Soon Enough.

By the time I was done writing, ink covered the sides of my hands. I wasn't too sure what it was about the way I wrote, but every time I sat down to pour my heart out, I ended up with pen marks littering the inside of my hands. My mother always told me it was because I held my pen the wrong way. When I really thought about it, my mother told me I did most everything the wrong way. It wouldn't have surprised me one bit to see her grab up my suicide note and retrieve her red pen, marking up all the mistakes I made. Who cares about the content of the note? Not my mother. She didn't want substance, she wanted perfection.

I sighed, using my ink-covered hands to push the chair away from the cherry wood desk I was seated at. The same desk I'd had since I was eight years old, so eager to get to writing. I'd spent the better half of the year at the desk, writing my pen-pal that lived in Canada. The same desk had been the one I spent hours at doing homework throughout high school; writing reports and essays and short stories. It was the very desk I wrote all my poetry at, the words that were so carefully weaved together that no one cared to read. And now, I noted, it was the same desk I wrote my suicide note at. But, really, all that stuff didn't even matter. At least it wouldn't soon enough.

I quietly made my way across the room, stopping in front of the mirror next to my door and taking my appearance in. I felt a frown form the longer I looked at myself. I had shoulder-length brown hair and bangs, the kind of style that was never considered “cool”. My eyes were plain-jane brown. I remember when I was little I used to always wish I had pretty blue or green eyes. But I’d gotten stuck with ugly brown. My limbs were too skinny and too long and too awkward. My nose didn’t really go with my face. I just didn’t fit into my skin correctly. I was just doing something wrong again.

I forced myself to look away, completely turning my head before placing my hand on the doorknob and silently pulling the door open. I didn’t want to look at the things that I couldn’t change.

I walked softly so that my parents wouldn’t wake up, debating what to do. It was 2 AM and I didn’t have anywhere to go but hell. I figured I might as well wash my hands before I killed myself. I didn’t want to die with ink all over my hands. I was enough of a mess when I was alive, I didn’t want to go out of the world that way. I wanted to go out making a statement. I wanted to go out proving that I would have been good enough if people had given me a chance.

I made my way into the bathroom, flipping on the light switch as I did so. I blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden light. Another mirror greeted me, and I grimaced as I once again took in my appearance. This time I looked away before I could really register my looks, staring hard down at my hands as I twisted the knob to turn on the sink. A steady stream spit out of the faucet, the cool water quickly covering my hands. I reached up and pushed the pump for the soap, a little spilling off my hand and onto the counter. I decided not to care, just going on and smoothing the soap over my hands. I actually said the alphabet in my head before rinsing them off, just like I’d learned to do in second grade.

I reached up and dried my hands, turning away from the bathroom and walking away. Walking away from the counter that I used to sit on while my mom braided my hair when I was little. The counter I spent a good thirty minutes at watching myself bare my teeth in the mirror when I’d first gotten braces in fifth grade. The counter I parted my hair ridiculously at everyday my Freshman year. And now the counter at which I washed my inky hands from my suicide note at. But that didn’t matter. Or at least it wouldn’t soon enough.

I walked into the kitchen, opening the counter over the stove. I stood up on my tiptoes so that I’d be able to reach the tin-box that Mom kept all the candy in. I pulled it down and quietly set it down on top of the stove, being careful not to make a single noise as I opened it. I grabbed seven or eight pieces out of the box, and shoved them all into the pocket of my hoodie. I figured I might as well over-indulge.

I pulled the hood up over my head, turning away from the stove and towards the door. Away from the stove that I burnt my hand on when I was six years old. The stove that I tried to cook macaroni at when I was in third grade and almost burned the house down. The stove that I cooked a cake at for my party eighth gradeyear that nobody came to. And now the stove that I took my last pieces of candy at. But that didn’t matter. Or at least it wouldn’t soon enough.

I found my way out the door and onto the front porch, and stood there for a moment watching the neighborhood in front of me. Only one person had a light on, the fifth house down on the opposite side of the street. I wondered for a moment what they were doing and why they were still up at two in the morning. I wondered who they were and what they were like and if they were maybe writing their own suicide note. But then it occurred to me that I’d never find out. There were so many things I’d never find out.

I decided to stop thinking about things like that because they only got me deeper into that never-ending pit of depression that there already wasn’t any getting out of. I made my way down the steps off the porch and walked straight off. Walked straight off the porch where I fell and scrapped my knee when I was eight. The porch where my best friend and I sat next to each other eating popsicles and talking about boys in seventh grade. The porch where Jake Laton gave me my first kiss the summer after I turned thirteen. The porch where I stood and thought for the last time before I killed myself. But that didn’t matter. Or at least it wouldn’t soon enough.

I took slow and steady steps down the sidewalk, hands in my pocket, pulling out and taking small bites from the candy I’d stolen. I looked around, taking in every detail of the last walk I was going to take. When I noticed the house with the light on, I stopped for a minute, looking into the window. To my surprise, there were two people in the room. One of them I recognized as a girl in my math class. She was one of those shy pretty girls that nobody really ever noticed much. The other one I recognized as my actual neighbor, Jake Laton. I wondered what exactly they were talking about. I knew it was serious by the look on Jake’s face. It didn’t surprise me one when suddenly they both stopped talking and suddenly their lips were on one another. Feeling that the moment was private, I went on my way, leaving behind my neighbor.

The neighbor who I used to play with in my sand box when we were probably four or five years old. The neighbor that I suddenly figured out was an actual live boy in fifth grade, and a cute one at that. A boy who came over every Friday and watched movies with me in my basement on Friday nights. A boy who kissed me the summer I was thirteen. A boy who used to call me beautiful even though I wasn’t. A boy who kissed girls that nobody really noticed much. And now the last boy I ever saw. But that didn’t matter. Or, at least, it wouldn’t soon enough.

Before I knew it I found myself on the top of Old Carver bridge, looking down at the ground so far down below me. I thought that this would be the best way to go. Leave the world flying. I’d always to know what it felt like to fly, and even as a little kid I’d gone to extreme measure to find out. I once jumped out of a tree and broke my arm attempting to fly. I didn’t really see how this was any different. I didn’t really-

“You know, you certainly spend a lot of time here,” someone observed, interrupting my thought process and scaring me out of my wits. I actually jumped, but not off the bridge like the way I’d planned. Just in the air a little. “And you’re pretty dangerously close to the edge, there.”

I looked over to see who was making all these observations to see a kid maybe a little bit younger than me. Brown hair, grey jacket. Blue eyes. Just like any other kid.

“Do I know you?” I asked, feeling a little agitated. It didn’t really put someone in a good mood when their suicide attempt was interrupted.

“Nah,” he said, shrugging a little. “But I’ve seen you around a lot. You come to this bridge a lot.”

“What’s your point?” I asked, wishing he’d just leave. He was ruining it. He was giving me time to think about it and time to change my mind. I always changed my mind and I didn’t want to again.

He didn’t reply, using his toe to shove a rock off the bridge and watch it fall the good two hundred feet.

“I used to be afraid of heights,” I told him after a moment, though I’m not too sure why. He didn’t care. Nobody ever really cared about anybody but themselves and the people that could benefit them in some way.

“How’d you get over it?” He asked me, looking up from the ground to my face to the ground again. As if he couldn’t pick which one he wanted to see.

“I don’t think I ever did,” I admitted. “I’m scared out of my mind right now.”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye, the kind of look that told me he knew. I wasn’t sure what it was he knew, but he knew something. “Are you sure it’s the heights that are scaring you?”

“What are you trying to ask me?” I snipped back, feeling kind of touchy. Oh God, this kid was ruining everything. I was going to change my mind. I could feel it.

“Nothin’,” he said innocently, shrugging as if it was nothing. He paused a few moments before adding, “So, you looking for someone to jump with you?”

“What?” I asked, feeling utterly and completely confused by the tone of his voice. So casual. As if he wasn’t saying anything of importance. But he was saying everything.

“I was just joking,” he explained quickly, his eyebrows furrowing together. “It’s just something my grandpa used to… I just. No. I couldn’t ever kill myself. I haven’t found any good in the world yet.”

“That seems like a perfectly good reason to kill yourself to me,” I muttered under my breath, wondering what the heck this guy was all about.

“I’m sure it’s out there somewhere. I don’t wanna miss out on it, though,” he said. “Who knows what I’ll miss out on if I kill myself now. I mean, we’re all gonna die anyways. Some way, some how. It’s not something anybody misses out on. But there are so many things in the world that you won’t ever see or do. So it makes more sense to me to try to go see and do those things than to kill yourself. You just gotta wait a few more fifty or sixty years and that’ll happen all on it’s own.”

I sighed, because what he was saying was starting to make a lot more sense than I wanted it to. And when things started to make sense then I started to think clearly enough to make a good decision. And now, what a surprise, my mind was changed again.

Another day, I promised myself. Another day I’ll go through with it and it won't matter whether I found good in the world or not. None of this will matter anymore, soon enough.