Let Go

My heart was racing so bad, so terribly bad; dashing pell-mell all around my ribcage, blood roaring through my veins as if there were a NASCAR race going on inside me. It seemed that all I could hear was a constant, loud pounding in my ears, forever unremitting, but sometimes dogged and skipping a beat or two in its never-ending rhythm. My pulse was dangerously high; it was as if I was tearing full-speed down the road, or battling against mammoth-sized waves in a thrashing ocean storm. This was all going on inside, nearly too much for my slight and lanky sixteen-year-old build -no, it was too much. I wanted to scream out so, so badly, to release all of the pressure from the mosh pit raging all inside my body, but no sound emanated from my vocal chords that were tangled and hoarse.

Your face was buried in my chest; I held you close and tight despite the fact that your tears were creating a wet splotch all over the front of my shirt. I didn't even acknowledge this; I don't think I even knew. It was like we didn't exist, like we were just ghosts hanging in-between, so faded but still so painfully present. It was like the world didn't exist outside of our tight circle. Outside voices, noises, and the ever too constant howl of the ambulance were meaningless; fuzzy, vague sounds far off in the infinite distance. Nothing mattered that precious moment, those precious hours we must have spent standing there, but you and I.

Oh, those words you said... They drew me into this sudden violent tremor that I could never hope to recover from. Those words you said....

"I wanna run away, Noah."

They were one of the first words you'd been able to say after a long, long time. After I found you stumbling onto my front porch hours before. After I was trying to hush you in soothing tones while sobs racked your delicate frame, while you were shedding tears like a maddening rainfall. All you could say, all I could hear you say beneath the rainstorm cluttering your speech was, "I've had enough.... I've had enough..." over and over and over, even a while after I had settled you onto the sofa as you cried for hours, as I tried to pacify your pain with all of the love a kid like I could manage. I asked no questions, none at all, and together we rode out the turbulence, the storm within you that was so devastatingly similar to the storm inside me right now.

As your weeping gradually reduced to frequent silent shuddering, I could think of no other form of comfort other than that soundtrack, that Garden State soundtrack that could ease your most violent episodes. At once, 'No Panic' undulated from the speakers. You were mollified almost immediately, and I watched as you lay there in rapture to the chilling lyrics and voices. An odd kind of calmness cloaked itself around you. I could see it in the dreamlike expression in your eyes.

I sat with you and curled my arms around you, pulling you carefully closer. You obliged, and fell limp onto my shoulder, nuzzling slightly into my neck. The tiniest sigh escaped you. I couldn't help but recount so many other incidents so terribly identical to tonight's. There was so many times I found you crying, mutilating yourself, or worse, sprawled out across your dirty linoleum kitchen floor, pale and unmoving as a skeleton, unconscious from the drug overdose.

Your suicide attempts scared me more than you'd ever believe, yet I could do nothing but hold your numb body close as I awaited the arrival of the paramedics. You never succeeded, no matter how hard you strove to, no matter how much you desperately wanted to, you never achieved. You must have been one very lucky girl. Or unlucky? One could not say. Was God always at your attention, always there to save you, or did he spite you, as you always claim as you awake in the hospital bed? No one could guess.

It had been your second or third suicide attempt, and I knew you were at wit's end. You were beyond the chances of recovery, no matter what your parents wanted to believe. They made things worse. Prescription pills depressed you further; therapy psychoticized you. It seemed that the more money your parents spent on this so-called "treatment," the more broken you became.

They gave you pills. You obeyed the prescription and over time I noticed with a slight horror how drastically you changed. How my Charlie, the girl I fell in love with, became dependent on Chlorpromazine, lost total inspiration for the world and withdrew altogether.

I remember when I found you that one day, in the bathroom. I remember seeing you flush something down the toilet. "I did it, Noah, I did it," you said, "They're gone, now. I'll be your Charlie again." You didn't know how much it hurt for me to hear that. I wanted so bad to have the old you back, but I knew with a cringing ache that you were far gone. That the old you was a ghost, and only fragments of you were remaining in this narcotic girl who claims to be you. I ask what it was you flushed down the toilet. You dangle the empty container of your antipsychotic prescription drug and reply happily, "The Chlorpromazine." I was both relieved and aghast at the same time.

What happened to you, Charlie? Where did you go? What did you do to yourself?

I don't remember at what point we were standing, but I found the two of us on our feet, rocking ever so slightly back and forth to 'New Slang.' The Shins could always, always make you happy, whatever the case. They cooled your storm, your worst days, and brought a rare glow to your face every time I'd chance to gaze at you.

You look up at me now. You're smiling at me, but it's an odd sort of smile. Despite your attempts to fool me, I see faint traces of sadness that can never be erased. Your eyes say it all; they're so deep and perplexing, so beautiful and yet so unsettling. There's a girl hidden somewhere, way, way down in that green world of your eyes. A light brown blends with the emerald green at the border, creating an awe-inspiring vortex with a sprinkle of hazel flecks all around. Somewhere, deep inside, lies my Charlie.

"I love you, Noah," you say in a small, dazed voice, a voice so like the old you, appearing from nowhere as if you'd stepped from the mist, "Unconditionally, infinitely, intimately," you listed with a sort of poetic dedication. "I love you more than life, more than I could ever describe, more than you could ever even try to understand." Tears squeeze from your eyes again, and you rested your head back onto my chest. You're so delicate, so delicate, like a china doll made of the finest porcelain. So breakable. So broken.

"I know," I said in a hushed tone, finally finding my voice, "I love you, too."

And then you said it.

You said the words, in an innocent, child-like murmur, "I wanna run away, Noah."

Then my heart went overtime.

***

We've been always talking of it, plotting, planning, dreaming and sighing, for as long as I can remember. I know, somehow, that tonight will be the night we escape. The night we board the train we've talked of with faraway expressions and a burning hope and desire. I know that you know too, that nothing, nothing can stop us now. Not anymore.

My lungs feel compressed from excitement; nothing in the world, other than you, maybe, had moved me so much. It feels as if I can barely breathe, as if the entire world was cradled on my chest. I know by the way that you press my hand as you lead me to your house, that you feel the exact same way. We tread through the dewy grass; it's near midnight, and the moon is full and luminous. The air is stifling cold, but I pay no attention. My mind is absolutely buzzing, accelerating as fast as my heart. As we left my living room, we had almost finished the soundtrack. The last song we heard as we departed was Frou Frou's 'Let Go.' It was almost spooky, almost a prophecy of our escape.

So let go, yeah, let go. Jump in. Oh, it's so amazing here. It's alright, because there's beauty in the breakdown.

You continue talking breathlessly in that eerie child-like voice. "We can finally break away, Noah, be free. Oh, I'm so, so unbelievably scared, but it's worth it; you'll see." You didn't have to convince me. "It's a wonder farther than you can ever imagine, a world where there is no more pain or suffering or cruelty, no more need for antipsychotic drugs.... No more sadness, no more ache, no more..." There's a different glow in your eyes, it almost makes me uneasy, but I trust you, and I want to get away from everything wrong in my life, I want to see this place you speak so animatedly about. I want to be free, too.

Leave your things behind, 'cause it's all going off without you.

We make it to your house in good time. It's dark and quiet as death, with an ever lingering stench of cigarettes and alcohol. You lead me up the stairs to your room. I can tell we're almost there. My breathing becomes labored.

Oh, it's so amazing here...

You rattle the door open and flick the dull lights on. Your room was like how I last remembered it; messy, filthy, and nothing really sticks out. Dirty laundry and old food wrappers litter the floor. The bed is a jumbled mess that probably hasn't been made since junior high.

"The tickets- I have the tickets. We're almost there, Noah. Just a few more minutes." You sound like your old self, excited and robust, but for all of the wrong reasons.

Just let go, oh, let go. Jump in. Well, what are you waiting for?

You crouch next to the bed and produce a cardboard shoe box from underneath. My heart's beating louder than a drum, I can hardly stand it. I'm choked up, tears start freely sliding down my face, obscuring my vision. "I have the tickets. The tickets to the train. They're right here, in my hands. One for you, and one for me. We're almost there, Noah." Your hands are shaking and your voice is lingering back to the demented, child-like tone, but you hand me the tickets.

Through the tears, I study the item before me; a cold, black Smith & Wesson revolver. I stroke the barrel with an unsteady hand. I should have guessed. But you look so happy, after so long you look truly happy, and I can't back down; I can't deprive you of the ticket that will take you to the world you long to live in. The whole time you were speaking metaphorically. When you said "tickets," you actually meant bullets. One for you, and one for me.

"You decide, Noah. Decide if we should go. I hear the train coming, closer and closer; it's on its way!" I shiver at the play of words. "Decide." I look into your green-brown eyes once more, almost shocked to see such clarity and sureness. I'm torn. I'm so scared. I hear the train coming too, and a chill racks my spine.

Such boundless pleasure
We've no time for late,
Now you can't await
Your own arrival
You've twenty seconds to comply

"How-" my voice is thin and cracked, I feel at a loss, "...how long have you had these tickets ready?" The shivering fear that chilled my heart was blatant in my whisper.

"Too long," you whisper back.

Time feels sluggish; these last moments seemed to be in slow-motion. The amount of emotion, the amount of love and pain combined seems to engulf the room, stripping the air of oxygen. We're both strung-up, miserable, wretched sixteen-year-olds. I see the damage of our lives dug up and brought forward. I see the pain in your pleading eyes. It hurts me to see you like this; it's hurt me for years. It provokes an unthinkably severe, throbbing despair that I can never push behind me.

"I love you, Charlie," I choke out one last time. I cock the revolver, hands shaking tremendously bad. I steady myself and aim it at you.

"I love you too, Noah." Your smile is so sincere, it hurts. "Meet me at the platform." Tears blinding me, all sorts of emotions burning through me like the brightest flaming hell, I squeeze the trigger.

It recoils, and I watch through my tears as you stumble to the ground. You died on impact.

I find it nearly impossible to breathe, now. I fall to my knees, nearly every ounce of strength receded from me. I'm gasping out as if my lungs were torn from me, I need air. I can't tear my gaze from you. I can't stop staring at the look on your face, the look in your beautiful, unseeing eyes.

I see relief.

Blood flows from the wound from the bullet lodged into your skull. It trickles down your forehead like the smoothest silk, like flawless, satin red ribbon. You're completely broken now, disembobluated and contorted, like a discarded china doll. Yet, at the same time, you're finally whole, finally at peace.

Just jump in.

Mouth cotton-dry, and still sobbing though I've no more tears, I pick up the revolver. It feels so heavy in my grasp, and warm from being used. "Wait up... I'm coming to the platform..." I whisper in the smallest voice. I feel the train coming; I feel it in my bones. I hear you calling out my name; I feel my heart beating at a breakneck speed, my throat strangled with tears and my breathing irregular. Using the last of my strength, I aim the gun towards my own head. My face relaxes despite the agony that seems to eat me whole. In no time at all I arrive at the scene of the train.

It's alright, because there's beauty in the breakdown.