warning: suicidal ideation. please read at your own discretion.

-endless

flesh wound

I wish my chest would implode.

It wouldn't take much time - after all, my attempt did most of the work.

The memories of it haunt me at night. They leave me lying awake, Pony's back pressed against mine, my already shit breathing coming in gasps. They leave me downing more sleeping medication than prescribed, filling my body with poison that I don't need.

Darry and Pony watch me survive each day, but it worsens as the sun dims. It's like they're scared of me, bolting from the house, running to desires I should no longer have. I know they see the bruises, the scars, the stone-colored ash that has become part of my skin. I know they see the way my body is torqued, my ribs seeming to stab at my one surviving lung whenever I move.

And in some ways, I regret it. I regret trying to leave.

But then I feel the calm, the peace, that I felt as I screeched in the water. I feel the warmth that death wrapped around me.

I wonder if I'll ever feel that again.

He's still coughing when I pull into the driveway.

Though the harshness has diminished slightly, I find myself glancing at him each time it happens. When I tear my eyes from the garage, watching it open with aggravating slowness, Soda has shoved himself against the passenger door, his head resting on the window.

I peer down at the center console. The water bottle I had hastily bought remains untouched. The drive to the house seemed eons long, and I curse at myself for not checking in sooner. My heart had been racing, my vision blurred with concern, as if my brother could die within the three seconds it took to pay, run for my truck, and push the speedometer faster than I ever have.

I reach across and put my hand on his shoulder. His eyes open like he's just woken up from a nap, and his chest shudders as he sighs. He moves towards the door handle, but I intercept by clamping my hand around his wrist.

"Don't even think about it." The words come out harsher than I intend, but to my surprise, Soda doesn't even flinch. He quietly puts himself back against the seat, rolling his head towards me, and I see the exhaustion fogging his gaze again. I swing my door open and put one foot on the ground, but I force the water bottle in his hands and wait until he's at least opened it until I climb out into the open air.

Tulsa's summers normally burn my skin to nothing, but today, the sky is cloudy with rain. Soda's weary eyes focus on something beyond me as I reach for his hands, preparing to help him find the ground. I see pain cross his gaze at the way I tug him close, and I murmur a quick "I'm sorry" as his body mirrors mine. I can tell he's barely paying attention when I ask him, "You ready?"

His body screams with apprehension, and for a second, I forget that dust clogs his one lung at the way he turns his head away to cough into his shoulder. I let his body weight meld with my own as I lower him onto solid ground, and I'm reminded of that night all over again. That night when I hauled him over a hill, held his body like he was already gone, let my tears drop onto his unrecognizable face in an attempt to wash away the grit, the sorrow, the action he had just completed.

The front door closes behind us with a light click. The sound brings Soda's head off of my shoulder and trying to push off of me, but I hold him fiercely against my side. The bathroom light blinds me for a second as I illuminate the hallway and I hear Soda grunt in dissatisfaction. I lightly place him against the bathtub and start running water, testing the heat against my hand.

"You're taking a shower with me in here? Sometimes I worry about you."

I can't help but smile at his joke. I bend to his level and move my eyes up and down, and Soda rolls his eyes as he lifts his shirt over his head. I fight myself in helping him, knowing that he would just feel even more disappointment in himself. In recovery, even as slow as it's been, I don't want to put him through more than he's already done to himself.

It's the little things that tire him out the most and make me remorseful. Seeing his bruised chest and twisted rib cage will never get easier. Watching him crawl over the side of the bathtub will never make my heart break. It will never get me to close the shower curtain with him inside. Noticing how dark his eyes become, his face twisted in distrust in himself, will never get me to leave him.

We made that mistake once, and I pray to a God that only my parents believe in that we never do it again.