Running With Scissors

She pulled her hand away from mine and curled herself up in the blankets around her, facing the other direction. Not like I needed to see her face to know her expression, she was obviously upset.

"Jayde... I didn't know. I didn't mean to act like that earlier, okay? I'm sorry."

"It doesn't even matter," she repeated. "Because you were right. I don't see where I went wrong... I never wanted my life to turn out like this," she choked.

"People make mistakes..."

"I'm guessing one of your shrinks told you that," she stated dryly.

I sighed and ran my hand overthe sea of sheets around me, afraid to get to close. "Actually," I said softly. "It's just something that you come to know. Things will get better; they always do."

It was silent for a moment before she stated. "Ace, what's it like to attempt suicide?"

My throat was suddenly painfully dry, trying to choke me. My gut dropped and I was most tempted to reach out and touch her in some kind of comforting way. I sighed loudly, thinking over the memories.

"Well," I started, wondering if this was all a good idea. "It's a desperate state of mind. You're not yourself and the feelings you have aren't your own. They become overwhelming until they become your concience. Even though it's an act of desperation, some part of you knows that it's all just a mistake. Part of you cries out is torturous pain because it wants to survive. Attepting suicide is a war of concieous state that neither side wins. Someone once told me that if things get bad enough that you enter that state of mind, then there's no room for it to get worse, it can only get better." It was a stupid thing to say, but it was all I had.

"But what if things never get better. What if everything just stays the same," she asked softly.

Suddenly, I saw her for what she really was. Small and fragile. Innocent and bruised. Beaten and corrupted like a circus animal. Suffering like I the nights I couldn't remember out of desperation.

I flopped back on the matress beside her and looked up at the white ceiling in silence, letting my thoughts run wild. "I think you just need to have more faith," I told her.

"You're going to need to than religion to help me."

"I'm not being religious," I stated. "You know... That's the last thing I'm being."

"Is it," she stated. "Don't people usually turn all religious or bohemina after recovering from their rock-bottom experiences? Assuming that some greater force has saved them? Isn't that it?"

I chuckled. "Jayde, I'm neither religious, nor bohemian, so I don't think that's necessarily correct. Jayde, it's just something you learn to overcome and live with. By yourself. Realizzing that you've helped yourself is the best inspiration."

She didn't answer me. She didn't even look at me. But I imagined that her expression hadn't changed. I knew well from experience- words meant nothing coming from other people. They were always challanging you. And it all sounded so preachy...

But I wanted to help her. Like she had helped me.