TW: Suicide
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With his crops growing at an insane pace, food wasn't a problem anymore, neither was money. Of course, he couldn't go out every week and sell his produce as that would gain suspicion, but he could always sell at bulk. With his biggest problem taken care of, Lloyd could finally be at peace.
The last grueling month of winter passed by. In the kitchen, Lloyd looked through his window. The harsh snow has melted into pure sludge with no sign of ice falling any longer. A warm breeze hit his face, birds were chirping, grass was gradually regrowing.
Ding!
The oven ringing broke his trance. With a pair of mittens, he carefully pulled out the tray that was baking. A strong sour and earthy scent scattered in the air, overtaking the fresh smell of the bread. Lloyd placed the tray on the kitchen table. The rye bread was hot, extremely so.
It's been a long time since he last had freshly baked bread. The stats screen popped up as soon as he touched it.
SSS-Rank Whole Rye Bread
+50 Stamina
He cut the loaf into 6 even slices, revealing the dense and fluffy inside, and added butter on the side before waiting for it to cool. Then, he finally took a bite. The nutty and cinnamony taste of the bread melted into his tongue.
He banged a fist onto the table.
I'm so glad I added cinnamon. This is so fucking good.
He demolished two slices in one go. He watched as his personal stats screen lit up. Over the month, his stats grew a decent amount.
[Lloyd Driack: Farming Class][SSS Skill: Crops Grown Become Mythical Edibles.]
[Accelerate (10 MP): Crops grow faster]
Stats
Strength: 150
Precision: 0
Agility: 0
Dexterity: 110
Stamina: 0 (+16.6)
Mana: 500/500
Rank: F-
He didn't know what exactly these stats meant, but he could feel the effects. Lloyd was always frail and sickly, but his complexion has been better than ever. He's been able to easily clean up his farm, lift up bags of produce in one trip rather than multiple. Physically, he didn't change much. He gained a bit more weight, had a better complexion, and that was that.
He didn't experiment with planting new stuff yet as he wanted to wait until winter was over to practice safely. With stats like agility and precision, he already had in mind a few seeds to sow. Rye took a long ass time to grow, so he would need to look for more alternatives.
Although he couldn't plant new seeds, that didn't stop him from testing his limits. He quickly realized that for maximum effects, the crops had to be eaten raw. Cutting and shredding and washing was fine, but stirfrying? Turning up a hot fire and boiling those suckers? That would reduce the values gifted by a decent amount. Sauces were fine, but the plant itself had to remain as normal.
He covered the remaining slices for Silvia and Nora and rinsed his hands.
…
He'd been meaning to clean his parents' room for a while. He kept meaning to and kept finding reasons not to. Regardless, he had to do it someday.
Lloyd went to his parents' room, wiping off every inch of dust, making the bed neatly, inhaling the scent of the room that had once carried his family.
He recalled Silvia wanting to see his childhood photos. So, he opened up his mom's desk drawer and rummaged through it. In there wasn't a photo album but a basket full of different pill bottles.
"..." It was like the air rushed out of his throat.
Lexapro, Serotonin, Zoloft and something else that wasn't labeled.
He pulled out the bottles one by one until he reached one that was completely empty. Wiped out.
His vision blurred at the edges, the present dissolving, and then he was somewhere else entirely.
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Bang. Bang. Bang.
"Mom! Mom, open the door!"
He was eighteen. His fists were already red from hitting the wood. He didn't feel it. He was hitting harder than he'd ever hit anything, harder than made sense for a door that thin, his whole body behind every blow because something on the other side of it had gone wrong. His mom wasn't answering, but she always answered.
"Y-You're scaring me!" He shouted, fist slamming faster and harder.
Silence.
Not a single sound seeped out from the thin wood stopping the youth from entering.
"Bwather?"
He turned. Nora stood in the hallway in her rabbit pajamas, six years old, rubbing her eyes, her small face creased with sleep
He got down to her level. His hands were shaking, his voice barely making a sound.
"Nora, listen to big brother okay? I want you to run to Auntie Yang's right now and call for help. You got it?"
The child flinched, but agreed and ran out the door.
With his fist not working, the boy switched from punching to slamming. His body ached, but the thin wood splintered easily. Some punctured his cotton-shirt, others landing on his arm, blood seeped down easily.
But that didn't matter.
The hinges broke loose and the black-haired youth rushed inside.
Then, he stopped.
His mother was on the bed.
She looked like she was sleeping. She looked peaceful, actually, more peaceful than he'd seen her look in months. Her hair was spread out around her and her hands were loose at her sides and her face was still.
The foam at the corner of her mouth was the only thing wrong with the image.
Lloyd stayed still from shock.
A bottle rolled out of her hand.
Click. Click. Click.
It stopped at his feet.
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The scene shifted.
Lloyd came back to his senses. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. He didn't remember sitting down. The empty bottle was still in his hand, and the others were lined up on the desk in a neat row. He set the bottle down carefully.
He had locked this memory away. He had to! There was Nora to feed and fields to tend and a house to keep standing, and grief was a luxury that required time he couldn't spare. So he had put it somewhere deep and built walls around it and walked past those walls every single day for three years.
But here it was anyway.
Why didn't you tell me?
His nails dug into his palm. He slammed his fist on the drawers.
Was I really that useless?
He looked at the bottles. Antidepressants, anti-anxiety, multiple bottles left unlabeled. She had been carrying all of this alone in this cursed room while he'd been down the hall not knowing.
He sat with that for a long moment.
Then he put the bottles back in the basket one by one, exactly as he'd found them. He smoothed the bed. He closed the drawer.
He needed answers, closure, just…anything. Maybe the Doctor would know, being that he was the only one who could prescribe his mom these meds.
It was time to finally check-in for the appointment he's been avoiding for 3 years.