Chapter 2 – Again

I sit alone. Again. My only comfort is looking towards the large group. I see them laughing, smiling, enjoying spending time together. Imagine that. I can’t wait to leave this world. Leave the laughing, smiling, and fake concern. Leave the quiet that holds so much damage. I look at them again. Maybe they aren’t happy. Maybe they are. Maybe they all have their own own troubles. But they seem so happy.

Sadness is not for the weak of heart. But I guess those who are sad have a weak heart. One other person in the group stands out. I recognise them from my art class. William, but everyone calls him Will. I notice the pin on their shirt. It’s a pronoun pin. He/They. Those pronouns are cool. He seems nice, always considerate of others and their feelings. They are really good at art. I’ve never seen someone who has an art style quite like him. They’re going places. I wish I was going places. You know, other than my inevitable demise.

I’ve watched him walk home a few times. They are always very cautious when he reaches this one house. They flinch at every sound when they think no one is around. I feel bad for him. Maybe he’s being followed by someone other than me. I guess I am as quiet as I am afraid. Maybe Will and I aren’t so different.

Wow, this sounds cliched. I wish I could stop talking in maybes. Maybe one day I will.

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I walk home behind Micheal and Will. They seem close, Micheal calls him Bill, and they call Micheal Oxly, as everyone in that group does. Maybe I’ll find out why they call him that. I probably won’t be around long enough to find out. Maybe I will.

Will gets near their house, and as always seems to be wary while walking by that one house. It seems better today. Maybe because he’s with someone. I wonder why they are wary walking by. Micheal doesn’t seem to notice and keeps talking. Will pretends to be listening, but something tells me they aren’t. Maybe I’m just reading into nothing. I probably am. I hope I am.

Will walks into his house and Micheal slows down as we get closer. I slow down too. Not because he does, but because I want to go home about as much as he does. I guess we both have houses we hate.

As I walk into my house I take my bag to my room straight away. The silence here is almost suffocating. It’s like the silence right before a bomb goes off. I’m probably just dramatic, but either way I take the pill bottle out of my bag. I also take a paper and pen.

I struggle to find the words to explain how I feel. This is what I end up writing:

To whoever cares, (No one probably does)

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t sit in silence waiting for something to explode. I can’t watch the people around me laugh and smile while I’m stuck with no voice. I don’t want to leave the house again with this tightening in my chest. I don’t want to come home again with this pit in my stomach. I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to pretend I’m fine. I don’t want to play this game that everyone else does. They have the rulebook. I don’t. I don’t want to play without the instructions anymore. Maybe this will take away my pain. I hope it does. Sometimes I wonder if anyone would care if I was gone. While I write this letter there is no doubt in my mind. No one cares. Maybe someone will. But if it takes my death for people to care, then do they really care? It sounds so poetical when put to writing, but it isn’t. What I feel can’t really be put into words. Not well anyway. I just want someone to know my pain so no one else has to suffer in silence. I’m not writing this for anyone but the people who are quietly suffering. No one cared when I was dying. But maybe someone will care when they are. Before it’s too late.

Me

I take a look at the pill bottle in my hand. I take a deep breath and swallow them all.