Warning: contains suicide, depression, cutting.
I sigh, looking down at the knife in my hand. I look up, thinking I hear the door open.
Nope, my bedroom door, adorned with a poster for the most recent school musical, is still firmly closed.
Turning my attention back to the blade, I turn it over in my hand. The other side looks just the same as the first, only with the direction of the blade switched. I turn my wrist over.
I remember back to my research on the topic- drink at least four glasses of water. Done. Make sure you're alone. Also done. Cut lengthwise, instead of across. If you cut across, all you're going to do is slice through some tendons and ensure yourself an extremely painful but not fatal wound. Cutting lengthwise allows your arteries to really open, and the blood to escape faster.
I check the note I wrote hastily, minutes ago. It's short, only 4 sentences, covering about a third of the single notebook paper I wrote it on. It's a mix suicide note/coming out note.
I run the knife against my wrist, lightly, not pressing down, almost as practice. I think to myself, "Ryan, do you really want to do this?" Once I do it, there's no turning back. No living my life anymore, no college or a wife- husband, I correct myself, husband, no kids running around giggling happily and giving me hugs.
But I'll be free of my pain, free of all the stress and anxiety that plagues my life.
I press the knife blade against my wrist. Free. I drag the knife down my arm, towards my elbow. Freedom, finally.
Suddenly, through the blinding pain enveloping me, I feel someone wrench the knife from my hand. I faintly hear Sharpay yelling "Ryan, what the hell are you doing?!"
I gasp, flooded with a mix of pain and regret. I don't want to die after all. I see her pulling out her phone, calling 911, as she grabs my good hand, both to comfort me and prevent me from picking up the knife again.
She details our address, and what's wrong, I don't pay much attention. I focus on the warmth and safety of her hand in mine.
She sets the phone aside, pulling me into her. "Ryan, Ryan, why?" I don't try to speak, the best I can, I gesture to the table- where my note is hopefully still prominently displayed.
She reaches out, grabbing the note. It only takes her approximately 10 seconds to read it, she was always a much faster reader than I was. She sets it down, tears running down her face, and holds me tightly. "Oh, Ryan, I had no idea."
She sings to me. Not an upbeat, boppy song like what she usually performs, but a peaceful lullaby that's oddly comforting, and rocks me gently back and forth.
Slowly, gradually, I feel my vision slipping, my eyes gently closing. I feel her tears falling on the top of my head, and I muster up all my strength, whispering "I love you…" I let go, and feel no more pain.
