The Reflections Of Our Tears

Part Six

Isabella.

-

The walk back to my house was cold, tiring, and nauseating.  Dizziness hit me about halfway through and my head throbbed painfully.  Not to mention the fact that I couldn’t stop dwelling on what happened with Oliver.  My head swirled with anger and confusion.  I didn’t pity him.  I wanted to help him the way he helped me.  And now he was gone, probably out of my life forever.  

     There were only two things that could have possibly distracted me from a thought this deep.  One was the presence of Oliver himself, and the second was the sudden-onset urge to bend over and throw up all over the ground.  I was in the current position of the latter.

     Sickness reverberated through me as I sat in the snow to steady myself.  Chills shook my body and I shivered.  What was wrong with me?  I’d never gotten so sick so suddenly in my life.

     Slowly – very slowly – I made my way up the inclined path to my house and called my mother’s name.  Before I could bat an eye, she was standing before me asking questions. 

     “When did symptoms start?”

     “I don’t know.”

     “Are you dizzy?”

     “Yes.”

     “Are you nauseated?”

     “Yes.”

     “Are you going to throw up?”

     “Already did,” I groaned.

     “Okay,” said my mom, “sounds like the flu. Let’s get you upstairs, Honey.”

     And with that I was tucked into my bed, given a cold washcloth for my forehead, and left to sleep away my problems for as long as I could possibly want.

Oliver.

-

My eyes were closed, my mind was blank, and my headphones were in.  Was there a better way to end it?  Maybe.  But I didn’t really care anymore.  I stretched my arms, as if reaching for something, and rocked back and forth a little.  Strange, how fragile life is.  So fragile that it can end with a single step in the wrong direction.  The direction I was headed. 

     The calming poetry filled my brain, effectively blocking out all the noise around me.  It was only me and my music, the way it should be.  I couldn’t help but smile as I rocked forward again, too far to rock back.

     But instead of falling straight down, something gripped my wrist and forced me to slam into the concrete side of the bridge.  My headphones had fallen out and I was thrown back into reality.  Cars squealed, wind blew, hail pelted the ground, and I was suspended in midair by something holding my wrist.  My lack of emotion surprised me, as I mostly felt confusion.  I had been so ready, and it just stopped.

     “C’mon,” someone said.  I presumed it was the voice attached to the person holding me up.  “I’m going to pull you back over, okay?  I’m going to help you.  Everything is going to be alright.”  There was something comforting about the man’s voice, fatherly and gently.  Something about it that made me listen to him.  I even made some effort, if small, to get back over the ledge.  That was when the panic hit.  My breathing got shallow and tears rushed to my eyes.  I felt my bones grow cold and shivery, as my head pounded from where it slammed into the side of the bridge.

“Shh, you’re going to be alright.  There is nothing that life could put you through that you’re incapable of handling, alright? Now, can you sit down with me? Just – yes, that’s right. Good.”

The man sat down beside me right there on the bridge, in the below-freezing weather, with no detectable intentions of leaving.  “What’s your name?”  he asked gently.

“Oliver.”  This made him pause for a moment.

“I have a kid named Oliver,” he said, almost sadly.  “Why, Oliver?”

There was no need to specify what he was asking.  I shrugged at first, before I felt the warmth of his hand on my knee.  “I have nothing,” I said simply.  “I ruined everything with my best friend, my mother doesn’t care about me, my father abandoned me, and I just don’t see the point in trying anymore.  It’s just so, so hard to exist.”

My body shook from crying and tears ran down my face like a leaking faucet.  Mental pain and physical pain have the same effect on a person, except only the latter is treated with urgency, as it can be seen by anyone.  That’s why mental pain is so much more dangerous – because it cannot be seen unless the victim wants it to be seen.  And why would they?

“Listen,” said the man.  “I know what it’s like – trust me.  But I also know what it’s like to get out of the pain.  I know that there is a way out of the bad.  The thing is, you have to want it.  Do you?”

“I don’t know,” I replied honestly.  He looked at me with sadness in his eyes.

“You helped me get you back over that ledge – I think you do.  Don’t forget that, okay?  Now, about your best friend, what happened?”

And since I was alone and he seemed keen on talking for whatever reason, I told him about Isabella and me.  I told him how my mother was an alcoholic.  I told him how my father was supposed to come back for me, but didn’t.  I told him how my mother hurt me.  I told him how I hurt myself.  I told him everything.  And Isabella was right, it helped.  But I blew it with her – it was too late.  All I had left was this man, whose name I didn’t even know, who had a life of his own, who probably had a family and friends and his own issues and a job.  But he hadn’t given up on me, and I was going to cling to that for as long as I could.  Why?  Because it was hope.

Then, something dawned on me.  It dawned on me that, yes, life is fragile, but that doesn’t mean it should be thrown away.  It should be held onto and taken care of because it is fragile.  Power is not knowing we have the ability to kill ourselves.  Power is the ability to stare death in the face and walk away because we are better than that.  I think.

“What’s your name?” I asked, finally getting my wits about me.  The man hesitated before speaking, looking as if he were thinking hard.

“Jackson,” he said.  “Jackson… Bronx.  It – all of this – is my fault.  I am so very sorry, Oliver.  I cannot even begin to explain myself.”

It took me a moment to register what he said before I fully understood it, and when I did I still wasn’t sure if I believed it. 

I was talking to my father.