*Edited June 8th, 2012.


Fabian's POV

For most people, suicide is just a horrible tragedy that they hear on the news or read in books. They feel slight grief for whoever was so miserable that they decided to take away their own life, and a little pain for the people affected by that loss. But they don't know how much it truly hurts. Unless if you've experienced it.

Sometimes, the person is just a peer at school, someone you've never met. Sometimes it's an acquaintance, maybe you shared a few of the same classes or were assigned as partners for a project. And sometimes, it's a friend. Or your best friend. That's by far the most unbearable pain of all.


"Nina Martin, Jerome Clarke, Patricia Williamson, Alfie Lewis, Mara Jaffray, Edison Sweet, Amber Millington, and Fabian Rutter to the principal's office immediately," Mr. Sweet's voice boomed through the loudspeaker, startling all of us. My heart sank as I realized my name had been called along with the rest of my housemates. Going to the principal's office was the last thing I wanted to do.

Miss Valentine promptly stopped lecturing. Her eyes adverted to all of us who were called down, and she gave a quick nod of her head, physically displaying her permission for us to leave. Her face is what struck me the hardest; her lips were pressed together in thin, firm frown. And her eyes were hard to see through, but the more carefully I looked, I could see the way they drooped dejectedly as we stood up to leave. She knew why we were called down. Everyone did.

The eight of us filed out of the doorway, in complete silence. The silence continued to linger over us like a storm cloud as we padded down the hallway, a distinct distance between all of us. This was the opportunity for us to finally talk, but I couldn't bring myself to speak. I could see in the way my housemates looked conflicted, like they too were awash in complex signals and impulses; debating whether or not it was the right time to say something. Clearly it wasn't.

Things weren't the same between us anymore, after the "incident" occurred. None of us had spoken in days, we had tried before. But the conversations were never genuine, each failed attempt was filled with feigned happiness, forced smiles, awkward silences. Everyone had become so distant and depressed. The incident that had changed our lives, the incident we were doing to be forced to discuss with the principal. The incident I couldn't think about without tears welling up in my eyes and made my heart ache so badly that it was unbearable. I tried not to dwell about it, but it was impossible. It was always on my mind.

Jerome reached the door to the office first, and knocked firmly, and stepped back. A few seconds went by before a faint call of "Enter" could be heard through the silence. Jerome turned the knob and held the door open for all of us. We stepped through the threshold and into the small office, the clicking of the closing door followed.

Mr. Sweet was sitting at his desk, his hands folded upon the dark wood. His stare on us was piercingly sharp, yet I couldn't bring myself to look away. We all gathered around his desk, uncomfortably cramped together.

"You all know why you were called down here, I assume," Mr. Sweet spoke, his voice firm and unwavering. Like he had been rehearsing his words over and over again, which I wouldn't have been surprised if he did.

We all nodded briefly, still not meeting eyes. That wasn't good enough for our principal, apparently, for he asked one of the most hardest questions to answer.

"Can any of you explain why?"

I kept my eyes locked on the floor, my heart beating like a fast, low drum in my chest. So loud I was fearing everyone could hear it. But no one was looking at me; their eyes were all focused off into space. Their eyes were dull and lifeless, like their bodies were on earth, but their soul and mind were elsewhere. Except for Patricia, who was staring coldly at Mr. Sweet, scowling.

"You really have the nerve to ask us that? You know exactly why you called us down here!" She growled, slamming her hand against Mr. Sweet's desk. The sound struck loudly through the room and I noticed the way everyone seemed to jump back into reality at the sharp noise. Surprisingly, he did nothing, and to add to my shock, he looked completely unfazed by Patricia's outburst.

"Yes, you're correct, Patricia." His voice was now calm, his face expressionless. Which just seemed to aggravate Patricia even more; her body had become rigid, her hands balled up into quivering fists. No one tried to comfort her, we all knew by now that it was best not to offer Patricia sympathy when she was in one of those moods. Not that I blamed her for acting the way she just did, she had every right to be upset. Some of us were just handling the incident differently than others. But I knew for certain that we all felt grief, pain and guilt.

Mr. Sweet took a deep breath, and leaned forward in his chair. "Since none of you can tell me why, perhaps I'll have to remind you. Your friend, housemate and classmate, Joy Mercer, committed suicide," he said solemnly. Everything seemed to stop once that word reached my ears, including my breath. Suicide, the most disgusting word I've ever heard, seen or read. A word that I now had so much hatred toward.

"This question might be even harder, but at least one of you needs to answer. Because I'm sure one of you has an answer. Can any of you explain why she might of done that?"

That question was even harder than the first. I couldn't believe he expected one of us to be able to answer that, out loud, with everyone watching them. We all continued to focus our eyes on anything but each other, too afraid to meet someone's eyes. Because no matter how hard we tried to deny it, we all knew. We all knew why she killed herself. The reason never left my mind, I couldn't forget it no matter how hard I tried to make myself. It scarred me like a wound; it was a wound.

A few minutes passed, but still no response. I stood there, my feet practically frozen to the ground, paralyzed. Too afraid to speak the truth. And the truth was that I was a coward, afraid of doing what I knew was right. I knew Joy was dissapointed in me for not speaking out; I could feel it in my heart. And it burned, it ached. It was tearing me apart. I had to be the one to answer his question, for Joy. I had to do this for her, while I could still feel her presence with me. I could feel her everywhere I went, like she had never left. But she did. And I never noticed until now how badly I would miss her.

I took a deep, shaky breath. I'm doing this for you, Joy. Not anyone but you.

"I got a letter," I said in a voice so hushed, so vulnerable, it could barely be heard. Everyone's head's turned in my direction, eyes set steadily on my shaking figure. Their eyes were all unreadable, but I knew they were all well aware of what I was talking about. We had all read the letter.

I reached inside of my trouser pocket on the left side, and pulled out a crisp, folded piece of paper, and held it out in front of me. My hands quivered slightly as Mr. Sweet reached out and gently took the letter from my grasp. I rested my hand back against my side, blinking back tears. I took the letter everywhere I went; it was the only real thing I had left of her. It was more valuable than pictures, or even memories. Because right now, all I could remember was the bad memories; the ones that had caused her to do what she did. The people that had caused her to do what she did. I was one of them.


Flashback~

The door made a slight creaking noise as I opened it, stepped inside, and then made a clicking noise once I closed it behind me. I looked around the room, my eyes only focused on my side. I spent a lot more time in here than I used to after the unfortunate event that occurred a few days ago. The event that changed my colorful world to dull black and white, as dreary as cloudy afternoon. I wasn't myself anymore, I was much more reserved and distant. Then again, we all were. We couldn't speak to each other anymore. And that was quite an alarming thing.

Suddenly, I noticed something new on my made bed. It looked like an old, torn piece of paper, but I couldn't be sure. Curiosity bounced through me like a bunny as I walked over to my bed. It was definitely paper. I transferred the tattered material into my hand and began to unfold it. As I did so, I noticed a neat trail of calligraphy had taken up most of the space on the paper. Familiar handwriting; I had definitely seen it before.

My hands began to shake as the owner's name came flooding back to me. Instantly, I knew I didn't want to read the letter, for then I would learn why she did it. I didn't want to know though; it was her reason, her secret. It should be buried with her, not written on this sheet of paper that had obviously been read by many others before me. Others who now knew the reason why as well. It was my turn to learn the secret too.

I sat down on the bed, the springs bouncing a little as I settled into it, and smoothed it out carefully. I took a deep breath, and began to read.

By the time you all read this, I'll probably already be gone. Perhaps you haven't noticed; I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't. That was sarcasm, you all know what I've done. But none of you know the whole story.

No one really knows how deeply their actions can affect someone. How one broken promise can lead to a broken heart, how a simple eye roll or snicker can cause someone to lose their confidence. Or, how one day you come back to find that everyone's better off without you in their lives and suddenly you start to believe that your life is pointless.

Does that sound familiar? Probably not. Because that's how I felt, and last time I checked, no one seemed to care about my feelings.

Now, I'm not just going to sit here and assign blame to everyone; I'm not like that. But I will tell you that all of you had a part in my incident, why I decided to... you know, do what I did. Or what I'm about to do.

You all abandoned me. Some more significant than others, but you all did. Friends I thought I would have forever were suddenly cold strangers, and there was no one I could truly trust. I tried to make things better, I really tried to turn things around, to try and reconnect with everyone, but I could never get it right. Instead I got it all wrong.

No one stood by me after I wrote that article. You all stood by Nina. I think that was when I realized that I was truly unwanted. Alone. Worthless, useless. I get it, the article was mean and wrong. But it was the truth, and like I said: it's not my fault if the truth hurts. And this, right here, is the cold, hard truth. Does it hurt you as much as it hurts me?

Do any of you know how bad it hurts to know that you have no one? No one who genuinely cares for you, no one who will stand by you no matter what the situation or outcome is? No one you can open up to, no one who will listen when you have something to say? I'll tell you what it feels like: lifeless. I felt dead while I was still breathing.

I had so much I wanted to say to all of you, so many unanswered questions. So many unspoken thoughts that I never had the chance or courage to say. But you all spoke loud and clear to me through your actions. And sometimes actions speak louder than words.

I know you didn't mean for this to happen. Or maybe you did? If the result of your actions was intentional; congratulations. You got want you wanted. But, ask yourself: does it feel as good as you thought. Do you feel powerful, more better about yourself? Think long and hard... that's what I thought...

Hopefully heaven's a more happier home than this place. Or hell, wherever I end up. Which quite honestly sounds a lot better than here. Maybe I'll see you there, depending on your religion. And maybe by then you'll understand why sometimes people just don't want to live anymore, how treating people with kindness really does make a difference. How treating someone terribly only tears them apart, until there's nothing left. There's nothing left of who I used to be... only the depressed, reserved person I had unwillingly become. All because of how I was treated.

Pass this note to everyone in the house, aside from Trudy and Victor, of course. They don't need to see this, they had nothing to do with this. And if you don't pass the note on, well, lets just say that I have backup. Backup that you don't want to be released. And whoever finds me, know that I wish you didn't have to see me like this. I wish I could've been stronger. But the wound was too deep to heal properly, too deep to function with. Every time a possibility, a chance of potential brightness in my usual dark, dreary world seemed to form, my hopes and wishes were just tossed out without second thought. I don't want to live in the darkness forever. I'm tired of trying to live like I have a happy, normal life when all I want to do is crawl into a hole and cry for all eternity. So I'm giving up, I don't know what else to do. I have no one.

The last person who reads this can either keep it, or burn it. If you burn it, then all the evidence is gone. No one will ever know how much pain you caused someone. The truth will forever remain a mystery. You can move on and live your life like I never could, like you've never been hurt before.

And if you don't burn it... well, then that just shows that maybe you do care. Maybe you do want something left of me, maybe you didn't want me to die.

But it's too late. The damage has already been done. The past cannot be changed nor repeated. Your actions got the best of me, and ripped it to pieces. I am nothing now.

-Joy

My hands were shaking uncontrollably as my chin quivered. I felt like a thousand knifes were stabbing me inside. The paper had absorbed wet splotches. I reached up to run my wobbling fingers through my hair when I realized my face was wet with moisture. The drops on the paper were my tears, drying along with many other dried tears. Probably my classmates, my friends. The ones who had just as much guilt as I did.

I placed the paper on the comforter beside me and hung my head into my hands in shame, trying to ease the pain, shaking my head as the tears rolled down my cheeks. That letter was the most deepest, darkest thing I had ever read. It held so much pain, so much sorrow, yet the truth. It was undeniably the truth. And she was absolutely right; the truth does hurt. I couldn't believe it, though; I refused to believe it. How could I-we-have been so horrible to her? No one should ever experience the pain Joy endured. The pain that was all my fault. I don't care about the fact that she blamed all of us; I knew I held the most responsiblity for her death. I was the reason she comitted suicide.


Mr. Sweet's eyes scanned through the letter quickly, and by the time he had finished, I swore I saw tears glistening in his eyes.

"Very well," he spoke quietly, as he removed his glasses from around his face. "This," he gestured towards the letter that now sat on his desk, "has answered my question. You are all dismissed." Everyone nodded, except me, and turned around to leave. The door clicked shut, but I was still in the room. My eyes were set steadily on Mr. Sweet.

"Can I have that back now?"

Mr. Sweet just looked at me for a while, his stare indescribable. But it scared me, because he knew now. He knew the secret too. And he also believed that I was the main cause of the incident.

Without saying a word, he handed me back my letter. And without looking back, I took it from him and left, silently.

Once I entered the hallway, I walked a few steps before leaning against a row of blue lockers. That's when I could feel it; the burning of coming tears. This time I didn't try to force them back down. I slide down the lockers until I hit the ground, and finally let the tears escape. I cried so hard I could barely breathe, barely think straight. I could only think about Joy, the letter, and the fact that she was dead.

There were so many things I could have done, so many things I should have done. I should have pulled her closer instead of pushing her away. I should have lent her my shoulder to cry on, instead of just sitting there while she fell apart. I should have let her open up to me, instead of causing her to keep it all inside until she burst.

I should have been the friend I used to be, not the stranger I am now.

But it's too late. I realized too late.