain is telling him it's his only option at the same time. He's at war constantly with himself, unable to actually decide how he really feels about all this. This whole situation is really weird 'cause while he's in a low place, I still feel like he's getting better. The last couple weeks, while his anxiety has been off the charts, Al has done things I never thought he'd do or things I never thought I'd see him do again, at least until he was all better. Like, he went inside a restaurant to eat. He volunteered at an animal shelter and is going to keep doing it. He's leading more conversations in therapy and... I don't know. It's like he's getting better all while thinking about killing himself. Part of me knows that deep down, he doesn't really wanna do it. He just wants things to end. He wants to be better now and not be an anxious human disaster anymore. But he also knows that it doesn't work like that. No one can just snap their fingers and make pain or guilt or trauma go away. He knows you have to work for those things. But it's hard and it's draining and some days you just feel like giving up. That's when the low place swoops in and convinces you that you'll never get better. That you'll be miserable for the rest of your life. That no one really cares, everyone hates you, everything's your fault, so hey - why not kill yourself? And even though Al knows killing himself won't really solve anything for anyone, he's been tricked into thinking that somehow, it will.
Today's group day. I wait outside school for Dada and Al, Winry sitting next to me on the steps. I haven't told her about Al. I don't have the courage to. She'd totally freak out if I told her. I don't even know if Al wants Winry to know. If he does, I bet he wants to be the one to tell her. Besides, it's not like anything's gonna happen to him. Al's on suicide watch now. Dada and are I gonna keep him safe so nothing happens to him. But I know Winry and she'd freak if I told her. So, unless Al actually attempts suicide or if he tells me it's okay to tell Winry, I'm not gonna tell her. Dad's silver car pulls up and I say good-bye to Winry. I get in the front seat, Al sleeping in the backseat. I ask Dad how his day was and he says it was good. Al spent all day on campus with Dad. I know the kids on campus like Al. Any time he's up there, they fawn over him. Dada says Al also spent a lot of one-on-one time with him in his office today, something he thinks will do Al some good. I hope so. Maybe Al just needs to spend more time with Dada to get out of his low place. I know I did. We get to the building and I gently shake Al awake. He yawns, sitting up and fumbling out of the car as I guide him inside. Chico's tucked under his arm. For a little while, it seemed like maybe Al didn't need Chico all the time anymore. For two years, Chico has gone everywhere with Al and not in a backpack. Then this year, he started to keep Chico in his backpack. I think starting high school had something to do with that. Anyways, now that he's so freaking anxious all the time and in a low place, he's not keeping Chico in his backpack as much as he has been. Not that I blame him. With the whole suicide thing and the whole getting beaten up at school thing on top of all the other shit he goes through, he's a nervous wreck. We get to the group room and Dr. Hughes asks how Al's doing. I tell him that Dada is keeping a real close eye on him and that Al's hanging out with Dada on campus and stuff. Dr. Hughes says that's probably a good idea but then says something that I think is kinda weird;
"You know, Ed, I'm not sure that Al really wants to kill himself." I blink and he goes on, "I don't even know if I'd classify him as truly suicidal. I think that he maybe more on the boarder or contemplating it, but hasn't decided it something he actually wants." I make a face.
"What are you talking about?" I ask.
"What I'm trying to say is that your brother is thinking about it but hasn't actually decided to do it yet," Dr. Hughes clarifies. "Maybe he does feel like death is the only way out but I feel that since he hasn't actually made any plans or has actually threatened to do it, I don't think he's seriously considering killing himself - at least not yet. But since Al maybe thinking that death is his only viable option, it's possible that even the smallest thing could be the push he needs to kill himself."
"You mean Al's not actually suicidal?" I question, really confused. "You mean he's not in the low place?"
"No, I think he's still in a low place," Dr. Hughes tells me. "But wishing you were dead and actually thinking about really killing yourself are two very different things. You know that." My brow furrows. Yeah, I do know that. I've been both people before. I've been the kid who wishes he was dead and the kid who actually makes plans and wants to kill himself. Hell, there are days where I'm still one of those kids. But while I get where Dr. Hughes is coming from, I think he's forgotten something really important.
"Okay, but he said he wanted to kill himself on Monday," I point out.
"I'm not sure that's the case," Dr. Hughes replies. I shoot him a look and he says, "Listen, what happened on Monday was highly emotional and he's been a little confused since hitting his head. I believe it's possible that Al misunderstood our question and took it as 'Do you wish you were dead?' when we really asked, 'Do you want to kill yourself?'. Either way, I want to make it clear that you and your father are doing the right thing and need to keep doing it. The safest thing and the best thing for Al is to keep him on the suicide watch. Your dad needs to continue to keep a close eye on him, especially if he's still hurting himself. Keeping him safe is the absolute top priority, regardless if he wishes he was dead or wants to kill himself. Wishing you were dead can very quickly become wanting to you kill yourself."
"Oh," I breathe. Okay, that makes a lot more sense. Al had been getting better recently, but I think he's carrying around a lot of guilt and shame and other hard feelings that I didn't even know about. So, yeah. Maybe he is in between. Maybe he's not low enough to really want to kill himself, but low enough to wish he was dead. I don't know. Someone tugs on my shirt and I turn around, Al griping my shirt with a little hand.
"You okay?" I ask.
"Uh," Al says. He licks his lips, unable to get his brain to form a sentence.
"Does your head hurt?" Al nods and I say. "I brought your medicine. Hold on." I walk to the snack table, something I've never touched before. I pour Al some juice and walk back over to him. I hand him the juice and Al takes his medicine.
"Mmm," he hums, sitting down. I sit, too, as Al says, "Thanks."
"No problem," I reply.
Everyone else takes their seats, my heart thumping. It's almost time to tell more of my story. Even though I want to, I'm nervous. Things only get worse in my story. It doesn't get better until I'm thirteen. And even then, I'd argue it really doesn't get better. It still sucks, just in a completely different way. But I'm not gonna chicken out. I'm gonna be brave. I'm gonna remember why we tell stories. And I'm gonna tell mine. Like last week, Dr. Hughes greets us and every eye is on me. It's like these kids can't function each week unless I tell them a part of my story. It's weird. I look at Al who's managing to stay awake and semi-alert. He's got a goofy look on his face and I smile at him. No more hiding, I decide. It's time to tell my story again. I set my watch and face the rest of the group.
"Vanessa was really good at making us look like liars. Something would happen and she'd twist it to make it look like we did it on purpose. Or she'd just straight up lie and make something up just so we'd get in trouble. I spent a lot of time in the corner when Dada was home and so did Al. When Dad was at work or something in those early days, Vanessa would still hit us, just chose places Dada wouldn't see. Like our tummies and thighs. That is, she thought Dada wouldn't see. I guess she forgot in those early days that Dada would still sit in on Al's baths since he was only four. So, when strange bruises appeared on Al's body, Dad understandably freaked out. Guess what? Vanessa managed to blame it on me. She said that I had been bullying him or that I got too rough with him when we were playing. Shit like that. I'd deny it, tell Dad that yeah - I played rough sometimes but would never, ever intentionally hurt Al or bully him. Dad never believed me. He always believed her. And then I'd get hit for something I never did. Vanessa would 'spank' me which was really just her slapping me over and over again for daring to stand up for myself.
"Things were hard for Al, too, but in a different way. Since she couldn't hit him while Dada was home, she moved to emotionally and psychologically torturing him. She yelled at him way more, called him awful, unrepeatable names, and told him he was a worthless waste of space all the time. Since he was wearing diapers to bed, she would wait until the last minute to change him, if she did at all. Al didn't always have preschool. It was a three day a week sort of deal. Vanessa set her own hours at work, so if she wanted to stay home all day and 'work', she could. On those days where she would work from home, Al would have to sit in a wet diaper from bed time until Dad came home. Then, Vanessa would lie to Dad and say that Al didn't want to change, that he was being a brat, and he'd get in trouble. She was good at getting us in trouble. And soon, we became bad kids who were always in trouble for one reason or another. When Winry would come over to play, she'd get turned away by Vanessa because Al and I were 'bad'. When kids at school would have birthday parties and invite us, Vanessa would make us go to their house and explain to their parents that we couldn't go because we were bad boys and bad boys didn't go to birthday parties.
"I remember that as the day of Dada's next trip loomed closer, I thought about telling him. I wanted to tell him everything. I wanted to tell him that Vanessa hit us and that she lied about us and that she made us stand in front of a mirror for hours, chanting that we were bad. Two days before Dad was supposed to leave, I decided that I was gonna tell him. Al didn't have preschool that day and I was sure Vanessa was going to make him miserable while I was at school like she always did. I promised him that morning before I left for school that I was gonna tell Dada the truth that evening when Dada came home from work. I promised him that soon, Dad would know that Vanessa was the reason we were always in trouble and never got to go anywhere, and the reason he never got changed in the morning. Soon, Dad would know that Vanessa yelled at us and beat us. Soon, he'd know that Vanessa hated us. I wasn't going to chicken out. Not this time. No, this time I was gonna tell him. I spent all day at school thinking about how I was going to tell him. I figured I could tell him before dinner. Maybe I could convince him to pick something up for dinner and I would do it then in the car. I also decided to just be blunt and honest. Just tell him straight up how awful things had been for us. That seemed like the best way to do it. When I got home, Al greeted me at the door. He was miserable, all bent over, and was having trouble walking. I had no idea what Vanessa had done to him and I was scared. At first, Al wouldn't tell me what happened but after a little pestering, he finally told me;
"'Sh-She tied me up,' Al whispered frantically. 'I w-wanted to ch-change a-an' after I asked, sh-she tied me to m-my bed a-an' hit my knees!' I looked him up and down, realizing he was still in his pajamas, which were soaked. A diaper can only hold so much, you know. I noticed fading marks on his wrists and assumed there'd be some on his ankles as well. I took his hand and pulled him up the stairs.
'I'll help,' I told him. Al still needed a lot of help getting dressed when he was little. He had really bad hand-eye coordination for a really long time and needed help getting dressed until he was around seven. What that meant at four-years-old was that unless Dad, Vanessa, or myself changed him in the morning, he more than likely was not gonna get changed on his own. He'd try, but just couldn't seem to do it on his own. That's why he was stuck wearing a soaked diaper and part of why he had more accidents than I did as a little kid. While he does have some kidney and bladder problems that contributed to that, he also struggled getting pants unbuttoned and stuff. Anyways, we were almost to our room when I heard Vanessa ask,
'Where are you two little shit heads going?' I turned around quickly, standing in front of Al, trying to guard him in case she decided to get rough. I mean, she already tied him to his bed so I didn't know what to expect from her.
'You shouldn't tie Al up like that!' I cried. 'That's not fair! I'm gonna tell Dada!' I remember feeling really proud of myself in that brief moment. I thought I cornered her; finally beat her at her own game. That's why it hurt so bad when a smile spread across her face. Vanessa starting laughing wildly at me, both me and Al watching her fearfully.
'You stupid little shit!' She cackled. She walked over and grabbed my shirt collar. 'Do you honestly think your father will believe you if you told him I tied your worthless brother up? You're just a liar to him. He'll never believe anything you say.' My face quivered and I hung my head, starting to cry. I realized then that I would never win. She was smarter than me. And she always would be. She threw me down, still laughing at us. 'You're both so incredibly stupid. You're a waste of Victor's time.' I didn't say anything. I couldn't say anything. I was still too stunned that I had lost. Telling on someone had so much weight in the kindergarten community. When a kid threatened to tell on you, it was like the end of the world. You'd do anything or say anything to avoid getting tattled on. But Vanessa worked differently. She had crafted this story that Al and I were misbehaved, that we were liars, so that Dada wouldn't believe us if we told him. No one would.
'I'm sorry, Al,' I whispered pathetically as Vanessa forced me on my feet. She dragged me to the mirror and moved to get Al. We stood there, repeating how we were bad over and over again.
"My legs started to hurt as I stood there. I knew Dada would be home soon, so the punishment would end. Al whimpered, beginning to cry as his legs began to ache from standing there. It had been a couple hours and I knew that we wouldn't get to stop until Dada came home from work. I didn't dare try to comfort my brother as we stood in front of the mirror, chanting that we were bad until our throats were raw. I was scared that Vanessa would find out somehow and hit us because I stopped saying my rehearsed lines for even a second. I did take his hand in mine, thought, because I felt bad. I was too slow to help him. I couldn't stop her from punishing us. It felt like this whole thing was all my fault. I shifted on my feet, knowing that if Dad didn't come home soon, I'd probably pee in my pants. I didn't get to go before she forced me to stand in front of the mirror. I squirmed, my voice dying off as the need to go pee got stronger. I was scared, though, to ask to stop and go to the bathroom. I was also scared of just straight up leaving my room and going to the bathroom. So, instead I just stood there, my eyes filling with tears of shame as warm pee ran down my leg.
'I'm a bad boy,' I said, feeling more defeated than I ever had in my short life. I was still feeling the burn of losing what I thought for sure was a battle I could win. Now Dada would keep thinking that we were bad, that we were liars, and that we were a waste of his time. I could hear the front door opening, my blood freezing. I could hear Vanessa's muffled voice and knew she was lying some more about us and was terrified Dada was going to yell at us. I couldn't think of anything to tell him, though, that could refute whatever Vanessa had told him. I could hear Dad approach our room and I couldn't stop crying. I was absolutely humiliated. I knew Al was, too. Dada walked in, eyes widening a little when he saw the two of us.
"Ed?" He questioned. I shook my head, tears running down my face.
'Sorry, Dada,' I cried, rubbing desperately at my eyes. 'I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dada.' Dad's face softened and he walked over to me. I flinched, scared that he was gonna hurt me. Instead, he just pulled me into a bear hug. I gripped his clothes tightly, hoping that maybe if I hugged him long enough, he'd stay home and never leave again.
'I know why you boys are acting up,' Dad said. 'You don't want me to leave.' I nodded. Even though we weren't really acting up, I knew now that it was better to just go along with the narrative Vanessa had created, 'I heard you were in the corner, Ed. Did you have an accident in the corner?' I nodded again.
'Yeah,' I said. 'I'll be good, Dada, promise.' Dad smiled and kissed my forehead, Al fighting for his attention.
'Nessa never changed me,' Al told him, his voice shaking. Dada paused, confusion washing over his face. He looked Al over and frowned, I guess actually seeing that Al was still in his pajamas from nighttime.
'Well, you are still in your jammies,' Dad commented. 'Why didn't she change you?' Al shrugged. He knew he shouldn't have said anything at all, but wanted to avoid getting yelled at by Dada. It was bad enough he thought we were liars because of her. Him yelling at us stung worse than Vanessa yelling at us.
'I guess maybe she forgot,' Al suggested in a whisper, trying to avoid getting yelled at by Vanessa as well. 'An' I t-tried to do it myself like a b-big boy. I did, but I c-couldn't. I'm sorry, Daddy.'
'I'll change you, okay?' Dada told him gently. Al nodded and Dad smiled at him. 'Then, I'll work on helping you get dressed all by yourself like a big boy. How does that sound, Alphie?' I remember a weak smile creeping across my face as Al nodded enthusiastically. If Dada started to really work with Al on learning how to dress himself, soon Al wouldn't have to wear a wet diaper all day anymore because he'd be able to change his clothes by himself. And, if Al could dress himself and Dada came home and he was wearing pajamas and a diaper, well, I hoped that he would realize Vanessa put those things on him. Getting undressed is a lot easier than putting clothes on. In my head, she just lost. And yeah, it was kind of a small battle, but it gave me some hope that she could be beaten.
"Dada helped Al change and I changed, too. We went downstairs for dinner, Vanessa glaring at us both. She was mad 'cause she didn't hear us getting yelled at. She just loved to hear Dada yelling at us. Gave her life, I think. Anyway, we ate and I kept thinking about how Dada beat her. He didn't even know that he did. He beat her at her own game. Maybe that was the key. Maybe Dad was the one who could beat her. But how could he when he didn't know anything was happening? I played with my food, imagining ways Dad could beat Vanessa once and for all. I imagined him as Superman, beating her up and carrying Al and I somewhere far away; somewhere safe. Some place where no one would hurt us - no one would dare. And that fantasy stayed with me until I was thirteen. I'd fantasize about Dada swooping in and saving me as Vanessa beat me. I'd imagine Dad barging in and being outraged when he saw her hurting us. He'd beat her up and take us far away. It's that fantasy that kept me from hating Dad, I think.
"Soon Dada was gone again. He was in Italy, I think, and left me and Al in hell with Vanessa. I was scared that she was going to be particularly nasty to us when Dad left and I was right. She was extra cruel because she was pissed. She was pissed because despite all the lies she had told Dad, he still loved us. He didn't yell at us like she wanted him to. He still picked us up, still played with us, and still told us stories. Dada's behavior hadn't changed and she blamed us. She blamed us for everything. That two-week period that Dada was gone, she literally beat me one day 'cause it was raining. Blamed me for the clouds. One day she beat me 'cause it snowed. She tried to take that one out on Al, but I wouldn't let her. One thing I found that I was really good at doing was getting in between Al and Vanessa. She seemed to enjoy beating me instead sometimes. Liked to see me try to stand up to her and protect Al. She got some sick satisfaction out of beating me, Al crying loudly and trying to hide his face.
"I remember that trip, we got fed maybe once every couple days. I was so hungry that I would fantasize about food when I was at school. I would watch the kids eat their lunches, wishing I could be eating, too. Winry would try to share with me, but I would turn her down. I had to lie, tell her that I had a lunch but that I just wasn't hungry. If I shared with Winry, Winry would probably tell Granny that I didn't have a lunch or something then Granny would tell Vanessa or Dada. It just didn't seem worth the beating to me. During that trip, Vanessa didn't allow us to take a bath once. I remember in the middle of the second week, she sprayed us with the hose because we both stunk so bad. The day after that marked the fourth day we had gone without food. I remember sitting in class, my stomach hurting so bad I wanted to cry. I was so hungry. I couldn't focus on what the teacher was saying 'cause my stomach was begging for me to eat. So, during recess, I told the teacher I had to pee. I did go to the bathroom, but after I sneaked back into my classroom. I walked to the cubbies, my stomach screaming at me to eat. I remember that my heart was thumping wildly as I contemplated stealing food from my classmates. But me and Al hadn't eaten in four days. At that point, it was the longest we had gone without food and I was scared of what would happen if we didn't get something soon. So, I did it. I opened up a random lunch box and stole half of a sandwich. I decided to save that for Al. He probably needed it more than I did. He was so little. I figured he needed the food more. I put that in my pocket and moved on to finding something for me to eat. I opened the lunch box in the next cubbie and stole a little bag of carrots. I stared greedily at my prize and didn't even hear the door open.
'Edward?' I froze, turning on my heel. My heart slowed and I tried very hard to hide the carrots even though I knew it was too late. She walked over to me and her nose crinkled. I still smelled bad. I knew that. The hose did very little to get rid of the smell. 'What are you doing, buddy?'
'I, uh,' I struggled, trying to find a lie. But I couldn't. I was a terrible liar and I hated to lie anyway. Thing was, though, there were times growing up were telling a lie was the only way to avoid a beating. My teacher sighed and held her hand out to me.
'Give me the carrots, Edward,' she instructed gently. My lip trembled and I nodded. I handed her my prize and tried not to make it obvious that I had half a sandwich in my pocket. She smiled at me and said, 'Good boy. Why did you take something that didn't belong to you?' I shrugged. I couldn't come up with an excuse. I figured all that was left for me to do was apologize.
'I'm sorry,' I said miserably.
'It's all right,' she assured me. 'I won't call home. Not this time. But if I catch you stealing food again, I'll call home.' I knew then that I could never steal food at school again.
"I made it home that day and had to wait all night before I could give Al his food. Vanessa looked through my backpack for food or notes home, but never stripped searched me or anything so she didn't check my pockets. I was grateful 'cause that meant Al would get something to eat, even if it was just a miserable half sandwich. I waited until bedtime and pulled the sandwich out of where I had hidden it and handed it to Al. His brow furrowed as he held the plastic-wrapped sandwich in his tiny hands.
'What's the matter?' I whispered.
'Do you have somethin', too?' He asked. I shook my head.
'No, but I'm okay,' I lied. It was a poor lie, though, 'cause Al shook his head at me.
'I hear your tummy talking,' he whispered, pulling out his pathetic excuse for a sandwich out of the bag. I watched as he tore it in half and handed me a piece of it.
'Al,' I said. 'No. You eat all of it.' He shook his head.
'No, Brother,' he replied, taking a bite. 'Your tummy needs good, too.' I made a face and took the half of the half sandwich from him. I ate my half in about two seconds, I think. We didn't eat again until Dada came home."
I stop talking, my watch going off. I shut it off and like always I can tell the whole group wants to hear more. But I took up a whole thirty minutes so I'm not talking again today. They like my story. I really don't know why. Al told me that it's probably because of the way I tell it. Apparently, I tell it like I'm in a play or something. He said I make it interesting. People have always told me that I'm good at telling stories. So, I guess it's really no surprise that everyone loves to hear it. But still - I wish someone else would tell a long, drawn out story instead of it being me all the time. Like the last couple of weeks, more kids start talking about their horror stories. They talk about the things they keep locked up inside them, the things they've probably never told anyone before. I know 'cause I did the same thing. When I started telling my story, it was the first time anyone had ever heard those things. I know how hard it is to face it instead of running away. But I also know how damn good it feels to finally get it off your chest. That feeling is more than enough to keep telling my story in my book.
Dad has to grade, so I'm on Al duty tonight. We eat dinner together and Al seems really sleepy. I ask him if he wants to go to bed and he says yeah. So, I follow him upstairs and do my homework at our desk while Al tries to sleep. After a while, though, he complains that it's too light in the room and that he can't sleep. But I remind him that he's on suicide watch, so I can't leave him. He doesn't seem too thrilled but he lets it drop. Al and I don't fight very often. We can't bring ourselves to yell at each other the way other siblings do. We suffered through so much yelling as kids. It just doesn't feel right to yell at each other. So, Al decides to do some of his make-up work instead of sleeping. We talk sometimes, but it's mostly quiet. Al's having trouble talking anyway. His brain isn't letting him talk the way he normally does and he has trouble responding when someone says something to him. I can tell he's super frustrated and I constantly remind him that it'll get better soon. We do homework until it's bedtime. I walk with Al to the bathroom, so he can pee and he pauses.
"What's the matter?" I ask.
"Can you... go?" Al asks, his cheeks flushed.
"Al, you know I can't," I tell him.
"I'm not... I won' hurt myself," he says softly. I sigh.
"Look, Al, Dada told me to keep an eye on you all the time so I'm gonna," I say. "I can't... I can't lose you."
"I know," Al sighs. "It's just so..." Al trails off, lowering his eyes.
"Al... Do you... d'you wanna kill yourself?" I ask softly. He shrugs.
"I... I don't... think so," he replies slowly. "I think... Mostly I wish I was dead." I sigh in relief. Dr. Hughes was right. He's not suicidal after all. He's just in that place where he wishes he wasn't here. That's much easier to deal with.
"You have no idea how happy that makes me," I tell him. He gives me a weird look and I say, "That you're not suicidal at all. It sucks balls that you wish you were dead." Al grins weakly.
"Mmm," he says, unable to say much else.
"Tell ya what," I say. "I'll step out while you pee. Call when you're done." Al nods and I leave. I wait outside the door, sighing in relief when I hear the toilet flush.
"Brother," he calls. I walk back in and Al's brushing his teeth. I watch him, a weight off my chest. I had been so worried that Al was suicidal. I know that he could get that way on a moment's notice but I'm gonna try to prevent that from happening. I'm gonna keep him safe. And no one can keep me from doing my job - the only job I know how to do.
It's late when I wake up. My chest's heaving and my bed's soaked. Pretty sure I wet the bed. Great. I run a hand through my hair, realizing Al's not sleeping next to me. Chico's gone, so I assume he's in the bathroom. Or maybe with Dada in his bed. I sigh, swinging my leg over the edge of the bed. I sit there for a second, thinking about the dream I had. I actually don't remember most of it. It wasn't a dream about something that happened to me I don't think. All I remember is that it had to do with Al. It was scary, but I don't remember why. I don't remember the dream at all. The door's cracked like always and Picard hurries in. He meows loudly at me and hops up on the bed. I reach to pet him but he dodges my hand. He meows again, I stand up and walk out, Picard guiding me to the bathroom. He scratches at the door and my brow furrows.
"What is it, Captain?" I ask. Picard meows again and I figure Al's in there. "Hey, Al?" I say. "Picard's really freaking out. Did you drop something?" Silence. I knock on the door and say, "Al?" Nothing. Picard meows again and my hand drifts to the door knob. I might be freaking out for no reason and Al might be with Dada. But I can't shake the feeling that something's wrong. I turn the knob and find it's unlocked. My heart is beating funny as I walk in. Picard darts inside and my eyes widen. If I hadn't have of wet the bed, I would be peeing all over myself.
"Al! "
Al's on the floor, blood trickling out of his mouth. I hurry over and find a bottle of headache medicine next to him. I pick up the bottle and freak out when it's empty. But he said he didn't want to kill himself! Why? Why? Why?! I take his wrist in my hand and for a second or two, I can't find his pulse.
"Dada!" I scream. "Dada!" I finally find it. A faint little pulse, telling me he's still alive. "Al!" I cry, holding him close to me. He's breathing, but it's shallow and he feels feverish. "C'mon, baby brother," I beg pathetically, "stay with me. Stay with me, please!"
"Ed, honey, why are you screaming?" I turn around, Dada's eyes widening. "Oh, my God."
"Help, Dada, please," I please, tears running down my face. "Please!" Dad hurries to grab his phone. Al moans quietly, one of his teeth covered in blood. Must of hit his face on the toilet or something. But why? Why'd he do it? That's when I start to think something's off. Al wouldn't be concerned with Chico if he was gonna kill himself, would he? He'd just leave Chico behind. Don't really need a stuffed cat if you're gonna kill yourself. And people leave a note with they kill themselves. He'd leave a note, right? I frown. He had a lot of trouble falling asleep tonight and his head has been hurting really bad the last couple days. I stare at the empty bottle and watch him breathe shallowly. He's super confused because of his concussion and if he had a headache... he might have accidentally overdosed trying to get some sleep and some headache relief. We won't know until Al wakes up. If he ever wakes up.
"Edward, I called an ambulance," Dada tells me, hurrying over. I hand him the empty pill bottle and he takes it, his hands trembling. "Is he breathing?"
"B-Barely," I reply. "I'm sorry, Dada."
"It's not your fault, honey," he tells me. "You were asleep. Was there a note or anything?" I shake my head.
"N-No," I say hastily. "I... I think it was an accident. I don't think he meant to. His head's been hurting and he couldn't sleep and he told me earlier he didn't want to kill himself. And I believed him!"
"I hope it was an accident," Dada sighs, taking Al's hand in his own. I swallow, tears still rolling down my face.
"What if... what if he dies?" I ask miserably.
Dada never answers.
We get to the hospital a few minutes after the ambulance showed up at our house. I'm still in my damp pajamas, holding on to Chico as the doctors pump Al's stomach. He hasn't woken up at all and I'm worried. Dada texted Granny but didn't give her many details. All he said was Al had an accident or something like that. I'm not really sure. I guess that Dad will tell her more when we learn if it was a suicide attempt or an accidental overdose. Once Al's stable, I change my clothes. Dada had me bring some since I refused to leave Al to change my clothes until I knew he was stable. The doctor tells us Al overdosed on a lot of Tylenol and while there isn't any permanent damage to his liver or insides, he's gonna be sick for a while. He's still throwing up, so he's on his side so he doesn't choke on it. He pukes so much as the night goes on that he starts puking up blood. Dad and I sit by his bedside, holding his hand. I tuck Chico under his arm and now I'm just watching him. His blood pressure and heart rate are low. He might be asleep for along time, if he ever wakes up again.
In the morning, Dada brings me some food before he goes to work. I'm staying here with Al. I'm not going to school today. I can't leave him. I spend the morning at his bedside, dozing off and on as he sleeps. He's been asleep for a long time. But his vitals are stabilizing, which I think means the medicine is leaving his system. I think it means he's gonna make it. Now, it's just a matter of waking up. I stay by Al's bedside and lose track of time. Dad comes back and forces me to eat. I fall asleep. I wake up in my own bed and cry until Dad comes in. I sleep with Dada until I wake up screaming. Dad calms me down and I fall asleep again. The sun rises and I'm awake. I'm in a fog, barely taking anything in. Before I know it, I'm in the hospital again. Al's been asleep for over twenty-four hours. Winry's here. She holds my hand before she leaves. Dad stays for a while before leaving me and Al alone. He still has to work. I hold Al's hand and pray that soon, he'll wake up.
Al's been asleep almost a week. He's finally stable, but hasn't really woken up at all. I mean, he's had moments were he's been sort of awake, but he always goes back to sleep. I've gone to school a couple times since he got sick but I never stay for the whole day. I can't handle it. All I can think about when I'm there is Al. What if he wakes up for real and he's all alone? What if something happens and he gets worse? What if he needs me and I'm not there? So, I mostly just float through my classes until Dada picks me up. I keep up with my homework, but if someone asked me what's going on in my classes I couldn't tell them. It's Wednesday and it's barely noon. I'm pretty spaced, a notebook open in my lap. The TV's on, but I'm not watching. I just put it on for some background noise. Al weakly threw up earlier this morning but he's been quiet since then. I stare at him, wondering what in the world happened last week. I have to believe it was an accident. Al wouldn't lie to me. He's not a liar. If he says he didn't want to kill himself, I believe him. I have to. Al stirs, his eyebrows twitching. I sit up straight, waiting to see if this is another false alarm or if he's gonna wake up for real. Al rolls over on his back and he moans softly. His eyes peel open and they're cloudy. His breathing hitches, but he's too weak to really do much. I squeeze his hand and he turns his head toward me. I can tell he's scared and confused, but seeing me helps him to breathe normally again.
"Hey, Alphie," I say softly. Al doesn't really like that nickname anymore. When he was a little, little kid, we'd call him Alphie all the time. Then she started to tease him about that nickname and now he doesn't really like it. But every once in a while, especially when he's sick or scared, he'll allow us to call him that.
"Wh-Where am I?" Al rasps, his voice weak and crunchy. Until a couple days ago, Al was on a ventilator because he was so sick. That's a machine that breathes for you. He got taken off it but that tube can be really irritating days after it's taken out. He also had a catheter, but when he started to show signs that he was gonna wake up, they took that out, too.
"In the hospital," I tell him. Al's brow furrows.
"Why?" He asks, obviously confused. He doesn't remember. I shift a little. He doesn't remember. Does that mean he won't be able to tell us what happened?
"You... well, you took a lot of Tylenol last Wednesday," I explain gently. "Does that ring a bell?" Al blinks, nodding slowly.
"I think so," Al replies. "I had a horrible head ache that wouldn't go away." Al looks over at me and says, "I wouldn't do it on purpose. You know that, right?" I nod.
"Yeah, I do," I tell him, relieved. "After you overdosed, you got really sick. You've been in here a week. It's okay, though. You're almost better. It'll be okay."
"Is Dad mad?" Al asks, sniffling.
"Of course not," I assure him. "It's okay. You're okay." Al squirms and starts messing with his IV. I gently pull his hand away from the IV but Al's still squirming. "What's the matter?" Al whimpers.
"I gotta pee," he tells me urgently. His fingers shakily run up and down his arm, floating around his IV sit and he whines, "This itches."
"Don't mess with that," I say. "I'll call your nurse." I press the call button and Al's still messing with his IV and some of the other wires he's hooked up to. "Don't do that. Leave it alone, Al." The receiver on the wall blinks and a nurse asks,
"Hello?"
"Al's awake," I say into the receiver. "He has to pee."
"I'll be there soon," the nurse says, the call ending. Al struggles to sit up further and I push him back down. "Don't do that," I tell him gently. "You're really weak. Just wait for the nurse." I sit his bed up so he's sitting up, Al's lip quivering pathetically.
"Brother," he says hoarsely, "I can't wait."
"Sure you can," I encourage.
"My head hurts," he whines. "I don't feel good."
"You're okay," I say, "You're okay." Someone knocks at the door and Al's nurse walks in. She smiles at us.
"It's really good to see you awake, Alphonse," she greets cheerfully. I was actually surprised the hospital in town kept Al as a patient. It's a really small hospital that isn't equipped to handle major pediatric emergencies. They usually send kids out when it's serious. I guess they thought they could handle Al. I don't know. All his nurses have been nice, even though they aren't pediatric nurses. Al's face quivers and she begins checking his vitals.
"I gotta pee," he says urgently.
"I'll take you to go potty in a minute," she explains. "I have to get your vitals first, okay?" I guess the nurse doesn't realize how old he is. He does look about ten or eleven. But I have feeling Al wasn't insulted by what she said. I actually think it probably helped calm him down.
"Did someone call my dad?" I ask.
"Yes," the nurse answers. "They got his voicemail. We're trying again."
"Okay," I say. The nurse finishes getting Al's vitals and smile at him.
"Okay, Alphonse," she begins, "you might feel really weak at first. Do you think you can walk or do you want a wheelchair?"
"I can walk," he replies. The nurse nods and helps him sit up. He helps him out of bed, Al's legs shaking violently. It makes sense his legs can't hold him right now. He's been in bed for a week.
"Careful," I say worriedly. The nurse simply smiles at me.
"Not to worry," she replies. "I've got him. I won't let him fall." Al's lip trembles and he starts crying. "What's the matter?" The nurse asks. I hurry over, scared he's in pain. Instead, I think I can smell pee and realize what happened.
"Oh," I breathe. Al's slowly breaking down, the nurse finally realizing what happened.
"It's all right," she soothes. "Don't worry about it." I guess being a nurse she sees people pee themselves (or worse) more times a day than she can count. I'm just glad she's being nice about it. Sometimes, nurses can be mean. I would know. She helps Al sit down and promises to be right back. I walk over and take his hand.
"I w-wan' D-Dada," Al wails.
"Shh," I say, "It's okay. It's okay. You're okay." Al continues to cry, so I grab Chico. I hand him the stuffed cat, Al's crying quieting almost instantly. I start to pet his hair and I'm suddenly overcome with sadness. I almost lost Al. He almost died. I choke, Al staring at me as I start to cry, too.
"Brother?" He asks. I shake my head. Without speaking I crawl on to his lap and wrap my arms around him. I cry loudly into his shoulder, Al slowly returning the embrace. We sit like that for a few minutes, his nurse coming back. We refuse, though, to separate, so she promises to come back later so Al can change. We desperately cling to one another, crying loudly. I almost lost the one person who I care about the most. I almost lost my baby brother. He could have died. My worst fears were almost realized and I don't have the strength to let go of him.
"Don't let go," Al whimpers.
"I won't," I answer.
I don't let go for almost an hour.
Dada comes back during the afternoon. Al's napping now but the doctor said he could probably go home Friday or Saturday. Since he's not really suicidal, they just want to keep him in the hospital for a little while longer to make sure he's okay. His nurse gives him his medicine and leaves us alone. I know what'll happen when Al wakes up. Dada will cry. Dad doesn't cry very often. He never has. The first time I ever saw him cry was when Mom died. He didn't cry in front of us again until she got arrested. Since then, Dada's cried a few times in front of Al and me, maybe like five times. The only ones I can remember, though, are when I told him I wanted to kill myself and then a couple weeks ago when he broke down in the car. I know he's cried other times but it's been few and far between. Dad's just not that in tune with his feelings I guess. I'm not really sure. But he's gonna cry. Even though it wasn't a suicide attempt, we almost lost Al. He almost died. I was almost an only child. So, he's gonna cry. He'll cry big fat tears and hold Al close to him. Al'll probably cry, too. So will I. We'll all cry.
Dada hold Al's hand all afternoon. I work on make-up work Winry gave to me while Dad whispers softly to Al. Al hasn't woken up since he was awake earlier. I doubt he will wake up again for a few hours. He's tired. His concussion makes him tired and now being sick makes him tired. Dada's whispering, begging for Al to wake up. Dad misses him. Dad's worried about him. I sigh, unable to focus on the homework. I miss Al, too. The last week has been awful and I miss him. I want him to wake up so I can talk to him. But I want him to get better, so I'll let him sleep. I need to let him sleep if I want him to get better. A few more minutes pass, Al moaning softly. Dad straightens his back, waiting to see if Al's gonna wake up. Sure enough, he stirs, moaning as his eyes open.
"Dada?"
Dad sighs loudly and pulls Al's hand closer. "Hey, baby." Dad says quietly, helping Al sit up. "Are you doing okay?" Al whimpers and shakes his head.
"I don't feel good," he says. He blinks a few times, tears beginning to run down his face. "I'm sorry, Dada. I didn' mean to, promise! I just wanted to sleep! I'm sorry!" Dada pulls him into a hug, Al shaking violently.
"I know," he whispers. "I know, honey."
"I'm so sorry, Dada," Al cries, Dad doing his best to comfort him.
"Shh, it's okay," Dad coos in his ear. "It was an accident. We know you didn't mean to. But, baby, you scared me so much." Dad chokes and that's it. He's crying, too. He's crying so hard because we almost lost Al. He could have died. If there were more pills in that bottle or I hadn't found him when I did, Al wouldn't be here. He'd be in the ground.
"I wanna go home," Al cries, Dad holding him tighter.
"I know, I know," Dad whispers, his voice quiet with emotion. That's when I start crying. Big, fat tears roll down my cheeks as I watch Dada comfort Al. He's so gentle. I set my stuff down and walk over. I wrap my arms around Dad and keep crying. Al's pretty much wailing now, unable to contain himself. And all I can think about his how he could have died.
"I was so scared," I cry. Dad patting my head awkwardly since he's practically holding Al. "I thought you were gonna die!"
"I'm sorry," Al whimpers, his fingers clutching the folds of Dada's clothes tighter.
Dada kisses his forehead and adjusts how he's sitting. Soon we're both in Dad's arms, crying like we're little kids. But in that moment, we are. We're those little kids sitting in the ER, anxiously waiting to see if the social worker was gonna let us see Dada or not. We're those little kids who just watched Officer Mustang drag her away and we're terrified that Dada will be mad. But he's not. When he's finally allowed to see us, he cries. He apologizes so much that he loses his voice. He holds us like he's holding us now; close enough that we can feel his heart beating. Al apologizes more and Dada just quiets him gently. He doesn't want Al to feel guilty. It was an accident. Al didn't mean to do anything bad. And Dad holds him close, trying desperately to convince Al of that. The thing is, though, I don't know if he can. Al's gonna blame himself for this, for worrying us, like he blames himself for everything. And it'll be a long time before he can forgive himself and not feel guilty for everything. It's a process. That's what Dr. Hughes always says. Every day we make choices and every day affects us differently than the last. Sometimes, we move forward and sometimes, we don't. Sometimes we get better and sometimes we slip backward. It's all a part of the process. It's normal to stumble and fall. The problem is when we stay down. That's why Al and I try our best to keep moving. Even though I was scared that Al was gonna die and even though he blames himself, we're going to keep moving. Al's not gonna kill himself, I realize as I cry into Dada's chest. He's not. It would go back on our declaration to move forward; to get better. So, while the guilt will eat him alive for a while he's going to move forward. We both have a good pair of legs. We're going to use them.
