The Boy Who Cried Suicide

“I don’t want to do this today, Mama, don’t make me go!” I begged.

I had been begging for the same thing every morning for what seems like my entire life. I don’t know why I even try, when all I ever get is,

“You’re being dramatic, Drew, go to school.”

She doesn’t understand me. She’ll never know what it feels like to walk down the cluttered hallways and feel so alone. To stumble over the outstretched feet of strangers, complete strangers that I have never said even two words to, and fall to the floor. I’m forced to watch my peers live their hectic, exhilarating lives while mine moves in slow motion. I just thought that maybe senior year would be better, since everybody told me it should be. They say people grow up; that life gets easier. It doesn’t.

As I walk into Ms. Hemingway’s classroom I can feel the stares and the judgment suffocating me. I take a seat, front and center, and read the death threats written in abundance across my desk like the morning paper, as I listen to the vibration of murmurs float through the air behind me. How can people be so ignorant? Roaches.

Ms. Hemingway’s repetitive lecture on arithmetic is nothing but background noise to my roaring thoughts. I tell myself, you’re worthless. A waste of space. You’ll never amount to anything. You just don’t belong here. The list goes on. My eyes wander over to the open window on the left shoulder of the room. The incoming breeze nudges Homework Help posters displayed next to the board, and carries the aroma of pollen into the classroom. I stare at the clock while timing the milliseconds in between the ticks, when finally, I’m interrupted by the sound of the

bell. I abruptly gather my things and shoot for the door; I’m home free! Or at least I think that, until I hear Ms. Hemingway calling me over to her desk.

“So tell me Drew,” she went on, “how come you haven’t been turning in your assignments lately?”

I know why. She knows why. She just wants to get me to admit that I’m going through something right now, and that I need some sort of help. Typical. Ms. Hemingway is an old, wise widow. Her husband died last fall. She’s always in everybody’s business, giving them the third degree in attempt to make sure they’re doing alright. Which isn’t necessarily bad, but it’s not what I need right now.

“I’ve seen the scars on your wrists, Drew,” she continued, “and it’s not healthy for a young boy like you. This isn’t the only way. If anyone knows hardships, it’s me, Drew. Trust me when I say life goes on.”

I tug my sleeves down over my wrists.

“What do you mean? Oh, these? My cat scratched me by accident, nothing major Ms. H.”

I figured it’d probably be most beneficial to avoid the topic altogether. The last thing I need is my teacher getting on my case about my habits.

The ride home was awfully quiet, but at this point I’m just glad to be home in my own privacy; my own serenity. I snake my way through the annoyingly placed pillars in my living room and isolate myself to my bedroom. My stereo is still blasting from this morning, which is perfect ambiance for a relaxing nap. I figure if my insomnia doesn’t let me sleep at night, why

not sleep all afternoon instead? There’s no better way to recover from a stressful day, or, in my case, to escape reality for a while.

I shut my eyes and almost immediately begin dreaming of eternity. Yes, eternity, as in heaven. It exists, I just know it, and it’s where I belong. Pure bliss and no worries, judgment or stress. I’ve heard stories about people who have approached death and have seen it, the pearly gates, white clouds and vanilla orchards, but are revived back to consciousness and can’t stay. How terribly unfortunate.

All at once I start gasping for air, gripping my sheets for dear life but they slip away through my clammy fingers. I can’t see anything past the blur of my blankets, then finally, I recuperate and realize where I am. I feel as if I were so close, as if I might as well have been there, in heaven. To my despair, yet again, the closest I get to eternity is in my dreams. In this moment, I come to the realization that I just can’t do it anymore. Why waste my time living a life I despise? I’m hated here, unappreciated and unrecognized. Why am I going to stay here and suffer, when I already know where I want to be; where I belong? This is it, there is no more turning back. I turn to my nightstand and fix my eyes on the bottle of sleeping pills, half-empty. With the bottle in one hand and the lid for it in the other, I throw my head back and swallow the remaining half of the medication. I didn’t even think about having a chaser but I didn’t need one, my arms fell to my sides and the last thing I remember hearing is the empty bottle hit the hardwood floor.

This is the most at home I have ever felt. I awoke to beautiful sunflower and baby’s breath orchards, fluffy, comforting clouds as far as the eye can see and an awfully interesting face. I was greeted by a rather short and stumpy, but incredibly wise and beautiful owl named Hemmings. She told me all about life here and how complex yet intriguing I would find it. There

was something so familiar and soothing about her voice, I don’t doubt that I could’ve endured hours upon hours of her simply speaking to me. She insisted on taking me on a tour, to which I most definitely could not protest. We continued down a stone pathway through the snow-capped forests and over the sparkling rivers, all the while listening to the sounds of birds singing and leaves crunching ever so often underneath my feet.

As we approach the end of the path, Hemmings encourages me to continue exploring as she makes her way back to where we originated. I do as she says, but something is different now. The sky above me fades from blue to gray, and the air grows cold. I can feel the tension in the atmosphere; the pathway beneath me descends into the soil leaving behind nothing but sun-bleached grass and tangled weeds. The sounds of birds are still present, but now resemble vultures rather than doves. I do my best to keep calm as I try navigating my way back to the stone pathway, but I can’t find any evidence of it ever existing. The anxiety encompasses my body and I begin beckoning into my surroundings,

“Hemmings! Hemmings, where have you gone off to? Hemmings, please!”

No luck. Subconsciously, I collapse to the ground. This was supposed to be my getaway… what happened? I finally felt what it was like to experience actual happiness. I can’t believe it was so short lived, it isn’t fair. I should’ve known it was too good to be true.

I’ve just about given up when the silence of my solitude is broken by the subtle, precise pitter-patter of footsteps approaching me. I sit up, and to my pleasant surprise I see a familiar, comforting face; Hemmings. I scramble to get up and run towards her, but she gives me no time to ask questions.

“Don’t worry dear, you’re safe. You’re not where you think you are, you’re in the middle. Not quite heaven, not quite hell.” she reassures me.

Although I don’t quite understand, I’m ecstatic. It sounds like there might be a way out, and I never want to return to this wasteland I’m residing in currently.

“It is here where one’s fate is determined,” she continues, “it is here where you end up prior to your new, permanent life. It is a place for second chances. Please, look into my eyes.”

My eyes immediately attracted to hers as though there were some sort of magnetic pull, and then, I saw it. I saw every place I had ever been, I saw the world without me. Ms. Hemingway was lecturing in her classroom, but was sobbing. Was this because of me? Were people actually affected? I saw my mother at the foot of my bed, mourning. Something wasn’t the same about my school hallways, it seemed as if they moved in slow motion. I saw the breeze, carrying the pollen in through the window; the clock, but it wasn’t ticking. What have I done? I had a life, and maybe it wasn’t a perfect one but it was mine, and it was worth living. I sold myself short, I gave up. I gave up on my mother, on my peers, on myself. How could I be so oblivious? And on that thought, I saw nothing. I heard Hemming’s voice faintly, one last time,

“You’re safe, dear. Trust me when I say, life goes on.”

And after that, I heard nothing.

The next thing that I saw, that I heard, was indescribable. My eyes shot open and I took a deep breath in. I heard the stereo blasting, and glanced over to see a bottle of sleeping pills resting, untouched on my nightstand, half-full.