Soon Enough

*TRIGGER WARNING - this story focuses on suicidal tendencies and homophobia. If you are sensitive to the topics of suicide, self harm, homophobia, or anything related to them, I advise reading something else a bit more suited to your taste.*

It was the perfect opportunity. Almost like the universe had carved out this time slot, just for this moment.

Both my parents were off at work, too busy tapping away at computers to care about their children. My sister was in middle school. Probably in science class at this moment. My parents had considered leaving her here to watch me, but she convinced them not to. They agreed without putting up much of a fight, and I was left alone. I didn’t even have to get them away from me.

Me? Mental health break, the school counselor had said. But really, it was a suspension. The only reason they hadn’t said so was because I was already ‘emotionally distraught.’ At least, that’s what they told my parents.

Like a suspension would be worse than a death.

I looked at my options in the medicine cabinet, examining each one without emotion — like I was just getting something for Mom’s migraine.

Of course, I already had a razor upstairs, in case I decided to slit my throat. That would be quick, painless, even, but I didn’t want it to be. I didn’t deserve quick. I didn’t deserve painless. Really, the only reason I’m doing this myself is because nobody else has stepped forward to do it for me.

I didn’t understand why.

When our homeroom teacher announced his death, everyone looked at me. Some people had flipped me off, while others had patted my back in pity. Myron even congratulated me on ‘getting rid of that pervert.’

Everybody at school knew I was the one who fucked up Luke. I was why everyone knew his secret, why everyone cast him out and treated him like garbage.

I caused Luke’s suicide. And now it’s time for mine.

It was difficult to choose what I wanted to use. There were four bottles of Advil lined up. If I swallowed all four, would I die? Probably, but I should take some other pills just in case.

Aspirin, Tylenol, Amphetamine. I didn’t know what these meant or what they were for, but they sounded dangerous. And potentially painful if mixed. I took two bottles of each, shoving them into the pockets of my pajama pants quickly, even though I knew nobody could see me.

My last memory of Luke replayed in my head as I hurried up the stairs. I had cornered him in the school bathroom after I had seen him cutting in class. He had disassembled a pencil sharpener, so that he had the blade alone. I never knew they could cut so well — or so deep.

“What’s up with you?” I had asked, waving at his gauze-wrapped hand. It was loose, and barely covered up his cuts. Red seeped through the white bandages and dripped down his pale, thin arm.

“Like you care.” Luke had mumbled.

“I do care.” I admitted, my voice almost defensive. Luke stared at me, his face blank.

“You cared until I came out.” He said coldly, scooping up his backpack with one hand and slinging it over his shoulder. “And then you told everyone that you didn’t anymore.”

There was a pause, since I didn’t know how to respond to that.

“At least let me redo… that.” I gestured again at his bloody hand.

Luke laughed. It was an emotionless, almost dead sound. “You, actually giving a shit? About little old me, at that? Maybe you should’ve done that, oh, I don’t know, when Liam Parre beat me up? When Myron Hale stole my clothes from the locker room? I don’t know, man, seems like that would’ve been a good time to care.”

His eyes narrowed, and sarcasm left his voice when he spoke again. “Leave me alone. I don’t want you or your lies anymore.”

His lower lip trembled. “I just want to be done with this.”

Before I could say anything, he had rushed out, and the bell had rung.

Tears pricked at my eyes as I slammed the door to my room.

I should’ve run after him, I thought. I should’ve tried to stop him. I should’ve apologized, should’ve begged, should’ve done something.

He came out to me a year ago. I told Miranda Matthews about it, and she told Jackson Harris, and he told Samantha Pratt, who tried to tell her own gay best friend but ended up messaging the class group chat. And then everyone turned on him. I avoided him because of the guilt. I avoided him because everyone else did.

But now I didn’t even care.

I just want my friend.

Well, I was going to see him soon enough.

I pulled out a pen and notepad from my desk drawer and slumped onto the bed. I had so much I wanted to say — and nobody to say it to. I looked around my room, which felt emptier even with the posters I had hung up. A stray photo of me and Luke hung up on my wall, too high for me to get it down. I gazed at it before I wrote anything, examining every feature — the smiles on our faces, the sunlight speckled woods beyond us, the red and white striped cloth of our tent peeking out of a corner.

We were so happy then.

I put my pen to the paper and left a dot. As it spread through the ridiculously absorbent paper, I thought of what to say. I would need to apologize, of course. To Luke, for spilling his secret. To my parents, for being so distant lately. To my sister, for killing someone who was her best friend, too.

I tried to write it all down, but all that came out were two words; I’m sorry. 

Two words. Two syllables. Irrelevant, useless, almost degrading. After all, they deserved more than that. I needed to tell them more than that. There was more to say than just I’m sorry.

But no matter how much I wanted to say, I couldn’t bring myself to write anymore. After a few minutes of staring at the lined paper, I gave up. I ripped out the paper, set it on my desk, and put away the notepad from where it came.

What do people usually do before they kill themselves? I asked myself. It was a silly question. There was the note, obviously. Then there was preparation — a blade, a rope, pills — that sort of thing. 

What else?

Maybe they would change, I thought to myself, looking down at my ugly blue pajama set. I slipped on a pair of blue jeans and a red T-shirt. It showcased my scars, but it felt good to expose my arms. I hadn’t done so in a while.

I threw on a beanie for good measure. 

Luke had dressed in a black shirt and jeans, with a rainbow scarf around his neck. Something told me it wasn’t just him liking the fit.

I sat onto the bed and looked at the pills laid out before me, and wondered how Luke had felt before he died. Was he sad? Angry?

Both, probably.

Did he think of me when he held the gun up to his head? Of his parents, of the bullies at school? About my sister?

I shook my head. It doesn’t matter. I’ll get to ask him soon enough.

I sat, looking at the white capsules for longer than I should have. I was forgetting something. Someone.

I grabbed my phone and scrolled through the contacts until I reached my sister. I opened up a new chat and started typing.

Hey sis. We haven’t talked in a while, which I understand. I’m sorry for what I did to Luke, and what I did to you. I know you hate me for it. You won’t have to face me any longer.

It was short enough for her to want to read it, and long enough to explain everything.

I hit send.

I put my phone down and sighed, satisfied. 

She’ll see it. She’ll understand. Not right away, but soon enough.

I reached for the first bottle of pills and poured them into my palm. They clinked against each other, and a few fell onto the bed. I put my hand up to my lips.

Soon enough.