all my fault?

[TW: mentions of suicide and self harm]

“You know,” she said, leaning over from her seat on the white leather chair. “It’s not your fault.” A lie. Typical, really. I mean it was her job, being a therapist and all. Because that’s all they really did. Tell fragrant and flowery lies to convince people that what they do has no consequences on other people. 

But it was my fault. All of it. Every single warning sign, every single joke I didn’t take seriously. I might as well have been the one who killed him. 

“Sure,” I replied, glancing at the clock mounted behind her. “But I gotta get to... wherever I’m going.” Another lie, but who could blame me? Miranda Bonaparte meant well, and I’m sure that to other people her words helped, but to me, that’s all they were. Words. As meaningless as they were easy to say. 

Dr. B wore a look of pity on her face as she leaned over to grab my hand. “I’m serious. It really isn’t your fault. It’s nobody’s fault, except—“ 

“Simon’s, right? Because it was his fault he killed himself.” I stood up, yanked her hand off of mine, and walked out. 

It was my fault. If I had just... done something. If I had loved him more, or if I had listened to his cries for help. If I had actually cared about him. Then maybe— maybe he would still be alive. 

...

I got home around 6; skipping school in exchange for the eccentricities of Central Park. Mom greeted me at the door. 

“I noticed you skipped school.”

“Yep.” I said, throwing my shoes to the other end of the room. 

“And I got an update from your therapist. She said you haven’t been that cooperative.” 

“Okay, and?” 

“I just— I wish you’d just try, ‘Tonio.” She said, wringing her hands. 

I blinked. That was a bit of a double edged sword. Simon used to call me that, something that he and my mom used to bond over. 

“I am trying. But how can I just— just forgive myself for his death?” I nearly yelled at her.

“Because it’s not your fault, it’s—“

“Simon’s. Yeah I know. I’ve gotten that speech from Dr. B already. I’m kinda fucking sick of it.” I cut her off, more harshly that I had necessarily intended.

Mom sat down at the little fabric ottoman/place where we kept extra scarves. 

“Not what I was going to say.” She started, twisting a ring on her finger. “I was going to say that it’s nobody’s fault. Not mine, not yours, not his.” 

I swallowed. The same old optimistic shit I’ve heard from every body since his funeral. “Then who’s fault is it? If it’s not mine, and not his, who’s? The world? News flash, it isn’t a person. It doesn’t do things. It just is. We do things. We ignore people, we don’t care about them for long enough, and we—“

“Stop. Antonio, just stop. I’ll call Miranda in the morning and—“

“You’re on first-name basis with my therapist.” I interrupted, arms crossed and leaning on the wall. 

“And,” she pressed, “schedule more appointments. I promise we’ll fix you, ‘Tonio.”

“Fix me? Maybe I can’t be fixed, Mom. Don’t murderers go to Hell? And besides, wouldn’t I miss more school doing that?” 

“I’ve arranged for you to take the remainder of grade 11 at home. As long as you do the assigned homework, you will get the credits for this year. And you will do the homework. Sabrina’s coming in an hour with it. You should thank her when she comes.” 

“I—“ I started, before being cut off by Mom’s harsh tone. 

“Don’t bother arguing. It’s dealt with and over.”

I blinked, before murmuring a “Fine.” and slinking up to my room. 

...

The room made me sick. Memories of myself and Simon came flooding towards me whenever I stepped foot in there. From the dark blue walls that me and him had spent a summer painting together to the Polaroid wall that Sabrina, our collective best friend, had compiled for me. Everything reminded me of him. And it sucked. Because as much as it reminded me of when he was here, the hard, cold truth, was that he wasn’t. And memories meant nothing. 

Nothing at all. But then why couldn’t I get rid of them? 

Because murderers always keep souvenirs of their kills. I thought to myself, blinking back tears that always seemed to find their way in my eyes when I was alone. 

I sat there, staring at the wall for an hour before I was interrupted by a soft knock at the door. 

“It’s Sabrina. Can I come in?” 

I got up, opened the door, and then promptly plopped back down on the bed. 

She walked in, then, straight to the point, laid down workbooks on the desk.

“So we have three pages of Chem work, a page of Bio, three chapters to read for English—“

I interrupted her, reaching under my bed for a bottle of vodka I snagged from Mom’s liquor cabinet. “Want some?” I asked, bringing it to my lips. 

“No, and I don’t think that’s a good idea for you either.” She said, reaching for the bottle and lowering it to the ground. 

“Then what do you suggest?” I said, flopping back onto the bed. 

“For?” She asked, taking a seat on my desk chair. 

“Fixing me.” I said, pulling myself back up into a sitting position to look at her. 

She thought for a moment before answering. “I don’t know how to fix you. But maybe that’s because you don’t need to be fixed. You’re not broken. You’re grieving, and maybe you just need to let it out. Cry. Deal, and then, if you’re feeling up to it, move on. And if you ever need a shoulder to cry on, know I’ve got one.”

“I— why wouldn’t he just talk to me? I loved him, he could’ve just talked to me and I— I would’ve—“ 

She enveloped me in hug, faster than I could even think of asking her for one. 

“I know.” She said, patting me on the back. 

“I loved him. Fuck, I really did. He could have just— just—“ and I couldn’t blink the tears away this time. Before long I was sobbing, and whatever thoughts I had to speak were coming out in incoherent mumbles. We hugged, crying together for what felt like hours. Mom eventually joined in. And when we finally separated, it felt like a weight had been lifted from my chest. 

... 

It’s been three months since his death, and about a week since the hug session. Dr. B said I should write down my feelings in a journal, and I suppose it wouldn’t hurt? I’ve embraced my grief kinda. And while it still feels like it was my fault for not making it clear that he could talk to me about his feelings, I’m willing to try to accept that it wasn’t just me. 

And I think that’s a step in the right direction