61 days after...

I guess this time it was my fault, it was all my fault.

At first I tried to keep busy to put the thoughts aside, I tried not to fall, I tried, but it was hard to ignore the fact that everything went to shit.

Rais understood that I was trying my best not to go crazy.

But I did not make it, I was complete garbage, he was a complete angel, he did not even get angry when I yelled at him, because if he yelled at him, without meaning or real reasons, one day I even hit him, slapped him, I don't even remember why, we were both shocked, and I started crying, and I got even angrier, Why was I doing that?. We had looked at each other for a moment processing the situation until he smiled at me and with a really warm tone said: "This fine", I wanted to yell at him that no, that nothing was, and that nothing would ever be again and hit him again to wake him up from his stupid shitty illusion, but I felt terrible, I locked myself in my parents' room and for two days I did not go out, not even to eat, I had only dedicated myself to destroying the room and when I finished doing it, I regretted it and started crying again.

Why are you so crybaby?

Remembering that question from Rais made my mind go haywire.

I do not know...

When I left, he seemed to have waited for me to do it, because as soon as I opened the door he leaned out to see me, to scrutinize me, to check if I was hurt, I only saw the bruise on his cheek. I couldn't even apologize I just ran, like he was going to follow me, catch me and make me pay for what I had done, I did not return home for two weeks. During the day I would ride my bike through random places and at night I would hide in a corner of a bar surrounded by bottles, empty bottles of alcohol, I had never had as much as on those nights, I did not even like it, but it calmed me down and made me forget that I was going crazy. When I returned to the house (yes, the house, because it no longer felt like my house, it was not my house, it stopped being a home for me, now it was just a hiding place where two cockroaches tried to survive) I was surprised to see Rais arriving at the same time, he noticed me immediately and his eyes widened, I noticed the marks under his eyes and the coloration on his cheek looked better, he looked marrying, I had never seen him that way, his hair looked dull and disheveled, he wasn't even wearing his black sweatshirt, just a white t-shirt that highlighted his sick mood, he was a little pale, and I could only think:

You do not have a cold?.

He let go of the bike and I noticed the relief on his face. He began to approach me and his expression returned to one of concern, he stopped, and I knew he smelled my alcohol scent.

—Do you want to come in and talk?.

—You want to talk?—I looked at him incredulously.

—Anything so you don't go away again.

I just nodded and walked behind him. The inside of the house was warm and that caught my attention by feeling fucking welcome.

—Why is it hot in here?—we went to the kitchen.

—I lit the fireplace...—his voice was too soft, he put water to heat.

—What happened?—I was nervous about his tone.

—Do you want to take a shower before?.

I knew it was the kindest thing that could be and I just nodded to go to the bathroom seeing on the way, the fireplace in the living room lit.

I didn't want to take too long, but the water was so hot that it was impossible for me to hurry. I had the vague idea that I had everything ready for my arrival, maybe I knew that I would return or maybe I was just waiting for it, because being realistic, I thought that I would not return at some point, at least I not live.

I hated seeing myself in the mirror, I had dry skin and I didn't even have the usual blush on my cheeks, my freckles were dark and the roots of my hair were already making a difference in color. But still I didn't care, not like I should, I was making a mess of myself.

When I went down to the kitchen, the coffee cups were on the table and he was holding one of them in his hands with his eyes in the dark liquid, the afternoon sun had left a good atmosphere.

—How are you?—he looked at me.

—Well?—I didn't want it to sound like a question, but I felt like I said it with the intention of knowing if that would be the correct answer for him, that made him smile.

—Have you ever felt like this before?

—What do you mean?—I got defensive and didn't want to be like that, no more.

—Come and sit—He indicated the chair to me, and I noticed that he was squeezing the wall, half hidden from him.

—Do I look pathetic?—I sighed with a nervous laugh as I walked over to the chair to sit across from him.

—No, not at all... you look tired... somewhat disheveled and I don't know, normal?—He took a drink while I wrapped my hands around the warm cup—Although not like someone capable of destroying a room...

The guilt of destroying my parents' room fell on my shoulders again. Of course I had a reason, I suppose that of everything I did, it was the only thing that had an excuse, it was not really good or maybe it did not justify it, but something was, of course I would not tell him.

—Do you know what depression is?—he was too careful to say the words i almost smiled.

—It makes people blow their heads in other people's bathrooms—my answer surprised him—I know what you're trying to do, but I'm not a fucking depressive.

My aunt, my father's sister, had depression and blew her brains out in the bathroom at my grandfather's house at Christmas when I was eight. I remember seeing her cry a lot, and when he committed suicide my father cried, I suppose that since then he had not cried again because of some silly thought of not worrying my father, of course he was gone and my aunt's body was dust. I think I was crying everything that had contained.

—Do you know what happens?—He placed his hands on the side of the table and I thought he would throw her against me—...Why are you so afraid of me?—the annoyance was noted in his voice and I tried to leave but he got up first—I have never insulted you, I did not yell at you and less hit you Why are you afraid of me? A moment ago you looked like a wounded deer behind the wall and now it seems that you are looking death a the face... I have not done anything to you, you make me feel bad for things that I have not done, I am not going to attack you...

He had a reason, he had it, it was the only thing that had a legitimate excuse, he justified it, of course he wouldn't tell him. But I was being unfair to him.

—I've been looking for you all this time—He told me—Today I gave you up for dead—that hurt, because maybe for a few minutes he would have had reason to think about it—I was thinking of blowing my brains out until I saw you, so tell me ... do you think I could hurt you?

I didn't even think about it:

—No...