Breathing Has Got Too Hard

“Now Ben, you keep this number in your wallet, anytime you feel the need to hurt yourself or worse, you call it, okay?”

I sat with my arms crossed over my chest staring up at the redheaded nurse who had relentlessly patronised me since I‘d woken from the coma. Just because I wanted to die didn’t mean I was retarded.

I just nodded at her, then averted my eyes to the floor, where I couldn’t see anybody’s concerned expressions. I couldn’t stand it. I felt like a failure, not a sympathy case or a victim. I couldn’t even kill myself properly. What kind of weak fuck can’t kill themselves? You’d think after a 3rd attempt you’d finally put yourself out of your endless misery, but apparently not.

The nurse, who I couldn’t care to remember the name of despite the amount of times she’d dealt with me, placed the number on my knee and patted it, before standing up straight and straightening her blue uniform out.

“Right, well now I can let you go. I don’t want to see you here again Ben okay? You’ve got your whole life to live yet.” Her squeaky voice went through me like nails scraping a chalkboard. I flashed her a moody glance and nodded. “Good. Stay positive Ben,”

I shoved the number in my jeans pocket and stood up and walked out of the room, finally breaking free from the hospital I hated with a passion. I slowly trudged down the corridor, the sound of my mother’s voice talking to the nurse slowly getting quieter.

“He’s such a smart…talented boy….I wish he would….Since Andrew was killed…He needs a friend….”

Yeah, whatever. I just wanted to be left alone.

*

“I’m not going to lecture you, it’s okay,” My mum said as she climbed into the drivers seat of the car next to me. I stayed silent, staring forward, slowly scratching the back of my hand.

“Stop that, Ben!” Mum exclaimed, slapping my hand away from the other. “Ben I’m begging you. Stop this. Can’t you see what it’s doing to me? To us? We promised your Dad we’d stay strong! I lost my husband, and by God I don’t want to lose my son as well…”

“I thought you said you weren’t going to lecture me,” I finally piped up, voice croaking from not speaking for a few days.

She sighed, and lay her head back onto the seat. “I’m sorry, love. I just can’t go through that again. The thought of losing you, I can’t bear it.”

I stared into her dark green eyes, as they glistened in the faint October daylight. I hated how I was hurting her, but I was almost immune to it. I was so selfish that I didn’t care what effect I was having on other people.

She took a deep breath, and she turned her head so her eyes met mine. My eyes darted away, a pang of shame piercing my chest.

“Do you want to get a pizza tonight?” She asked, her voice softened. Still looking down, I just nodded, staring at the seams on my jeans. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her nod, and start the car. And I swore I saw a tear fall down her cheek. I couldn’t bare to face it.

*

The ride home was silent, and even stopping off at Dominoes pizza was as silent as it could be. As I breathed in the smell of the meat feast pizza I’d ordered as Mum put it on the back seat, I suddenly didn’t feel so hungry anymore. As if my stomach just swelled as soon as I was faced with food.

Minutes later we arrived at our house, which was falling to pieces and rough around the edges, and in a shitty council estate in York, but it was the only place I felt vaguely safe, funnily enough.

I wasn’t particularly welcome around here considering the way I looked, caramel coloured hair covering my eyes, usually messy these days, a lip ring, always dressed in ripped jeans with my trademark huge holes in the knees. And not forgetting my Skid Row t-shirts. They were always a hit with the chav pricks around here. I was pretty much immune to them too, though. You sort of get used to their taunts when they don’t extend much further than “ergh mosher”.

I sat down at the wooden kitchen table taking the pizza box from my mother and opening it. I picked up a piece as the cheese stretched out in strings attached to the rest of the pizza. I took a small bite, as I could feel my mother watching me.

She always did watch me eat, to make sure I was actually eating. I was rarely hungry, loss of appetite was common. As I felt the hot cheese slide down my throat, I felt more compelled to eat. As I took another bite, I saw mum crack a small smile within my peripheral vision. I at least had to make her happy in some way, no matter how small.