what you can't have (b.e.)

bury a friend

A/N.. haha... i'm back.. sorry for like leaving for a month.. oops

~

What do you want from me?

Mila's POV:

I'm not answering any questions. The concept of even moving my finger an inch, of opening my eyes, of trying to lick my lips and form the shape of words I don't even want to say, is all too much.

I'm just so tired. Everything is such a fucking joke. I know I'm exhausting, I know it more than anyone. I'm the one that has to be me. Every single day. And I know what I did was selfish, or whatever people like to label it, but the people who say that don't know how this feels.

They don't know what it's like to hurt yourself because it feels like you just have to, without any reasonable explanation. And it's not an external voice telling me to do these things in my head; it's my own voice. Sometimes I think that's worse, because I can't blame anyone except myself.

And I'm trapped. I was trapped, so I just wanted to escape.

I knew the healthcare system was fucked from like, twitter threads, but you don't really get it until you're inside of it. It's like a well-oiled machine. What they do becomes routine, they've seen countless suicide attempts, so I become another number. They just want to keep you here long enough for expensive, unneeded tests, then tell you you're okay to go. They keep you in a plain, empty room with these off-white walls and a broken television. They send in a security guard to take away your phone and any other personal items, seal it in a bag, and leave you with nothing and nobody.

When I think of hell, when I think of prison, it's exactly like this: isolation. This is almost worse than the dark basement, because I know there's people right outside the door that could come in and maybe try and make me smile. I feel a new tear slip down my cheek every time I hear footsteps and wait for the door to open, but it stays shut, and they walk past.

I try to keep my eyes closed. I pretend I'm not here. I try and think of a happy place.

All I see are blue eyes and a perfect smile, colored hair that changes with the seasons, and big baggy sweatshirts. My eyes snap open.

Billie.

~

Billie's POV:

Why don't you run from me?

"Billie, your family is here, should we send them in?"

I feel my forehead light on fire, my limbs freeze. I can't move or speak.

My family. I can't see them. I don't want them to see me. Because I've been pretty open with them about depression and suicide, they've done everything they could. I don't want them to live with the fact that after everything they did, it still wasn't enough.

Because the worst part is, it only takes a second for my mind to get hooked on a thought. I think: I wanna end me, for a second, and the thought takes over. There was nobody there to stop me. That's why I always have to have people around, even when I want to be alone. I have to know that there's someone in the next room.

But there wasn't anyone this time.

"I don't-- I just can't see them right now.." I mumble, toying with the plastic medical bracelet around my wrist. I read my name: Billie O'Connell. I don't even know who that is. I've been so wrapped up in Billie Eilish, taken over by the stage, even when I'm not on it. It's not like I'm two different people, I show exactly who I am. But sometimes I wish I hadn't ever been my real self. That way I could shut out Billie Eilish. I could walk off the stage and not be suicidal and self-conscious and hated for exactly who I am.