The frame sits on one side of your desk, protecting your most prized possession. You remember the day the picture had been taken, on one of the family holidays when you were both kids. Oh, how you wish you could go back there. Back to that time when you were younger, free and unburdened by the worries that plague you now. Before any of the craziness that's unfolded recently had occurred. You wish you could go back to when you were blissfully oblivious and unaware of the demons that have been around all along. Looking back, you’re not quite sure how you could have missed them.
You gaze at the picture awhile, studying the features you share, noticing especially those you both inherited from your mother- dark hair and eyes, stark against milky skin. For you, that’s where the similarities stop. But your sibling inherited more than that. They also got to share in the monsters that mislead our mother's mind. The all-consuming demons that leave her so deeply troubled. The ones that haunt her every moment and turn her every dream into a nightmare.
Their demons have them convinced that the demons don’t exist at all. And yet, the demons taint their every thought, a constant threat hissing in their ears. The demons are always there, influencing all they do. They've always been there, for as long as you can remember, like constant companions. Back then, you were just too young to know about them, but you know better now. You were too innocent to notice the flashes that would pass by their eyes like lightning, present only for a brief second. Although, you've never had any idea what the demons do, only that it corrupts them. If you could get into their heads, hear what words the demons whispered, know what ran through their minds, maybe you might have half a chance of getting to the bottom of all this.
You wonder why you can see the demons so clearly when the rest of your family are so blind to their existence. How can they not see? How can they not understand that the demons are why everything feels so hard all the time? That the demons are the reason every step feels like trudging through quicksand? But then, it’s hard to see something clinging to your back without a mirror. You’ve offered to hold up a mirror so they can see for themselves, many times. But they always decline. “Thank you,” they say, “but I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me.” Their eyes pierce yours, searching. As if they’ll find the answer hidden somewhere there. As if the problem lies not with them, but with you.
"I've had enough of 'fine'!" You jolt from the chair with such force it flies away behind you. You whisk your hands through your hair, fingers catching with increasing frustration-fuelled friction. Then you stop. Your eyes narrow when they fall upon the picture frame sitting on your desk. You glare at the people in the picture, your younger selves, reaching to lash out at the image. "What is it anyway?" Your fingers freeze, curling around mid air, as if the mysterious 'fine' might be something you can grasp.
With a heavy sigh, your arm falls back to your side. Instead, you take a big breath before unleashing a scream that could easily shatter glass and knock the very roof from above your head. At times like these, the burden upon your shoulders seems far greater than the weight resting upon theirs.
A pang of guilt settles in your stomach at the thought. They’re the ones with demons tarnishing their wrecked, wounded and troubled souls, not you. You don't have their demons deluding you. They’re the ones in dire need of help. Except, they won’t let you. They don’t ‘need’ it. The looks they give you are seared into your memory; are you sure you’re not the one who needs help?
You've tried arguing back, but they've never listened to reason. At this point, you’re verging on pulling tufts from your head. That pain might be easier to handle than this… this utter agony. You drag the chair forward by the arm rest and fall back into it. Blinking away tears, you run your finger along the edge of the picture frame. With a sigh, you remove your hand. You struggle for breath, throat clogged with lumps too large to swallow. Your hands are bound by powerlessness and helplessness and there’s nothing you can do but shake your head in despair.
Share the love … At least, that’s how the saying's supposed to go. Except, not for you. For you, it's more like share the pain. You’d take it, too. If it helped them heal or get better, you’d take it all. But then, if your love were enough, their minds would be free from worry, their souls well and their hearts unburdened. If your love were enough, they’d be set free from all that imprisons them. Instead, your love for them rests a heavier burden upon you. A load you must carry alone. They are all you have, but they don’t need you. They’re 'fine'. Fine. The word drips with poison as it runs through your mind. You might break something if you hear it uttered just one more time. Because that's all they ever tell you. It's all you ever hear and you're sick of it. Because what even is it? What is ‘fine’? You have no idea, but one thing you do know is what it’s not- them.
They’re not 'fine', as much as they'd like to believe it. They're not 'fine', yet they don't even realise it and because of that, you're not really fine either. How can you be, when the people you love most aren’t? When they don’t even realise how not fine they are? When there's nothing you can do because they're the only ones who can change themselves? You can’t help but worry. It’s like you don’t have a choice. It’s like it all falls to you, and then the anxiety becomes three-fold, because you’re worrying not only for yourself, but on both of their behalves as well, because they can’t.
Or maybe they won't. Why is anyone's guess. Maybe because there was one time when a little bit of reality seeped in and it was too much for them to bear. They couldn't handle it, so they turned and ran the other way.
You shake your head, imagining them standing in front of you. "Yes, you can totally run away from all your problems. You can deny everything. Because that will make it all disappear, as if none of it ever happened at all." You sweep the air with one of your hands. "Because that's totally how it works." Now, your words are the ones filled with poison.
With a heavy exhalation, you turn your gaze upwards, as if you’ll find the answer you long for in the ceiling that covers your head, in the clouds in the sky or maybe even further up than that, in the heavens high above. How do you go on loving someone when loving them is so painful? How can you catch someone on the run from it all? How can you help someone when they can’t, or maybe won't, see the truth?
