(This is VERY OLD and UNFINISHED. Made in 2019. I didn’t know what i was doing at the time, but i sure know how to write. The comic will be a bit different than this.)
CHAPTER 1 : FALLING APART
Meet Wisp Lean, a young adult with a penchant for jokes that matched his vivid personality. His laughter could light up the darkest of rooms, a stark contrast to the shadows that lurked in the corners of his mind. Wisp’s apartment was a reflection of his chaotic life: a canvas of half-finished projects and a pattern of clutter, a silent testament to his unbridled creativity and tumultuous thoughts. Despite the external vibrancy, an internal storm brewed, one that no one could see.
The day Wisp was diagnosed with depression, ADHD, and anxiety was like a punch to the gut. The doctor’s words echoed in his head like a broken record, each syllable heavier than the last. The diagnosis didn’t come as a shock; rather, it was a confirmation of the battle he’d been fighting in silence for years. Yet, as he left the clinic with a fistful of prescriptions, he couldn’t shake the feeling of being labeled, of being ‘less than’. He felt like a bird with clipped wings, destined to fall short of the freedom he craved.
Wisp’s descent into alcoholism was gradual, a slow burn that started as a way to dull the constant noise in his head. It began with a beer to take the edge off, then two, and soon it was a bottle of whiskey a night. The alcohol became a crutch, a way to muffle the screaming thoughts that kept him up until the early hours. The numbness was a sweet reprieve from the pain, a brief vacation from the cage of his own mind. But as the days bled into one another, the whiskey turned from a comfort to a prison. His apartment, once a sanctuary of color and life, grew stale with the stench of stale beer and regret.
The floor was littered with empty bottles, a glossy mosaic of his struggle. His laughter grew forced, his eyes lost their spark, and the brightness of his hair dulled to a lifeless hue. The few friends who hadn’t already given up on him tiptoed around the issue, afraid to knock over the precarious tower of lies he’d built around himself. Wisp knew he was spiraling, but the thought of facing reality sober was more terrifying than the oblivion alcohol provided.
One night, after a particularly nasty breakdown, Wisp’s best friend and colleague, Flint, found him on the floor, clutching an almost-empty bottle of whiskey. Concern etched deep into his usually jovial face, Flint gently took the bottle and sat beside him. “Wisp,” he began, his voice a mix of frustration and pity, “You can’t keep doing this to yourself.” Wisp’s eyes were bloodshot, his words slurred, but he heard the truth in his friend’s voice.
The conversation was a blur of accusations and defensiveness, but the one thing that stuck with Wisp was when Flint said, “You’re not just a bird with clipped wings. You’re a phoenix that forgot it could fly.” Those words resonated deep within him, stirring something that had been buried under layers of self-loathing and fear. It was the first time in a long while that he allowed himself to feel a glimmer of hope.
