Seeking Solace

The ache in my chest never leaves in the days that follow, even after I've calmed down enough not to want to cut again. But now there're more aches, the ache of rejection, longing, wanting, waiting; I find that the only reason I'm just barely holding on is because of Gerard. Because part of me is sure that everything will be okay when I see him again. Even though it's all different now. It's all messed up and more complicated than it was before.

There's nothing I can do now though. It's not like I ever had a choice anyway.

Then there's that other thing that I remember I'm still waiting for, that other plan I had stowed away in my head, waiting to spring into action as soon as the first cut tore my skin.

It's my birthday on Sunday.

And still, after everything that's happened- more than I ever expected in just two short weeks- I'm still not sure. I feel like I should be planning for it. Writing my note. Deciding how I'm going to do it. Thinking about how I'll feel as I'm waiting to die. The release I'll be waiting for.

But then I feel like I should wait. I'm still waiting for it to be a bad idea. I don't think it's a good idea- it's the only idea I have left. The cutting only lasts so long. Crying it out helps for a little while, but I'm always left with that goddamn ache, that stabbing in my chest that follows me everywhere. So this is my plan B. I always thought, if anything really bad happened, well, I could always...just do this.

Thinking about it that way, I want it. It's no big deal if I disappear.

I try to forget about leaving Gerard and my brother behind, because they're the only things that keep me here. But then I manage to convince myself that they'll be better off without me.

Of course there's the other side. The side that doubts that I should do it. The side that asks if I'll even be able to do it.

No. No, I can. I will. I'll leave no uncertainty. At least I can go out with something. I doubt anyone expect Gerard will expect it. And I start thinking that's it's kind of cool. To be remembered like that. For 'spontaneous suicide'.

Gerard calls again the next day after school. I lie and say I'm busy.

Instead, I sit on the floor, facing my bedroom window, watching clouds move and birds fly by and thinking, thinking about what's brought me to this, what happened that made me like this, to want something like this. I spend hours wondering if this is right. And then when I'm done with that, I spend the rest of my time convincing myself that I have no other choice. That I should start to say goodbye soon, if this is what I want.

When Sunday morning rolls around, I wake up before anyone else does. I lie awake for a while, just staring up at the ceiling and thinking. Thinking that today will be a good day. That I will have something to finally do, to look forward to. I won't have to worry about the few days before this one, where I can't even remember what I did. I won't even have to worry about the days afterwards, which is even better.

I get up and go take a shower. I've already decided that I'm going to act as normal as possible until tonight. And then when everyone's asleep, I'll just become another eerie tale of the ghost of a boy who died on Halloween night.

See? Cool.

I find my brother downstairs, watching early-morning cartoons, just like I used to, before I discovered the beauty of sleeping in. I sit with him in silence, and watch stuff that I haven't seen in years, that I'd forgot I loved as a kid. It's nice, remembering, that time when all that mattered was candy and cartoons, and mum and dad's arguments didn't mean anything. That time when I used to talk to all my toys. That time when I went to the zoo and the library and the museum like everyone else.

That time when mum never smiled. That time when I never saw dad because he was always home late. That time when our house burnt down and we had to move. That time when my mum told me to run to the neighbors to call for help, and she stayed inside our burning house, and I didn't know until afterwards how dangerous it was. That time when my mum used to hit me, for what I know now was most frustration.

That time when I was eight years old went I felt like nothing and wanted to die.

That time when they told me I was going to be a big brother. That time when my brother was born, all I wanted to do was to hold him and keep him safe. That time when I loved him. That time when things changed. That time when dad got a new job. That time when dad was home more. That time when mum's smiles became less and less. That time when we found out my brother wasn't like other kids. That time when we didn't understand. That time when mum and dad's arguments got worse. That time when my friends all abandoned me. That time when my brother became the one who got all the frustration. That time when I realized he was heading down the same road I'm on now.

That time I walked down that hallway.

I can't see into the future now. I wish I could, so I can see if it gets any better. The way my life has played out so far is never how I intended it to be. I don't know how I planned exactly, I just keep having this thought, one where I keep wondering why I was the one chosen to live a life of pain. Why I'm not just 'that other kid' that got landed with a normal life.

But then this pain makes me. I feel like if I hadn't been born this Frank, then I wouldn't be Frank.

All of this debating and self-conflict just makes my head fucking hurt.

When Mum wakes up, she spends the whole time glaring out the window at our festive neighbours, and grumbling about the un-Christian nature of Halloween, and how it's all just a commercialized satanic holiday.

This is why, despite the fact that my birthday is on Halloween, and I live in a neighborhood in Jersey where Halloween is probably more exciting than Christmas, I have never once gone trick-or-treating.

This time when I'm dragged to church, and I'm sitting in one of the many hard, wooden pews and gazing up at the stained glass windows and the Jesus figure with the thorns around his heart (which has always been horribly disturbing to me, despite whatever my mum or the priest might say about it being reassuring or some shit), I really think about what might come afterwards. Like, I've never really doubted the existence of heaven. It's just kind of been this notion that's always seemed obvious. Like, when you breathe in air, you're taking in oxygen your body needs. When you die, you go to heaven. Even though the notion of hell is there in my head too, I can't really imagine anyone going there. It's just a place that's probably made up to scare us.

So if I die now, I'm not really worried about hell. Still, I kind of find myself...talking to God. Or at least thinking about the concept of God. I figure God's a nice guy. Or girl. And that he just sort of started everything and let it play out for us to figure out using our science. And that all the problems that happen on Earth aren't really his/her fault. I don't blame God. I think it would be stupid to. We put so much stock in something that we don't even know exists. We can't bear to blame ourselves for our problems. So we turn to something we created in our heads, and when it doesn't look down on us and save us, we curse it and invent something else instead.

When I try to take a moment to figure out how I'm feeling, I come out with mellow. I don't think I've been mellow for along time. It's just that feeling of sitting back and observing everything, but it's a little too calm, a little too accepting of everything, and it scares me.

I don't have much time to be scared, because only a few hours after we get home, Luke shows up at my door. He has to get a little creative with how he gets my parents to agree to let me out on a day like this, but since they already love him, it doesn't take much convincing.

Of course, this going out is not for my birthday, because everyone seems to have forgotten. Like I knew they would.

"I'm like the Trojan fucking horse, man," Luke says, as his friends guffaw around him. "Motherfuckers never see it coming 'till it hits 'em in the face."

It doesn't take long before Luke goes from his stupid smugness and self-appreciation, to pissed off.

I won't cooperate.

After an hour, all I've done is stand back and watch as they attack other people our age, younger ones, even adults, all while hidden behind face-concealing costumes. This is why he never gets caught. Even though something like this seems easy, he's always one step ahead of the enemy. It's obvious to no one but him, and he pulls it off flawlessly.

That is, if his right hand man keeps up his faithful act.

He chews me out for a while, but I just say nothing. He hits me a couple times, but I still say nothing.

We're beside the lake in the park at this point. Watching the undisturbed surface in the fading light, I think about all the bodies that have been found there. All the souls that have drifted through the water and up to wherever they end up going.

Luke and minions decide to leave me there, alone.

It starts to rain.

As it pours down on me, soaking my clothes, my hair, freezing my body and making the tiny cuts in my skin sting, I just keep watching the surface of the lake, now covered in little ripples and spikes as the rain hits it.

I think about it. I watch the surface. It looks so beautiful, even with it's dark secrets.

I take a step forward.

My phone starts ringing in my pocket. It's low enough that over the pounding of the rain, I can't hear the ring tone I've set for my mum. Or dad. Or Luke. Could be anyone.

I wonder if I picked up and said goodbye, would they appreciate it?

I take another step forward.

I'm close enough that as the water rises ever so slowly, it almost reaches my shoes. I watch the water lap at my feet, smiling at me, calling me in.

My phone stops ringing.

I could be another body on the bottom of a lake. I could be another rotten carcass that's eventually pulled out. I could be another murder mystery, my picture being shown everywhere, along with fake friends who weep into the cameras, saying how wonderful I was, even though I accomplished nothing. And then when they figure it out, I could be another suicide. And then the fake friends will take their five minutes of fame, and laugh at my name in the darkness.

Another step brings the water to my ankles.

I take a deep breath in.

Another step brings the water to my knees. It's fucking freezing.

I know it'll be painful. But I think that if I just breath in as many times as possible under the water, I'll die faster.

I look up at the sky and get a two second glimpse of grey, Jersey sky, before I get a faceful of raindrops, so I close my eyes and just concentrate on the water around me, the water hitting my face, the water at my knees, the water everywhere.

I smile, just a little. And since I can never tell them now, I say, "I love you." And then I add, "I'm sorry." And for a second, I wish I could write it somewhere where they could see. Where they could know that it was never really their fault. Where they could know that it was only the monsters I was born with that ate me from the inside out.

Then there is that last bigger step, the last jump forward and deep breath.

Then the last memory of water and resignation.