Say Something
Say Something, I'm giving up
on you. And I'm sorry that I couldn't
Get to you, and anywhere I would have
followed you.
-A Great Big World
A tear slid down the corner of his face as he stared at her lifeless form. She looked like she was sleeping, but her skin was pale, almost grey. Her golden hair had turned an ugly shade of yellow as it stuck with sweat to her face. Her body was limp and heavy in his arms; he held her close, smelling the scent of death and despair.
She wasn't dead. Not yet at least. She would be in matter of moments, her slow pulse would stop; and then she would be dead.
Everyone had always thought that he was the broken one. The one that needed help, that needs to be cared for. But he was strong, he dealt with his issues. She'd kept them hidden from anyone, until the day she couldn't take it. She was the broken one, and no one had been perceptive enough to notice.
He was sure that was what she had wanted; for someone to notice the sad eyes between smiles, the tears between laughs. But no one had, he hadn't, not until it was too late. Now she was almost a corpse in his arms.
He had no words to say. He couldn't blame himself, because he knew deep down it wasn't his fault. He had always had a clearer thought process in devastating situations than most. He knew that she should have said something to him, to someone. He wasn't a mind reader, he couldn't have known. She always pretended to be so put together, how was anyone ever to realize how broken she was?
She should have asked for help. That's what she should have done, that's what anyone else would do, what he had done. He'd admitted his weakness, and she'd helped him through it. He didn't understand why she didn't trust him enough to ask for the same in return.
He stroked the plastered hair away from her face, watching as her breaths slowed. He glanced over at the empty prescription bottle on the table by the bed. Not a pill left.
He wanted her to ask for help, to say that she needed him. No one could do it alone. She was strong, one of the strongest people he'd ever known, and she'd still broken. Everyone breaks, but they ask for help.
"Anything left to say?" he murmured gently to her, wondering if she could still hear. The tears were running down his face like a waterfall. He didn't want to lose her but he didn't have a choice anymore. She wanted to go, she didn't want to live anymore. He had to let her, if it was what she wanted.
A small audible sound came from her lips, and his eyes grew wide with anticipation. He didn't want to lament her death, he wasn't ready to. No one ever was.
"I don't want to let you go," he told her softly, needing her to know how he felt, even if she were to die second later. He needed her know so she could forgive him. "I want to help you. But you never. . ." He stopped at his voice cracked into a sob. "You never told me anything was wrong. I thought you were okay. . . I thought. . ."
He didn't know what he thought anymore. The grief was taking control of him, racking his body with sobs and tears.
"You never asked for help," he finished quietly, almost hoping she wouldn't hear. He didn't want to blame her, but he did. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to know that, he wanted her to die happily at least. "All you had to do was ask."
There was weak pressure from her hand that he held. He glanced down at her again.
Her eyes, which previously had been closed, were looking at him, terrified. He blinked, wondering if his grief was making him hallucinate. She was afraid, the lines of her face rigid and tense. Her lips moved again.
"What?" he asked, wondering if she was trying to speak. He put his ear next to her lips.
It was one word but it was enough. He found whatever strength was left inside of him and lifted her from the bed, and carried her to the bathroom, and turned on the cold water of the shower. Without another hesitation he forced her to purge the pills from her stomach into the bathtub as he wet her face with water.
She began to cough and sputter, sounding like a strangled cat. His relief was eminent, she was moving, granted she might pass out soon. It didn't matter, she would survive. She would live.
She had said something.
She had asked for help.
I heard this song and fell in love with it, and also cried my eyes out. This was the end result. Sorry for the super darkness, but sometimes suicide needs to be addressed. Review if you want, I would have written it anyway.