Water

Ch. 1: Still Alive

AN: Thank you for all your reviews on my previous stories. I really do appreciate them and that you take the time to write them. :) I hope you enjoy this story as well.

South Park (c) Matt Stone & Trey Parker

No one knows how hard it is to drown your self.

Not until you've stood over the edge of the water, looking into it and thinking, Why am I doing this?

Even after whatever happened to pull you to this conclusion, you still stand, reminding yourself that everything really is so bad that it's just not going to get better.

That it's not going to get better in time.

That this is going to be easy.

It's not.

"The easy way out" is the hardest way.

The "pathetic, emo attention-getter" is nothing more than a helpless and tired being.

Everyone says it's so easy, and at times like this, you'd believe them. It takes so much from you to make yourself do something so drastic. It's easier when someone else is doing it, even if it is all the more painful. Who knows which way is worse, though. What others may think of your corpse is a small afterthought. Just another suicide. Does it really mean anything to you now that you're adding to the statistics?

Another moment of hesitation, and it would all seem silly. The thoughts rushing through the head reside, leaving only the heartbeat to pound loudly into your ears. The moment comes: A step over. A pencil dive in, and the water rushes into the nose, burning it and giving you that horrible taste in the back of your throat. At first it's all cold, and then the water feels okay. It's just like when you're getting used to the water before swimming. Just like that.

It takes more will than most could muster to stay under after the dive. Everything reasonable inside tells you to swim back to the surface. You're just inches underneath it since your body seems to float so easily. Will be damned when you consume a breath of air as your head comes out of the water. A chill rushes through you, and your surroundings are just as bland as they were when you dived.

Another try is in order. You already gave up on everything else. Why give up on this? It should be so simple. Less than ten seconds under, and you're right back up again. With your heart racing, it's hard to even hold your breath. Who knew it could be so hard?

You might wonder: Does it take some technique or am I really that weak?

"Of course you are," an outsider might reply. "Weak and stupid." So righteous in their words. So self-loving. All that have consciously lived have thought to die, but those who walk through their negativity unscathed feel superior. They've had it worse, and they didn't even consider it as an option. Yeah, I'm sure. Too stoic to feel guilt, you wade in the water for a moment longer with your head half under. The clothes you didn't bother removing or changing for the occasion are soaked, but that doesn't matter. It doesn't even matter that someone might have seen your actions. All that matters is that you're going back.

No emotions make themselves known except for pure misery as you slowly make your way back out of the water. It pours from your clothes once you've stepped completely out, and after that it only drips to the growing puddle at your feet. The fact that this observation could be poetic or metaphorical for something miserable and depressing doesn't even pass through your mind. Only other ways to escape life are present thoughts.

It's cold outside of the water, and the wind is smugly blowing right through your soaked body. Miserable. Shivering, you instinctively make your way back to where you came from. Perhaps deciding to sit outside and hope for the flu crosses your mind. Attempting it becomes futile, as it is cold. Very cold.

No one really asks any questions as you pass them. The one you're hoping to be asked is: "Why are you wet?" A witty reply is in your mind. Something blunt and cruel in regards to your actions even though you feel as dejected as you look. It would be stupid to admit you tried it anyway. As if you were trying to brag. There's no reason to brag.

There never was.

I've always been stubborn. I've never given up on anything so easily, but I gave up on this. I gave up on a lot today, but it's all still there just like it was before I jumped. I told someone, and I'm not proud. It was a moment of weakness. They called, and stupidly, I answered.

"Hey—"

"It's not easy," I say quickly, "to drown. It looks like shits and giggles, but it's not. I tried." Before anything else could be said, I hung up. There was no call back.

That was stupid.

I don't want my best friend to know, but it's only a matter of time before I break down again. I couldn't tell him why if he asked. He wouldn't understand how I feel, would he? I don't even know where to begin to explain why I feel so…hopeless. He would just give me his so-called logical insight on the situation, and finally conclude killing myself is stupid. So many people care about me, he'd say. But do they?

I don't care.

All that will come out of this is anger and lectures and irritation, and I'm so fucking tired. The people I want to know most will never know. They'll never ask. They'll never find out.

I walk back to my room slowly, as if I could make the atmosphere any more depressing, and stand there for a moment even though it's cold. It's so fucking cold. The carpet under my feet is getting wet from my presence, and my clothes are clinging to me, making everything all the worse. I refuse to let my body shiver, even though every once in a while it'll do it involuntarily. I don't want to look as weak as I really am. I'd hate myself for appearing so pathetic.

For some reason, I'm still considerate of my things, of myself, and of the fucking carpet. I peel off my clothes and toss them in the bathroom on the sink to just lie there, wet and dripping on the tile. I could have left them in my floor, but they'd soak everything. Why would I want that?

Without even bothering to dry off in between, I put on whatever is in my floor. With two layers of clothes on, I sit on the edge of my bed, hands attempting to be warmed under my thighs. I hate to think right now because all I really want to do is cry. No one's around, so it should be okay, but I don't want to let myself rot in my own misery. My eyes already sting and feel strained from even the thought.

My cell phone vibrates from the floor, and I refuse to get up to pick it up. I'm sure I know who it is. I don't want to have to talk. Finally, it stops vibrating, and I feel a little relieved.

It starts for a second time, but I just lay back on my bed. After it stops, it goes off yet again. Fuck.

"…Hello."

"Geeze, Stan, you pick up after the third time I call. What're you doing?"

I have nothing to say to that. I sit there in silence, staring down at my lap. Why did I pick up?

Kyle didn't seem to mind the silence and continued as if it were any other conversation. As if I had answered cheerfully with something I'd usually say. I guess it must be hard to sense how fucking depressed I am through the phone.

"So, I'm completely out of ideas for this weekend. Have you thought of anything?"

"No." I state, monotone, "I have no ideas."

"Well, let's think of something," he says to me in that determined voice of his. He'd been really looking forward to spending this four-day weekend together. So had I.

I sigh into the phone and pinch the bridge of my nose. I really don't want to sound like I'm about to cry over the phone with Kyle. I'm sure if I spoke, my voice would waver and break, and Kyle would immediately realize why I'm so quiet and ask me in that worried tone, 'what's wrong?' I haven't had enough time alone, and I know that I'd spill. I'd let everything that I've kept bottled up for so long loose on the one person I'm sure I can trust. I don't really think I can trust him with everything, though. I mean, we're both human. Who would want that much thrown onto them just because they claim someone as their best friend? Either way, I don't want to be proven right.

I don't want to be told what I already know: I'm a stupid coward.

"Stan? You still there?"

I can't seem to reply, still in a daze of thoughts. I don't know what to say to him. I can't even get my mind to think about anything other than being depressed. After a few more moments of silence, I can hear Kyle mumble to himself, "I guess he hung up…"

He sounded so disappointed. I couldn't just let him hang up thinking I had hung up on him. Before he could hang up himself, I spoke up, "N-no, I'm here."

"Oh, good…" There was a pause, and I think he was hoping I'd say something more. I didn't, so he continued by asking, "How about we go to the movies? Is there anything you wanna see? I kinda wanted to see the Prince of Persia."

"Uh," I moved the wet hair from my ear to make holding the phone more comfortable and shrugged, "sure. I don't care. When?"

"Today..?"

"..Oh."

"I can be over there in like five minutes, and we can hang out until the movie starts."

"Okay."