Citalopram

You're a fucking piece of shit.

An absolute piece of shit.

No one has fucked up as badly as you. No one.

Don't look away. Don't you dare look away. You're a fucking piece of shit. Don't run away from this. Don't run away like you do with everything in your miserable fucking life.

Because that's what you want, isn't it? Look away. So you don't have to look at her, and know how perfect she is, and how better than you she is. You want to look away. Stumble over your words like a fucking retard. Make some excuse. Anything. Doesn't matter how fucking stupid it sounds. Just throw out some pathetic little lie and hope she forgives you for it. Because she will. She always does.

You?

You're in a shithole of your own fucking making because you can't kick the habit. A habit you got because you can't handle the shit in your life. You better pray she never finds out. She still thinks you're clean. Three hundred and seventy-something days clean. But you're not. It's only been twenty-two, hasn't it? Any day now you'll feel the itch again. Any day.

Look at her.

Look at her you fucking degenerate piece of shit.

How can she be so perfect? It's like seven-thirty and you know she's not had much sleep. You heard her walk to the bathroom every fucking half hour. You know because you spent all night on your computer, and you weren't being a good little girl looking for a job like you should be.

Look at her. No sleep and she's still fucking perfect. Perfect hair. Flowing over her shoulders like a goddamn auburn waterfall while you know yours is a fucking matted shitfest of grease and dye. Her eyes are perfect. Yours are bloodshot hell holes. You know it. That's what they look like the last time you looked at yourself in the mirror. That's why you turned away from yourself in fucking disgust.

Don't lie to yourself. You're pathetic.

Not like her. No, she's incredible. Look at her.

FUCKING LOOK AT HER!

There. You can do it. Occasionally you can fucking do it.

Look at her. She's so patient. She's just spent the last half hour listening to your pathetic life. All the while she's had this news. This fucking bombshell that she needed to talk to you about, but she waited until you were finished. Until you had stopped bitching about your sad little life. She has the patience of a goddamn fucking saint. She's too good for you.

Too good to be your sister, you fucking sad sack of shit.

Now say something. Say something that'll show her how sorry you are to have taken so much time bitching about your sad, shitty little life when she's got this big news. This big, huge, earth-shattering piece of news. Say you're sorry. Apologise for wasting her fucking time. Apologise for being a retarded piece of shit. Apologise!

SAY SOMETHING!

"You're pregnant?"

Genius. Real fucking genius. Look how her expression changes. She's so disappointed in you now. She should be. Half hour of your bullshit and all you can do is repeat what she's said like some autistic piece of shit.

God, you used to be so smart.

"Yes," I say. My sister looks so shocked. Probably more shocked than I am. Kris and I have talked about it, yes, but it's been just talking, you know? A little hypothetical 'what if?' I don't think either of us thought for a moment we'd actually be having kids. I mean, we've always said 'later.' 'When we're earning more.' 'When we can afford it.' 'Not now, later.'

Later.

Oh fuck...

I can't do this.

I can't be responsible for another life. Not me. What do I know about being a mother? Who do I have for a role model? My own? I would think Elsa and I are living proof that she had no idea of what she was doing. Father was no better, but at least he had the dignity to admit it and leave. I have no one I can turn to. No one I can ask for help.

I am so not ready for this.

"How… how long?" my sister tries to say. She used to be so eloquent: words came so easily to her. Not me. I was always the ditzy one. The one who struggled through school. Elsa made it all seem so easy. Now she struggles to say simple sentences. I hate seeing her like this.

"Three weeks. Probably." I should have known earlier. I'm never late. Regular as clockwork. I was just busy. New job. Settling in. I guess a part of me was grateful for no cramps while I was learning the ropes. I should have known. I should have checked earlier. I always get cramps.

"It's a little unexpected." I'm just filling the silence now. Elsa's still looking at me with her mouth wide open. There's something going on behind her eyes. I used to read my sister so well. Now I have no idea what she's thinking half the time.

"I mean Kris and I… we've been using protection so… wasn't expecting this…"

Please say something, Elsa. Tell me what I need to hear. I can't do this on my own. I need you to tell me what I know I should do. If you say it I know I can go to Kris with the confidence to say it too, and he'll agree. I know he's thinking the same thing. It's just… neither of us want to say it.

Neither of us can have this baby. We're just not ready for it.

"I mean…" I don't know what to say anymore. I want to talk about what Elsa was telling me. I want to talk about her problem, not mine. Hers I know I can deal with. It's what I do. I help her.

I don't know what to do about me.

So please say it, Elsa. Tell me what I need to hear.

Tell me this is stupid. That I'm not ready. Tell me to get an abortion and I will.

Please say something.

"Are you…?"

No. Don't. Please don't ask me. I know what I'll say. I don't want to say it. I want to-

"Are you going to keep it?"

"I think so."

That's bullshit. Anna doesn't want to. You can see it on her face.

You're paying attention, aren't you?

No. I didn't think so. Too busy being the pathetic junkie that you are. No job. No girlfriend. No money. No drugs. Just… just you. Fucking you. When was the last time you showered? Yesterday? The day before? You must be rank. Maybe that's why everyone in this place keeps giving you looks. Your smell is putting them off their food. Putting them off their morning coffee. They just wanted to have a quick cup of their perfectly legal drug and your stench has now ruined their day.

What a shitshow. Well done Elsa. Well fucking done.

Now you're looking away. Yeah, that's it. Look at the fucking table. Like that's got the answers.

Jesus fucking Christ. You haven't touched the coffee she bought you.

That's it. Gulp it down like a fucking addict. Don't be polite about this. It's cold now. You let it just sit there while you told her the sad fucking story of how you owe some scumbag from south London money you don't fucking have because you spent it all.

Now you're coughing. That's what happens when you drink too quickly.

Jesus Christ, you're an embarrassment. Look at everyone staring at you. Look at the sad little girl in her dirty hoodie spluttering coffee all over the table because she can't fucking drink.

Oh God… no… don't clean it up Anna. Please don't-

I take my sisters hands. Wipe them clean of the spittle. It's only a few drops of froth. It's a little adorable, to be honest. She's always been so clumsy. Like she's afraid of her own body. I wish she could see how beautiful she is.

"I'm… I'm so sorry," she says.

"It's fine," I tell her. I see her look around. "No one noticed," I lie. "They're all too busy looking at their phones." That's kinda true. This is the City. We're surrounded by investment bankers. All of them earning more each year than Elsa and I will ever see in our lives. How I'm in a place like this, surrounded by people like this, is amazing. It's all Kris' fault, of course. A word here. Another there. He got me this gig. There's a part of me that wished I got it without his help, but I can't complain (at least not too loudly) when it's paying for the flat for both Elsa and me. Without it I would have to downsize. Move somewhere cheaper. Up north, probably.

And Elsa…

I don't want to think about what would happen to her. She can't look after herself. Not like this.

"You wanted to tell me… and I was… I…" she's having difficulty with her words again. There's something on her mind, and it's eating up inside her, but she can't say it. My sister used to be so eloquent. I learned so much from her when we were young. Now she seems to be in so much pain just trying to tell me what she wants to eat.

That's when she's hungry.

God she looks so thin…

"Don't worry about it," I say. A little redundant. I know she's worrying about it. She'll continue to worry about it all the while we sit here, and she'll still be worrying about it long after I have to go. "Look, don't worry about me," she will, "how are you going to pay him back?"

I want to change the topic. This is serious. More serious than my baby problem.

Elsa looks at me. Actual eye contact. So rare these days. She has such beautiful eyes. Clear blue. Like a summer's day. Born in winter. "I..."

Those eyes. So much pain. I want to reach over the table and hold her but part of me wonders if she would retreat. I don't want to see that. Not from her. So I just sit here and watch her as she tries to answer. It's painful to watch. She has no idea what she's going to do.

You have no idea, do you?

No fucking clue.

You're broke. You've spent all your money on useless shit. You can't get a job because you're a useless shit. Where are you going to get two grand to pay back Hans? How the fuck have you blown through two grand of drugs? How are you still fucking alive?

Oh that's right. You almost weren't. Remember?

She's the reason you're sitting here spitting coffee all over you like a fucking child. She found you. Drowning in your own fucking vomit. In that shithole you used to call a home. The one you shared with him. Because living with your dealer was a such a good idea at the time. Letting him do those things to you. Anything to get your next fix.

Then she freed you.

But you don't get out of jail that easily, do you? Oh no. Life enjoys kicking you in the cunt. You spent three years getting free highs from him, and now he wants repayment now that you're one year clean.

Or so you tell her.

She should toss you aside. Leave you in the gutters. You don't deserve someone like her. Look at her. Dressed in that suit. She works at a classy place. She's the first face people see when they walk through those big doors. She looks like the face of a bank.

You look like the face of a drug PSA.

Maybe you should go back to him.

Beg him for more.

Suck his cock again. For that high.

That precious escape.

From knowing you're still you.

Fucking disgusting-

"I don't know!"

Oh well done. She's looking at you like that again. Like you're one disaster after disaster and she's just watching all of this in slow motion. She can't save you. She can only watch you crash and burn.

"How much?" As soon as I ask this I know what face she'll make, and sure enough she looks at me with such pain I want to take it all back. But I can't. My sister needs me. There's no way she can get that money together. Not on benefits. She's tried so hard to get a job. I know she has.

It's unfair. She's so smart. She deserves success. While I'm… I'm just handed this. I don't…

I don't deserve this.

"Please… please I don't… don't…" she's scratching her arms again. I wish she wouldn't. I know they haven't healed. I know she wears these long-sleeved hoodies just to hide the scars.

I reach forward and take her hands. Her skin's so cold. "I want to," I tell her. She's not looking at me again. The table's much safer. I can't believe I'm growing jealous about the attention this fucking table is getting. "How much?"

For ages she just looks down. "Two thousand," she says eventually.

Jesus fucking Christ…

I know she doesn't see that slip - she's still staring at the table - but her whole body seems to cringe. Like I've just yelled at her. "Elsa… how…?"

"Three years. Three years of me using. Telling him I'll pay him back when I get a job. And he's like 'yeah babe, sure. When you get a job'..."

He never believed you would.

You can see that now, can't you? Three years being his pet. His little sex slave. Doing what he asked, when he asked, just for another hit. Another free hit. Well, guess what? Nothing's free in life, babe. He's coming to collect the debt you owe him, and you've no more money than when you were living on his floor.

You're proper fucked, babe.

Look at her.

FUCKING LOOK AT HER!

You can't even do that. Fucking pathetic. Just abso-fucking-lutely pathetic. Maybe you should crawl back to him. Beg him. Maybe he'll let that debt slide if you be a good little cocksucker and do what you do best. Maybe he'll let you off the hook.

Maybe he'll fucking crucify you.

Better than you deserve.

If she's smart she'll drop you.

"I'll lend you the money."

Look what you've done now. Your sister's being the good samaritan, and it's all because of your fuck-up. Two thousand of her own. Money she's been saving.

And you know the kicker?

She's pregnant.

You fucking leech. You're stealing from your niece as well. Or nephew. Either way, that's two thousand she won't be spending on her kid.

Wow. Can you, like, not be a total shit? Just for a day? Or is that too hard for you?

Tell her you can't. Tell her to spend the money on someone else. Someone who isn't a piece of shit.

"I… Anna… I can't…"

"It's just a loan," I say quickly, before she has a chance to slide into one. I love my sister but I don't need her crying, because then I'll start crying and we'll both end up looking ridiculous. "You can pay me back whenever. When you get a job." She will. I know it. My sister's too smart not to. It's unfair that life gives me a great job on a silver platter while my sister's still on benefits. That's just…

"But…" she's trying to say something. I wish I knew what was going through her head. Her eyes keep dancing across the table, but she's not looking at me. It's sad I can count the times she looks at me a day on one hand.

"Please. I insist. That was…" a terrible time. One I wish I had been there for her. I should have been. I… I don't resent Kris for it. I can see why he said the things he did, but I shouldn't have let her be alone. She needs me. "Let's not talk about it, OK? What's done is done. This is just the last bit of that time, and once you pay him he'll back off, right?"

She's silent again. Her brow keeps twitching. Like she's dancing between so many thoughts she doesn't know what expression to make. Still staring at the table. "Yeah," she finally says, so quiet I lean forward for fear I'll miss the rest, "he should. Back off. Leave me alone."

"OK." I risk a glance at my phone. Fuck. I'm late. "Look.. I need to go. I… thank you for listening to me. I'm… we'll talk again… yeah?"

She nods. "Yeah." So quiet I have trouble hearing it over the conversations around us. I feel terrible for preferring her like this to what she could be: loud, and crying. Those are the times she looks at me, and there's so much pain in her eyes and nothing I can do about it.

This isn't fair.

I stand. Slip on my coat and hang my bag over my shoulder, phone in hand. "See you later." I want to lean over and kiss her forehead - just a little thing to show her I love her - but she looks so fragile. Instead I place my hand over hers, just hoping that she'll look up and smile at me.

Like she used to, when we were kids.

"It'll be OK," I tell her. I always tell her.

Elsa nods. Her eyes never rise from the table.

"See you."

I walk away. I hate myself for every step I make.

Say something. Anything. Tell her she doesn't have to do this! Tell her she's making a mistake! Tell her!

FUCKING LOOK AT HER!

Pathetic. Fucking pathetic. The way you can't look at her when she's talking to you but you'll quite happily watch her leave. The way-

-I turn. A glance back. She's watching me. Our eyes meet.

Don't you fucking turn away!

I smile at her. It's the only thing I can do. My sister. Sitting alone in a crowded cafe. Looking so lost and afraid. It'll be OK. I promise you.

Everything's going to be OK.

You don't deserve her. You don't deserve anyone. You're pathetic. Useless.

You're a fucking piece of shit.

Author's Notes:

OK, I imagine you all have two questions right now.

1) Where did all the chapters go and what is this?

2) AND WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN FOR FOUR FUCKING YEARS?!

And they are both very good questions. Let me answer the latter as it will help explain the former. So Thaw was progressing nicely, chapters were kinda regular but definitely being posted at a more frequent rate than some [insert some cheap shot at Patrick Rothfuss' writing schedule]. All was peachy, but I couldn't shake this nagging feeling I wasn't entirely happy with how the story was shaping. What had begun with no real plan in sight had morphed into some decent drama, but there was some clumsiness, and a lot of stuff that I didn't really like but posted anyway because the chapter needed to be posted.

So I post the chapter where Elsa has help disposing of Hans' [spoiler] and I realise I wasn't happy with the story anymore. So I took a break while thinking about what I wanted to do. The months pass and I had loads of ideas, but nothing I really liked and as months turned to a year, then two years, I realised I actually just wanted to re-write the whole damn thing.

So this is what this is. A total re-write. I'll post the original chapters at the end as a bonus chapter when this is all finished, just to avoid spoilers as major plot points are still going to happen.

Just in a different way. And in first/second-person, because I had so much fun writing those four chapters where we dive into the headspace of these two characters.

So that's where I've been, and this is what's happening. If you enjoyed Thaw before I hope you enjoy it again in it's new form, and if you're just starting I hope you enjoy this story of platonic love and severe depression. ;)