Disclaimer: Own Nothing.
A/N: For some reason I felt like finally posting this, yet another story with this coupling. It's also the intro to my JT/Emma actual chapter fic called Fallen from Grace, so if you enjoy this, be looking for it. Maybe I'll stop having all this inspiration if they'd just make it happen on the show….
I was torn between Until the Day I Die and Anthem of Our Dying Day. And even though Anthem doesn't real fit with the story exactly, I used it for its emphasis on death.. Rated for character thoughts of suicide.
I slowly make my way down the stairs, avoiding the middle stair that creaks. I know I shouldn't be here….
As my feet touch carpet, I stop, taking in a deep breath before stepping forward.
The room, once filled to the brim with light and energy is now engulfed in cold reality. Her stuff, now packed up in boxes along with all the memories, lays piled in a corner, gathering dust. The bed is gone, sold to a charity so that some little kid can sleep on an actual mattress at night.
Little does he know that it belonged to a dead girl.
The stars will cry the blackest tears tonight
And this is the moment that I live for
I can smell the ocean air
I quietly walk over to the window, now covered in a layer of filth from neglect and scrape my hand across it, in attempt to remove some of the grime. Her parents haven't cleaned it, or any part of the room in months. I don't blame them, they lost their only daughter, their pride and joy.
Then again, I lost the same person.
It's been 5 months, 2 weeks and six days since I lost her, in this very room.
She had called me, and out of nowhere just said good-bye. It was awkward, and remotely neurotic. On a normal basis, I would have thought she was just suffering from insomnia and couldn't think straight. But the tone of her voice was different---- grim and serious, too focused for it to be sleep deprivation. I tried to keep her on the phone, begging, screaming, pleading, anything to keep her on that phone as I sat on the other end, panicking.
It didn't work, and she hung up.
I felt a sense of urgency from our conversation and ran downstairs and out the front door. I cursed at myself for not convincing my parents to get me a car, it would make the traveling the ten blocks to her house a lot faster. But no, I just had to have a damn mp3 player instead.
So I took off running. Making it to her room just in time for her to say good-bye to me. She died in my arms. I tried to protect her, save her, but I couldn't save her from herself.
I still haven't forgiven myself.
Here I am
Pouring my heart onto these rooftops
Just a ghost to the world
And that's exactly what I need
My gaze wanders from the window to the rest of her room.
The room is so quiet and eerie, it feels more like a morgue than a bedroom.
My tenth grade year is coming to a close. My grades have dropped drastically from the A's they once were, permanent bags have formed under my eyes from the insomnia I've had ever since she committed suicide and the scars on my arms and wrists from attempted suicides have yet to fade. There are still needle marks along a vein from when I took Crystal Methane injections to help me forget about her…
But I just can't forget about Emma Nelson, I don't think I ever will.
From up here these city lights burn
Like a thousand miles of fire
And I'm here to sing this anthem
Of our dying day
People still see me as this happy little kid, if only they knew the truth, that beneath the pseudo joyful outer shell, I'm empty inside. Just like her room is now….
I died that night, amidst the paramedics and her crying parents. The life inside me just disappeared, just like her. Only I was left to walk the earth, like an outcast from heaven. I didn't manage to leave my body behind.
Maybe one day I'll be lucky enough to succeed, like her. Dying would be a welcome relief from this world.
And I've tried. I've tried to slit my wrists, jumping off of buildings, starving myself. Everything. I hate this place. The once beautiful Toronto seems scarred and black, even Degrassi seems more like a prison than a school.
Like I said, dying would be a welcome relief.
For a second I wish the tide
Would swallow every inch of this city
As you gasp for air tonight
I glance over to her desk, the only piece of the furniture in the room left unmoved. It's covered in dust and bare, except for a small object, a dusty picture frame. I slowly walk over to the desk and lift the picture frame up, brushing the dusty coating off with my fingers.
My mouth drops slightly.
It's a picture of her and I, decorating her Christmas tree last year. And what's more, she looks happy. I can't remember the last time I actually saw her smile.
The months leading up to her suicide were filled with pain and depression. Every day the bags under her eyes grew darker and her already pale skin would continue to lose more of its color. I was the only one who saw this.
And yet, I didn't do a thing about it.
I'd scream this song
Right in your face if you were here
Swear I won't miss a beat
Because I never have before
"JT, your mother's here. She's come to take you to your counseling session."
I turn around to see an aged Mr. Simpson standing at the bottom of the stairs. That's as far as he'll go. It brings back too many memories for him to come into the room.
I nod and continue to stare at the picture, trying to make it replace my last glimpse of her, crying in my arms.
"It's the only picture Spike wanted to be left out." He says, sighing. "Emma loved you."
I gulped, feeling a wetness swell up in my blood shot eyes. I felt like I was going to cry something I hadn't done since the night I watched her die, when she had told me she loved me, for the first time.
"Well, your mother's outside waiting. It'd be best if you went with her now." Mr. Simpson finished, heading back up the stairs.
"I miss her…" I whisper, finally voicing the one thought I had kept inside myself the past few months. After setting down the picture on the desk, I slowly made my way back up the stairs.
From up here these city lights burn
Like a thousand miles of fire
And I'm here to sing this anthem
Of our dying day