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Won’t you Stay Awhile?

By @orchidneedstosleep

TW: Alcoholism, substance abuse

The visitor slips her shoes on at the entrance of the abandoned building, the moonlight dancing in her dark eyes as she waves goodbye. Midnight winds comb through her hair, but the recipient of her bittersweet farewell remains untouched by the weather. Waves of pink hair remain in stasis, just like the rest of their body. When they wave back, they turn to peer out of the window. Looking straight at the moon as she walks down the steps, their eyes remain void, unable to reflect its silver splendor.At first, the night was wondrous. The fireflies would dance along with them, feet falling in tandem with blinking light like the fairy lights in their room. They’d belt out songs with poorly recalled lyrics. No one was there to judge, and no neighbours were there to complain about the noise volume.
But now, the dark is unbearable.The fireflies buzz, their light overwhelmingly bright. Fatigue begins to settle in, causing dancing to not be painful, per se, but a sensation as close to pain as it can possibly be for the dweller. Unable to sleep. Unable to distract themselves from the curse of having an immortal body, and imprisoned within their mind. A constant carousel of self hate, regret and melancholy, they edge closer to the capsule by the window.Only for their fingers to slip right through it.But of course, that is natural for an apparition like Jic Mera, for they are no longer amongst the living.Unable to interact with the world. Unable to engage in hobbies and vices that would calm the waves of their ever-turbulent mind, they hang on to visitors at their shrine. Offerings, company, cheerful ‘hello’s and crestfallen ‘goodbye’s are now all that sustain the apparition. But what can satiate a being that couldn’t be full from drugs and alcohol.Withdrawal haunts them, clinging like a second skin as nightfall’s empty symphony permeates across the shrine. Waves of chills and tremors rack their body as they pace and try to ground themselves.They thought that death wouldn’t be so different to the life they had led. A partially correct assumption. Nights spent floating in empty melancholy washed down with pills and chased up with a shot of liquor is nothing foreign. But the inability to touch, to feel, to find anything to hold onto as the world contorts and bursts into bright kaleidoscopic colours has them on the edge.Death was supposed to be quiet, just like their passing. But instead, the scars that they expected to depart from and leave behind in the living world puppeteer their every action. Jic’s tremors remain, the path of bile remains burning away at their throat despite having eaten nothing. And because they are no longer alive, there is no pill, no drink to settle their symptoms. No reprieve from their decaying body……Except their visitors.In life, Jic found comfort being around people. Not necessarily during conversations, as sometimes words came out jumbled, or jokes slightly off the mark, but the presence of being in a community was a temporary safe haven. Shared laughter, small actions of kindness, and a sense of belonging: how they wished that they had cherished them now that they remain in isolation. Energy that could have been gained from giggly exchanges over cake are now depleted in the apparition, their empty gaze staring out the window as the stars mercilessly beam down at them.It is winter now. For the comfort of the humans, they’ve taken up a nearby abandoned shrine to haunt instead of their gravestone only a few meters away. They spot it in the corner of their eye and turn away, shame roaring in their heart. It’s always easier in the summer. More people visit their loved ones and leave flowers for the other graves too, including Jic’s. But in the winter, only a few make their way out into the plains.Without sleep, sanity ebbs away at their still-human soul. Flashes of the moonlight remind them of the hospital ceiling, the crickets resembling the frantic beating of a heart monitor that slowly flatlines. The only taste that lingers in their mouth is that of bitter, bitter alcohol. Jic almost wonders if their fate was doomed by their own design. But if the chaos that entangles their train of thought, planting seeds of doubt that bloom into sharp thorns of self-hate, how could they have lived on without something to muffle them?At first, the alcohol was in moderation. Small shots here and there, limited to the silent nights that befell their apartment. It was nice to finally feel lighter, to stop their own voice in their head from driving them insane. They found themselves glowing and beaming whenever they came in contact with a mirror, dancing to silly jingles of advertisements that blared on the TV, giggling at cat photos on their phone. It was fun. It was fun to be normal, to actually find joy in doing menial things instead of having to justify to themselves that they deserved to be happy.But eventually, a few shots became a bottle. Smiles in the mirror descended to hearty cackles over a stupid joke in a soap opera, waltzing across the kitchen resulted in bruises that were only noticed in the morning, and even sleep claimed them in their euphoric, buzzing state.Bottles during the night now started to chase up to them into the daylight. No one likes a hangover, so why not have one more drink? Surely, that’ll do no harm, right? But as they begin to stumble into sidewalks, with clothes sizes going down from the lack of nutrition, smiles from friends become less welcoming and almost fearful, almost as if their joy was a source of discomfort from them. Was their happiness detrimental to other people? Why could they live their lives, whilst Jic had to rely on a vice to do the exact same things that they did? Was their friendship even worth it if all it did was make them guilty for being joyful for once?For a small fraction of a month, Jic decided to tone it down. Alcohol thrown out in favour of keeping their friends. Eventually, the coffee dates began to increase in frequency, but irritation began to propagate, racking their body like the cold sweats that keep them awake at night. How could they be better when they were so, so tired? Their words slow, syllables so drawn out it is as if time is running through honey. Their body weakens, just as it did under the influence. How could Jic’s gaze linger on the mug in front of them without longing for it to be alcohol?At least with something burning down their throat, they could at least function. Jic stares out of the cafe window, wondering why they’re punishing themselves for the sake of being ‘normal’.That night, in their apartment, they stare at the wall in deep contemplation, fairy lights flickering amidst the starlight. ‘I shouldn’t touch another bottle’ becomes ‘I need to do something about my symptoms’ to ‘I don’t want to wake up like this again’. Eventually, exhausted and broken, they reach for an unopened can of beer, fishing it out of the bin and chucking it down like a man parched.Relief mixes with immense, deep-seated guilt, and to chase it away they down one more. The pit in their stomach only becomes heavier, almost feeling as if it were dragging their body down into the depth of deprivation. Another drink would help them rise to the surface… Right?They try to turn on the TV to distract them once more, but even still, they look to the side, disinterested and unwilling to commit to the show. The sinking sensation of nothingness ebbs and flows, eroding away at their psyche and weakening it with temptation, regret and sorrow.The sunlight bleeds through the blinds, oppressively splitting their eyelids open until they are face to face with the day. They can barely get to the bathroom before last night’s lack of festivities gets flushed down the toilet, leaving a horrible pinprick sensation in the back of their throat.Never again. The alcohol didn’t even help this time, so they weren’t going to touch another drop, and instead find another solution.Jic, in all their years of living, never liked the doctor’s clinic. The receptionists are never friendly. They barely make eye contact as they direct them to sit in the corner. They do, looking down at their put together outfit and smoothing the skirt out on the chair. Perhaps it would have been better to look and present themselves in a way that represents how sick they feel, but the judging eyes of the doctor would be too embarrassing for them to bear. They walk into the consultation room, the doctor’s listless eyes looking them up and down, focusing on the dark circles under their bright pink eyes, only intensifying the dull purple of flesh beneath it.The doctor barely lets Jic speak, cutting them off halfway through their presenting complaint to hand them a flyer with an Alcoholic Help Support Group and a prescription for the pharmacy, turning away from their crestfallen expression. They tentatively bring up the fatigue and depression before the alcoholism, but the doctor stares at their watch, ushering them out to finish their appointment.What a waste of money.Nevertheless, they clutch the flyer, looking at the front cover with a young man surrounded by friends, smiling and basking in the liquid gold of the sun. Could they become what he is? Or would fatigue drive them six feet underground? Maybe the doctor was right, nutrition and pills would try and turn everything around. They could do it, they could be happy, and they’d do it using their own skills!But when they look down the prices of fresh vegetables, their hands tremble. Perhaps the vitamin section would be more affordable? Alas, that is not the case. Instead, they buy a mint plant, hoping that the large bag disguises the thing they’ll get from the next place they head to: the pharmacy.Their ears burn with embarrassment as the pharmacist repeats the prescription meds out loud. As she dips below the counter to check, Jic freezes as they hear the words ‘happy pills’ being uttered, sending a shock of dread through their body.The shame of having to rely on meds to function scorches their body, and the demeaning look the pharmacist gives that as they take the bag of medication is immortalised in their memory as a source of deep humiliation.They saunter back home, eyes beginning to close and feet beginning to drag. Eyes begin to brim with tears, they fumble with the keys to the door and sob. Not for any particular grievances, but Jic, through heaving sobs, is so tired of being… tired, that they feel as if their situation is hopeless. An amalgamation of malaise, despair and desperation makes them look at the fridge with unease. How could they revert back to alcohol, knowing that it didn’t work the last time? How could they put themselves through that whole ordeal again, how could they face the shame?But how could they let themselves wake up in that state again? How could they keep living like this?Their hands edge towards the cold handle, burning with contempt as they look at the bottle.They tried.They really, really, tried.And if there was nothing left to do, then it really can’t be helped.The last thing Jic remembers before passing out is the flyer the doctor gave them, their fingertips brush the glossy finished paper before their head lulls into the couch.Jic doesn’t even remember picking up more beer from the corner store the next day. They sit at their dining table and trace the flyer, the young man surrounded by people, and sunlight.
They could still have that life, even without quitting, right?They could still go out there, why should they hide away? This is the happiest Jic has ever been, the most euphoric they’ll ever feel, so why do they have to stay home when they can make new friends?Friends who can at least accept them when they put themselves first instead of society’s pointless, stupid rules. Who cares if they’re drunk on a Tuesday morning? Who are they to judge? Jic doesn’t judge anyone else for their shortcomings, so they should surround themselves with people who don’t stare at them strangely as they stumble through the day.It’s that belief that leads them to a bar. Jic is no stranger to them, but in a state where they can barely tell the difference between stage lights and traffic ones, it is an experience. Music blares, and instead of the bass writhing in their head, it adds a pep to their step. Jic feels life rush through their veins once more. More and more people join, the heat from the crowd enveloping them in warmth and lighthearted giddiness.As they’re dragged to a booth by a giggling young girl with bright red hair, the image of the flyer flashes through their head once more. Jic sits with people, laughing away amidst the chaos, the golden light of the bar threading through their pink hair and acting as a halo. And they didn’t even need to quit.The group only chuckled as Jic whined about how drunk they were, and then raised their glasses to join them in their insobriety. No judgement, no strange looks. This is what they wanted all along. Jic stumbles home with five new phone numbers in their phone and a fuzzy, warm feeling in their heart. They water their plant and head to sleep.One meetup becomes another, biweekly drinks almost every day, with all five people begging Jic to come over. As time went on, the fuzzy feeling was replaced by yet another pit in their stomach. The pills began to work, and they felt happier, more awake, yet so empty that they could not bear to function anymore.It was a bad idea to have the ‘happy pills’ and alcohol at the same time. But if the pills made them able to wake up without dreading the next day, only to feel hollow, and on autopilot all day, then maybe the alcohol would help. It’s not like they’re recreational drugs, they’re trying to help, but they’re doing a little too good of a job numbing them instead of helping. It’s just a little stimulation, right?What more could Jic lose?Three shots, and Jic swears that they’ll never do it ever again. Their eyes water, head going into overdrive as their body shakes, unable to comprehend what to do with itself. It’s all too much, all at once.Jic wants to leave, but after some coercion, they sober up through the morning and try one more time.But time, and the state of their body acts as a turning point. Months into their drinking stupor, Jic feels more weak, more foreign in the flesh of their own body, more scattered and unstable. Their throat burns and aches, the repeated vomiting causing them to start passing drops of blood too. Confusion takes root, and in a drunken daze, Jic repeats their cycle of drinking at home, at a bar, sleeping, throwing up and then drinking once more.It’s this, over, and over again: a cycle of wanting more, wanting to stop, and wanting to be able to live without being sustained by a substance that’s slowly killing them, even though it is supposed to be their lifeline. They stare at the now dying mint plant, wondering if they too, deserve to wilt. They must have, because this was their fault for not being normal. For not stopping. For seeking help and still wanting it even though they had been brushed aside.Jic brushes their finger across the greying plant, rough vegetation feeling like thorns as they feel their eyes drooping.They deserve to wilt.

And they do, eventually. Not because the alcohol or the drugs caught up, but the doubts, guilt and despair settled so deep into their flesh that the only way Jic could escape was by breaking out. Like a butterfly tearing desperately from its chrysalis, Jic would finally be able to be free from the feeling of their fading body and mind, blooming like the mint plant that lies dead in their hand as they take their final breath…The sun flows into the horizon, the apparition watching it rise and ascend into a sea of blue.Footsteps clack against the stone steps leading to the abandoned building, and although they swore not to act so excitable the next time a visitor came, their joy completely overwhelms them and they bound towards the door with a bright smile.With people, Jic can at least be seen and be heard. This visitor in particular brings a board game, and although Jic cannot touch it, the visitor moves their piece around for them. The sound of dice rolling against the shrine floor is drowned out by laughter, the sunlight flooding through the open windows and doors.Soon enough, another visitor begins to make their way up the winding stoney steps. They take a curious glance at the dilapidated shrine, and the laughter emitted from it. Jic and the visitor leap up to greet them, rushing to the doorway with grins on their faces. As the evening goes on, more and more people join the tabletop game. The fireflies begin to invite themselves in, the cool evening doing nothing to quell the warmth of all the people crowded around the shrine.Another visitor peers in, and Jic slinkers across the small crowd as they slip their shoes off at the entrance. The moonlight splays out behind them, reaching towards the visitor with a gentle smile:“Welcome. Won’t you stay awhile?”