Through The Cemetery Backyards

Thanks to Herr Fucking Ackermann I am now on pills, and will be for the next six weeks or longer, depending on my state. He told me it’s just something to calm my nerves, but I don’t really see a reason big enough to start giving me fucking medication. I am not anxious and I don’t have a tendency to self destruct; I’m just blind, that’s it. And not the metaphoric blind, not the type that John Lennon (who I notice myself mentioning too often). Just really, really fucking blind. And who doesn’t get depressed from time to time? Really, there’s nothing to get so excited or worked up about.

One good thing about this place is having Frank spend time with me as I wait for my turn, which usually takes about an hour, if not more (the therapist really isn’t good with his schedules). He’s always there, and he’s been really supportive for the whole time. But he’s supportive in an odd way, not like others- he supports silently, but I still feel like he’s very, very close, much closer than anybody else, even my own mother. He doesn’t point out my defect, he doesn’t tell me just how sorry he feels for me and how much I don’t deserve the life I have. He treats me like a normal person, and that’s the attitude I crave and don’t get enough of.

Even though I’m glad that I don’t have to go through the therapy all alone, I can’t help but wonder: how much time does Frank spend at the hospital? He arrives before me, and leaves (assuming that he doesn’t live on the chair outside Ackermann’s office) after me, every single day. He doesn’t speak of his suicidal friend and I never ask, it’s too personal to even discuss with your family, leave alone some blind dude at the hospital, but I just really, really want to know. One thing I’m sure of is, if Frank takes his time waiting for him every single day of the week, that guy must be pretty fucking great. And Frank must be a pretty fucking amazing person if he’s able to put up with an ill person’s shit for longer than a week. Really, there aren’t that many people who are going to willingly jump into helping their suicidal friend upon finding out that they have a ‘little problem’. Most, if not all, just leave in one way or another. Some might leave the next day, others will take several years, slowly, carefully disappearing from their life, trying to make it look like a simple “dropping out of contact”. And that, kids, is how suicide happens. The depressed person is left alone and has no one to talk to in his worst moments; isolation crushes onto him like a block of cement, and the next thing you know, he is hung up to the ceiling, his feet dangling above the floor. A simple conversation could have helped him.

Human mindset is rarely beautiful. It’s odd, strange, unforgiving. It takes one small mistake, one wrong word and you’re dead to the rest of the society, maybe forever. They might hate you for reasons that are out of your control- a physical disability, appearance, race, sexuality, but who cares if it’s fair or not? Who’s going to stand up for you while you are being shoved into a locker? That’s right, no one. Everyone goes through their struggles alone. It seems like the motto of the humanity is ‘share your happiness with the people around you, but drown in your own tears’. ‘Saviors’ are very, very rare, and have always been, because beautiful people aren’t just born out of nowhere. You aren’t born kind and sympathetic. It takes breaking, suffering, humiliation and hatred to be able to be sensitive towards others and love the people around you, even if the feeling is not going to be mutual. It takes pain to understand the pain of others.

The scarred ones are the ones you always seek help from. No one else is going to pick you up.

Frank is one of the saviors, the beautiful people. I can’t help but wonder what he has been through to achieve this. A lot, probably. A lot of breaking and suffering, blood and bruises. Unfortunately (or fortunately, I am not sure yet) I can’t read minds, so it’s up to him whether to share them or keep them inside. But would I want to live with the knowledge of his past pain, knowing just how much life has taken from him? Probably not, the weight would be too heavy.

“Hey, Gerard!” Frank’s voice calls out for me and I stop in the middle of the hallway, trying to detect the exact direction where the voice is coming from. My mom trusts Frank, so she only drives me to the hospital and picks me up several hours later, leaving us alone. I think she just wants me to communicate with someone my age, that’s it.

I can’t help but let my lips tug upwards in a smile, and I take a short step forward before feeling the familiar grip on my elbow. The fingers hold me tightly.

“Here, let me help you,” Frank murmurs next to my ear, carefully guiding me. His free hand rests on my back, slightly pushing me forward.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling his hair tickle my cheek. See, this is a beautiful person. Anyone else would have just let me walk on by myself, maybe occasionally yelling out something like “careful, there’s a bag on the floor!” or “turn right!”. This seems like a small thing, but when you think about it, it’s huge.

“No problem. You’re 15 minutes late,” he informs me as he sets me onto a free chair, slumping down onto another one by my left side. His arm presses tightly into mine. I’d call this an invasion of personal space but right now, I don’t really mind. We’re friends.

“You were counting?” I ask, facing the direction of his voice.

“It was very lonely, I was scared you wouldn’t come,” he replies and I feel him shrug.

“I have no choice, have you seen my mother?” I grimace and lower my voice several tones down, putting on a thick Russian accent and emphasizing on the Rs. ‘Oh no dear child, you’re in fever? Sorry, not an excuse!’

Frank explodes in a laugh, his whole body shaking up next to me and I nicker together with him.

“Oh dear, dear child, is this your funeral? Sorry, I can’t cancel an appointment!” he manages to press out of himself in between the laughs, dragging a long breath.

“That’s what actually happened,” I grin, feeling light, like a feather; comfortable. We stay quiet for a moment, enjoying the silence, and I just can’t tug the smile off my lips. I listen to the sounds of the hallway, imagining what the place and the people look like. There is quiet murmuring around me, everyone seems to be busy with something. A small kid is crying in the distance, and a girl on my right is talking to some Josh, discussing a high school dance on Friday. Seeing as he doesn’t reply, she’s probably on her phone. Or a schizophrenic; this is, after all, a mental hospital. There is a faint, almost non-existent smell of medicine poisoning the air.

“Hey, I wanted to give you something,” Frank suddenly utters, pulling me out of my thoughts. He shuffles around and the chair creaks under him. Finally he settles back, his knee brushing past mine as he turns for the last time. “Give me your hand” he asks. I oblige without a second thought and immediately put out my hand, the palm facing up. Frank places his hand under mine, holding it in place and pulling me closer to him. Suddenly something light and sharp touches my palm and Frank slowly lets go of me.

“Don’t crumble it, “ he warns and I realise that it’s a small piece of paper. I hold it in between my fingers, confused.

“Run your fingers over it,” Frank suggests, probably noticing my reaction. I do as I’m told, and immediately feel small bumps on the smooth surface. Braille. It’s several numbers written in Braille.

I lift my head up at him, still not sure what’s going on.

“It’s- it’s my phone number, haha,” Frank mumbles and I nod in understanding. “I figured you aren’t going to come here till the rest of your life, and I’d like to keep contact. You’re cool,” he finishes. I can’t help but grin at him.

“How did you make this?”

“Looked up Braille on Google and then poked through the paper with a pencil. I know, very creative,”

“Very,” I agree, smiling and this little piece of paper which means so much.

“And I was thinking… if your mom lets you, do you wanna come by my place sometime? We could just listen to music and chat, if you’d like,”

“I don’t think she’d mind,”

“Great. You’ll call me later then, right?”

“Sure,”

Notes

Sorry this took so long, all my updates are kind of slow right now.

Sorry that this chapter is kind of short, it was supposed to be longer but I decided that that way it would be an overload of information.