The Note

T.W. suicide/mental health/substance abuse topics

Tuesday March 9th, 1987

 The cramped classroom was suffocating. I glanced at the clock even though I knew the time hadn’t changed since I last looked. “Five more minutes,” I told myself, as if that made any difference. My home life was no better than school was. The worst part was that everyone knew; teachers always asked how I was doing, and peers threw me pitying glances in the halls. Of course they pitied me. My mother’s substance abuse made it very hard for her to take care of me, so I was taken away at a young age, and, as my whole family suffered from the same crippling addiction, I was placed in foster care. Apparently, in between the years of her drug usage, my mother had never deigned to give me a name, so I was given the name “Gavin” by my first social worker. I hate social workers. Bouncing from home to home was no picnic, but it was better than waiting to see who your next caretaker would be. Living with new people was like the world’s worst way to gamble; they could either be incredibly kind or awful. There was no in-between. In most cases, the latter was only in it for the money, while the former did it out of the good of their hearts. It’s lucky if you can find a home like that to stay in permanently because they usually already have kids. I was not one of the lucky ones, but I was far better off than the others. Orphanages had just started closing, and more and more children were being put in foster care, causing a lot of overflow in the system. There were more kids than there were available homes for them to live in, causing some to end up in improper facilities, like detention centers, reformatories and sometimes even state hospitals. I had yet to be put in one of those, but then again, I was 17 years old and only had one more year of foster care until I was inevitably kicked out to the streets. I knew I should’ve tried to be optimistic about everything, but I didn’t see how. Nobody wanted to adopt a teenage boy. I had 8 months for someone to adopt me; then, my time would be up. Suddenly, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Sarah, the girl who sat beside me in calculus, holding a note in her hand. I didn’t know much about her other than that she was one of the popular girls in school and ex-girlfriend of the football team’s quarterback. Typical. As the bell rang, I sighed and took the note from her, tucking it into my bag. I didn’t know the contents of said note but nothing good could come from it. It was probably just a lame joke anyway. I walked back to my locker and grabbed my coat. I hated the cold weather almost more than I hated getting made fun of for my coat. It was an old thing from when I was still living with my mom. Most foster parents won’t buy you new things, so I only had the stuff from when I was a kid, meaning nothing really fit me. My only saving grace was that I went to a school where uniforms were school-issued, so I didn’t have to be ridiculed all the time, only during the winter, though living in Canada, to my own demise, meant 3-4 months. The walk to my current home was brutal; it was all uphill, the slush seeping into my ratty shoes and past the bridge. This part was the worst. I had seen some terrible things happen at this bridge; people not much older than me overdosing, women and children being assaulted, and, worst of all, the bodies. Winters here could get to be almost -40℃, not to mention the hail, sleet and snow that would come down upon us 24/7. Most people who didn’t have homes would not survive the harsh weather and would perish. The city didn’t have the mind to care about the homeless population, so bodies would go unchecked and unnoticed for days if not reported. I began to think of my life out here. If the adults couldn’t face the climate, then what would make me any different? I thought of the unchecked bodies. They didn’t have anyone to care for them, nor did I. The thoughts filled my head, blurring my vision. I came to a stop in front of the bridge. “Don’t,” I told myself. “It’s not worth it.” But the words were unintelligible next to the roaring of my brain. Or was that the roaring of the river under the bridge? The bridge of which I had now climbed upon the railing of. It would be so easy, to just let go, to not worry about them finding my body, to be free of my stress. A paper fluttered to the ground. It was Sarah’s note. I hadn’t realized my bag was undone till it fell out. I would’ve ignored it, but the note had caught me so off guard that I hopped down from where I had been perched and picked it up. “Dear Gavin,” It read. “How are you? I’m fine. Did you know I had a dream last night, and you were in it? Well, you probably don’t because how would you know?” If I wasn’t standing ankle-deep in the snow, contemplating my existence, I might’ve laughed. This girl was a lot quirkier than I would’ve imagined. I read on, “It was a rather dull dream, but I remembered it because you were there, and I don’t even know you! It made me wonder if Dream Gavin was like the real Gavin. Do you really know how to do magic? In my dream, you did. I’d like to meet up sometime to see if my subconscious brain is right about you. I know you act all misunderstood and homey but, I think there’s a person under that mask who just needs someone to talk to. I think you’re like me in that way.” I stopped reading for a moment. Wasn’t Sarah popular? Surely, she had tons of people to talk to. “I know you must be thinking, what do you mean you’re like me in that way?” She wrote. “Sure, I have friends, but everyone’s so superficial these days that it’s hard to find someone I really agree with. Don’t think I’m talking to you out of pity or something. Or do, I don’t really care, my offer remains the same. -xoxo Sarah” So I stood there, shocked by a letter given to me by a girl I’ve gone to school with for four years and hadn’t given a single thought to, that is, until now. I walked away from the bridge. The roaring in my brain had seemed to finally quiet.