Brain Sad
Chapter Six
Harper felt it strange to be back here, striding purposefully across the empty quad. The emptiness of the university was both comforting and distressing simultaneously. Comfort consumed her as she knew she would have to deal with the stares and the wide berths given to those with Depression. Harper thanked god for summer holidays. But the distress dug at her skin as she felt like the last person on earth, wandering aimlessly in a world she had once known. It was like her café dream all over again, but real. She shivered, despite the glaring heat and tossed her long, raven coloured hair away from her face.
Nimbly, she trotted up the steps and pushed open the double doors which led into the administration office. She lowered her head and darted her way past the gaggle of office secretaries who were clacking away at their keyboards, most likely playing Solitaire. Making it past them undetected, she made her way to the large staircase that led towards the locker she had become so familiar with. She almost ran up them, regretting it once she reached the top as her lungs screamed at her and her head began to throb. Shaking it off, she walked down the hall until she came to the shiny metal of the small rectangle door.
With ease, she twiddled with the combination lock and swung the locker open. She rummaged around inside, pulling things out and piling them into the black garbage bag she carried with her. She threw in textbook after textbook for the classes that she would no longer be attending. They piled into the bag, each thud confirming what Harper already knew. She was dead.
Not in the six feet under kind of way, but more like we-better-start-thinking-about-calling-insurance-line-for-funeral-services kind of way. Harper didn’t know how she felt when she thought about this. There were the obvious reactions. Sadness, anger, resentment. But there was more; the feelings that lay under the surface of the others. Fear, curiosity, hope.
She did not fear death itself. She figured that when it got closer to the end, the illness would have created such a rift between her sick self and her real self that death would come as a relief. What she feared was this limbo she seemed to be drifting within. Not knowing which category she fell into. Was she living or dead? While her heart was still beating she felt as if she had a stamp on her forehead that read ‘CONFIRMED DECEASED’ in bold red letters. And while it was true that all life ended in death, this felt different. She knew on such a different level that she was going to die. Her life had an almost exact time limit. One to two years if she continued to take Cerdepitol and her daily dosage of luck. And all these thoughts of whether she lived or was not much more than a walking, talking corpse led to curiosity.
She found that knowing you were destined to die in x amount of time enhanced one’s natural curiosity for what lay beyond the living world. Harper had never been religious. She had never set foot in a church other than weddings and funerals and, to be perfectly honest, the whole concept of religion escaped her. But now, faced with death leering so close, she wondered. She often found herself sitting upon the swing set within the hospital garden, musing over what would become of her. Would she find herself standing before the so called pearly gates that were always portrayed as gold? Or would she find herself reincarnated as a sea cucumber? Perhaps she really would spend the afterlife stuck in an empty café drinking nothing but black coffee. This caused her to shudder and she began to hope.
Hope was the worst of the three. She much preferred fear for she could handle that. But hope? Hope lead to much more than physical pain, but just like the other emotions that came with being diagnosed with Depression, she couldn’t stop herself from feeling it. Sometimes it came in the tiniest glimmer, like the twinkle in the eye of a wise old man. But other times it consumed her. And it wasn’t always the hope that she may live. The hope that they might develop a cure before the lid of her coffin completely shut. No. It was often the hope that her death would be easy. The hope that she wouldn’t be trapped in an empty café for all eternity. The hope that her mum would have someone to help her deal with the agony of outliving her only child. The hope that people would remember her as she had been, not what the illness made her.
Harper rubbed her forehead absent-mindedly and reached into the very back of her locker, feeling around within its dark hollow for anything else she needed to get rid of. Finally, her fingertips found a piece of paper that felt glossy. She gripped it between thumb and forefinger and pulled it forth, seeing now that it was a slightly crinkled photograph. And she cursed herself as she felt hot tears brim in her eyes, angry she had broken her promise not to cry.
It was not a deeply sentimental photo, nor was it a display of masterful photography, but its depiction of herself and her friends was enough to make the throbbing in her head dull as the ache in her heart intensified. She ran the base of her thumb across the wrinkled surface, lingering on each face a little, as if she were trying to commit each to memory. The breath caught in her throat as she realised that she was already beginning to forget them as they were beginning to forget her.
Harper found she couldn’t remember the voices of the people who had been her closest friends. It was funny what a few months of absence could do. The mannerisms, the personal jokes, the freedom felt when in their company were slowly slipping away. Harper knew she was going to lose her family, her friends and even herself, but she had thought this would be when she finally died. If she had of known that the separation began with the diagnoses, she would have prepared herself the best she could for this period of unknowing.
And she realised her mum was all she had left. Everybody else had turned tail and run. Whether it was her friends because they were too scared and didn’t know what to do or her dad because...well who knows why he left. The pain in Harper’s chest intensified as she thought of her dad. It was strange how you could miss someone you barely knew. Her heart beat faster and it dawned on her that it was no longer due to nostalgia and loss, but because of her Depression.
She gripped her chest and sucked in long breaths that rattled in her lungs which were working hard to get oxygen. Too hard. Slamming her locker door closed, she grabbed the garbage bag full of her Pre-Illness life and headed towards the stairs. She made it to the bottom before she collapsed in the administration office.
Wow, she thought, how long until I make this a part of my daily routine?
And then the blackness swallowed her.
Nimbly, she trotted up the steps and pushed open the double doors which led into the administration office. She lowered her head and darted her way past the gaggle of office secretaries who were clacking away at their keyboards, most likely playing Solitaire. Making it past them undetected, she made her way to the large staircase that led towards the locker she had become so familiar with. She almost ran up them, regretting it once she reached the top as her lungs screamed at her and her head began to throb. Shaking it off, she walked down the hall until she came to the shiny metal of the small rectangle door.
With ease, she twiddled with the combination lock and swung the locker open. She rummaged around inside, pulling things out and piling them into the black garbage bag she carried with her. She threw in textbook after textbook for the classes that she would no longer be attending. They piled into the bag, each thud confirming what Harper already knew. She was dead.
Not in the six feet under kind of way, but more like we-better-start-thinking-about-calling-insurance-line-for-funeral-services kind of way. Harper didn’t know how she felt when she thought about this. There were the obvious reactions. Sadness, anger, resentment. But there was more; the feelings that lay under the surface of the others. Fear, curiosity, hope.
She did not fear death itself. She figured that when it got closer to the end, the illness would have created such a rift between her sick self and her real self that death would come as a relief. What she feared was this limbo she seemed to be drifting within. Not knowing which category she fell into. Was she living or dead? While her heart was still beating she felt as if she had a stamp on her forehead that read ‘CONFIRMED DECEASED’ in bold red letters. And while it was true that all life ended in death, this felt different. She knew on such a different level that she was going to die. Her life had an almost exact time limit. One to two years if she continued to take Cerdepitol and her daily dosage of luck. And all these thoughts of whether she lived or was not much more than a walking, talking corpse led to curiosity.
She found that knowing you were destined to die in x amount of time enhanced one’s natural curiosity for what lay beyond the living world. Harper had never been religious. She had never set foot in a church other than weddings and funerals and, to be perfectly honest, the whole concept of religion escaped her. But now, faced with death leering so close, she wondered. She often found herself sitting upon the swing set within the hospital garden, musing over what would become of her. Would she find herself standing before the so called pearly gates that were always portrayed as gold? Or would she find herself reincarnated as a sea cucumber? Perhaps she really would spend the afterlife stuck in an empty café drinking nothing but black coffee. This caused her to shudder and she began to hope.
Hope was the worst of the three. She much preferred fear for she could handle that. But hope? Hope lead to much more than physical pain, but just like the other emotions that came with being diagnosed with Depression, she couldn’t stop herself from feeling it. Sometimes it came in the tiniest glimmer, like the twinkle in the eye of a wise old man. But other times it consumed her. And it wasn’t always the hope that she may live. The hope that they might develop a cure before the lid of her coffin completely shut. No. It was often the hope that her death would be easy. The hope that she wouldn’t be trapped in an empty café for all eternity. The hope that her mum would have someone to help her deal with the agony of outliving her only child. The hope that people would remember her as she had been, not what the illness made her.
Harper rubbed her forehead absent-mindedly and reached into the very back of her locker, feeling around within its dark hollow for anything else she needed to get rid of. Finally, her fingertips found a piece of paper that felt glossy. She gripped it between thumb and forefinger and pulled it forth, seeing now that it was a slightly crinkled photograph. And she cursed herself as she felt hot tears brim in her eyes, angry she had broken her promise not to cry.
It was not a deeply sentimental photo, nor was it a display of masterful photography, but its depiction of herself and her friends was enough to make the throbbing in her head dull as the ache in her heart intensified. She ran the base of her thumb across the wrinkled surface, lingering on each face a little, as if she were trying to commit each to memory. The breath caught in her throat as she realised that she was already beginning to forget them as they were beginning to forget her.
Harper found she couldn’t remember the voices of the people who had been her closest friends. It was funny what a few months of absence could do. The mannerisms, the personal jokes, the freedom felt when in their company were slowly slipping away. Harper knew she was going to lose her family, her friends and even herself, but she had thought this would be when she finally died. If she had of known that the separation began with the diagnoses, she would have prepared herself the best she could for this period of unknowing.
And she realised her mum was all she had left. Everybody else had turned tail and run. Whether it was her friends because they were too scared and didn’t know what to do or her dad because...well who knows why he left. The pain in Harper’s chest intensified as she thought of her dad. It was strange how you could miss someone you barely knew. Her heart beat faster and it dawned on her that it was no longer due to nostalgia and loss, but because of her Depression.
She gripped her chest and sucked in long breaths that rattled in her lungs which were working hard to get oxygen. Too hard. Slamming her locker door closed, she grabbed the garbage bag full of her Pre-Illness life and headed towards the stairs. She made it to the bottom before she collapsed in the administration office.
Wow, she thought, how long until I make this a part of my daily routine?
And then the blackness swallowed her.