It was tragic, really, for someone so young to be so inured to the thought of death, of suicide, but it had always been a part of her, the thoughts of "my blood would look nice on that blade" and "that's a perfect place for a noose" consuming her.
He was worried about her, if he was being honest. Terribly worried. Every time he'd look into her green eyes, he'd see the emptiness; every time he'd kiss her he'd feel the brokenness and it clawed at his heart, making him cry in the night and pull out his hair because he loved her and she was betraying him by wallowing in her sorrow, showing her self-hated more attention than she ever showed him.
The frequency of her morose statements became overwhelming over the weeks, the increments increasing, and becoming an "every-time-she-talks" occurrence. And he recoils from her, frightened at her words, yes, but even more so at the nonchalance of them.
Her suicidal tendencies reached paramount the last Thursday of her life. She had come to school, bringing only her tiny frame, draped in sweatpants and a loose fitting Mortal Kombat shirt he recognized as his own, and kissed his cheek, saying, "I'll see you around, bud."
The walk home is crisp and cool, the November air hitting her bare arms and making her shiver, but it doesn't perturb her. Soon, she wouldn't feel anything at all.
She wanted to take a calm approach; didn't want to suffer, despite how freely she used to talk about jumping from cliffs. But no, that's now how she would go out; she'd go peacefully, in her sleep, and she hoped the pills would help annihilate all the memories that weren't even hers.
—
Death is something that's unforgettable, unforgivable, irrevocable in the way that as the unconsciousness slips over you, you're already done for, fading out until adios, you're gone. The house in the back of your head is empty forevermore.
Once you're gone, you're gone, done, finished, stop even trying to deny it. You wanted this, since you were young, death gave you a sick thrill and you savoured in it. But the immutable impact of what you've done only hits you when you see the white.
The fog is heavy, and you can't make out anything around you, but you reach out your hands to feel around and you can see them; they're tan and you were so pale in life that it scares you. Your movements are ponderous, like you're moving an inch a minute, like you're underwater, but drowning is a terrible death, and you shudder.
The apprehension sets in when it feels an hour has passed but you're still in the white foggy space, feeling around blinding at nothing. Angry tears are falling now, and you're thinking "Where is it? Where are you?"
And then you can make out a silhouette and a sob tears from you, because you've finally found it, you've finally found him, freaking finally, and the feeling of ineffable joy and fulfillment fills you up; so you run to him, turn him around and you see the hazel eyes that haunted your dreams but you could never find and he smiles and whispers:
"Finally."
