my cat plushie felt the same in my arms as it always has right now, as i’m calmly typing away, hearing the raindrops falling outside the window on a weekend afternoon. the rain’s gentle, and it used to rain so much back home i hardly noticed it. the cat’s here because it was the only one that fit in the suitcase, its flat build giving it its advantage.

fittingly, though uncreatively, he’s named flat derpy cat, or fdc.

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7824 miles away and three years ago, i held him in the same way, fervently typing away, hearing nothing but my own heartbeat on a weekday at four in the morning. it’s all i can do to continue, trying not to think, racing time before i’m trapped in my own glass jar again. maybe if i’m fast enough the anxiety wouldn’t consume me. from my peripheral i see silvery cotton strands from the breaking seam on the top of his head, illuminated by the moonlight outside. he soaks up the tears i produce, and i found it sort of comforting that he will now always have a part of me, he will always belong to me (comments) now. i think of space, of escape, sneakers on floor running, louder than the clock on the wall jeering at my insomnia. i could run,  jump, and leave this all for once and for all. something breaks free, close my eyelids with the wisp of the wind, and whispers to me that i could have. 

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and then it’s six in the morning, my alarm is ringing and there’s school.

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sleeping two hours has become a constant, and i was probably just a little stressed, my classmates would reckon, given my “star student” status with all my leadership positions toppled with academic stress. that was just who i was, collecting positions like trophies, never complacent with what i have. i was awake and attentive, and my teachers sighed, conflicted about whether they preferred me sleeping or distracting everyone else around me. 

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wait, sleeping? i was never the best at paying attention, sure, but it couldn’t have been something that was often enough that they would have noted it, right?

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i try to recall the past few months of my life and startlingly come up with only a few sporadic images. wet tiles of bathroom floors and walls closing in on me. panting, as though i’ve been running for miles, my heart screaming at me to just let it stop. maybe me actually trying to let that happen.

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the silver haired man and his counterpart that he’s so scared of because he created it and then lost control. i vaguely remember not understanding why he was scared. why would you be scared of a possibility?

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why wouldya be scared of vulnerability, of askin’ for help? my brain supplied. it slurs. it’s always slurred, word filled thoughts few and far in between, connections far too jumbled to be expressed that way.  

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i see him bent over a concoction of clear liquids in a vial, trying to pick one. everyone tells him to steer clear of the one with colours in it. he listens to the advice, and regrets it. 

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he probably has a name, but i don’t remember. i’ve never been good with names; it took me a month or so to distinguish between two of my friends, that’s normal for me. had i just forgotten that i’ve met them? that’s probably what happened right?

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that’s never what happened. 

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that wasn’t what happened that time i thought, and still think, i got lost alone on a metro line that went to a bus stop that i was so familiar with. that wasn’t what happened  when i lashed out at her and i swear i could remember the taste of blood in my mouth and her lying haplessly on the floor and my relief in thinking that was it i wouldn’t have to suffer anymore when i was eleven. 

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i’ve always had a clumsy existence. i barge into rooms and say things at the wrong time and flip over my exams too quickly that i almost always rip them. i walk into poles when i’m talking to my friends and simultaneously manage to slap someone because of how my hands are flying across too enthusiastically. one month ago i went kayaking with my friends with the explicit instruction to not go right towards the rocks and i went right towards the rocks and ended up with a plethora of cuts but a huge smile on my face at the end of it all. i am a child through and through, graceless and reckless, and filled to the brim with imagination.

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my memories, as it seems, only know of a clumsy existence too. because apparently i didn't even go anywhere that day and while the taste of my own blood was real i never fought back, because i thought they were my friends and i wouldn't ever think of betraying them by making them unhappy, even if it was at the cost of my own life. but i remember, oh so vividly.

 

was i intentionally making this harder for myself? no, because i had the ability to do something, myself, i despised not doing anything, i despised being weak, crying about the unfairness of life when nothing’s ever even constant, so why didn’t i? it didn’t make sense that what i remember was wrong, unless i’m actually going insane, but i didn’t like the idea everyone i knew pulling some elaborate prank by lying to me either. but then again, if i did it wouldn’t make sense for me to be so damn scared when i did get lost in that bus stop at two in the morning. it wouldn’t make sense for me to struggle with trusting anyone ever again ten years down the line.

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i cannot tell anyone, or ask anyone about the truth of my existence. these memories are clumsy and careless, but they are mine, and mine only, and i cannot begin to give them away, to let someone in,and try to untangle the mess i’ve made, because it is mine, and sharing almost feels a betrayal to my authenticity. like a part of what i experienced will have to change if i did say something. is that why i’m a pathological liar?

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my heart rate tells me that i’m currently scared. seriously, why am i scared? i’m not scared. i’m scared of being scared, now that’s just stupid. 

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maybe i’m not scared, just restless. because i did do something, i had to believe that, and i should be doing something now, actually, but before that learn to breathe and just stop, stop looming over the railings, you’re too short anyway, you coward, that’s not a solution. sit down, you’re in open space, if you cry right now nobody’s going to notice and even if they do that’s not out of character for you anyway, you crybaby. take off your glasses, head down, there you go, less stimulation, jeez you really should’ve learnt to deal with this by now.

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my vision is blurry and i stare back into a past that’s equally so, and the questioning doesn’t stop. i could have, i should have, i could, i could, i could. 

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you could have done something, she(?) says. i close my eyes and see silvery stars dancing across the galaxies, breaking space-time. 

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his name. his name is frederick douglas callahan. fdc. i startle, look up, overhears a conversation about my next chemistry class. my next chemistry class with a lab report due that i haven’t yet completed, because i picked a clear vial and regretted it.