THE BOY WHO BLOCKED HIS OWN SHOT
He stood stationary against the rich soil beneath his feet, his hands curled in to tight fists, knuckles whitened and arms trembling. His unruly hair blew in the wind as a tempestuous gust moved past his lanky figure.
The moment was all too cliché.
He could not change his mind, now—he would not, at this point. There was too much to go back to, too much that has already been lost. And to him, what is lost can never be found. And as his head shifted slowly from side to side, he realized that he was more alone than ever; solitude not negotiable.
And he was sure they would deem this as a Bi-polar outburst; a tragic ending caused by his mental illness. He was most certain that his friends and family would mourn as if screaming to society and to each other, I told you so. And as they would cry, they would smile inwardly, having already known his fate.
He hoped they would not forget him; merely forget the mistakes he had made, or the imperfections that caused his life to crumble. He hoped that they would remember his talents and embrace the better memories.
A flock of black birds passed over him and his eyes followed as they moved out of sight. He forgot them quickly, but the afternoon seemed much darker thereafter.
A large tree stood a few steps away and he trudged on to reach it, the movement seemingly difficult, and he was almost out of breath the moment he reached its large, protruding roots. He sat upon it and reached in to his leather jacket, pulling from it a small bottle of prescription medicine and a container of whiskey. This is it, he thought.
The bottle twisted open easily and the cap fell to the ground somewhere near his side. As he turned the cap of the whiskey container, the scent filled his nostrils. This was something he had never before experienced. And as he pulled the container to his lips and allowed the bitter liquid to penetrate his throat, he winced.
This wasn't at all how he thought it would be.
He took another elongated mouthful of the burning liquor and swallowed quickly, his eyes tearing and throat ablaze. And when he looked down at his other hand, he could not figure out when the medicine bottle toppled over and spilled its contents in to his palm. But he took it as a sign to continue forth in his quest to find eternal numbness.
Another swig—just in case; the drunker he got, the less he would feel, the less he would remember, and the less he would want to turn back.
His tablet-filled hand came to his mouth in one swift motion and within seconds, the container of whiskey was emptied of its fluid. He felt dizzy afterward, and he understood that his time was almost up.
Think happy thoughts . . .
But he could think of none at all.
He knew he was being selfish; he knew that there were people out there who would be devastated by his untimely death, but, he figured, suicide is a selfish deed, in fact.
He would remember his sister and his step-father; his friends and schoolmates. He thought of their reactions. He thought of Graduation, and how sorry he was that he could not make it, but not sorry enough to grab hold of his mobile phone and call for help.
His eyes began to close and he sunk backward, no longer able to carry the weight of his upper half. His breaths were coming in short gasps, until they had stopped entirely, creating a dense and morose atmosphere around him. He tried to move his fingers and found that he could not. He wanted to open his eyes, but found that they would not oblige.
And no one would realize—no one would ever know—that a mere two seconds before he abandoned his own life, he had changed his mind.