Under a Silent Moon

1

**Author's Note: This novel contains sensitive subjects such as mental illness, substance abuse, sexual assault, and suicidal thoughts. Handle yourself with care while reading.**

i like for you to be still
it is as though you are absent
Distant and full of sorrow
So you would've died
One word then, One smile is enough
And i'm happy;
Happy that it's not true

-Pablo Neruda, "I like for you to be still"

Chapter One: A Calm, Serene Feeling

LANA

It was March 15th, my junior year of high school, when I decided I wanted to die. I had been trudging through everyday life with that heavy, suffocating feeling in my chest, confused and afraid of my own thoughts. It was on that fateful Wednesday afternoon that I finally saw the writing on the wall. Literally.

Lana Carina kill yourself was scribbled in red Sharpie across the ceramic tiles of the second floor girl's bathroom. When it caught my eye, I stood frozen, a dark thought seeping into my brain like ice water, finally numbing the pain: That's it, I'll kill myself.

It isn't like I haven't seen graffiti like this before, haphazardly painted in the bathroom stalls or carved into the wooden desks of Grasshill High. But on this particular occasion, there was something about those words and my name in the same sentence that finally made it click. After years of silent suffering and metaphorically drowning in the heaviness that consumed me, I realized I had the power to end it once and for all. Nothing temporary like pills or alcohol, something permanent.

And trust me, I had tried everything before considering the notion of ending my life. Small town or not, it wasn't too hard to get your hands on something, and I had just the right type of friends who didn't judge me, but instead sat alongside me through the puffing and injecting. They were all fads, though, and never lasted long. After a while I found myself feeling even shittier than before and didn't see the use in wasting money on escapes that weren't providing me with the desired results.

There were only a few drugs that I refused to do in my seventeen years, and that was strictly out of fear. I guess despite whether you want to live or die, there's still that small voice of self-preservation that echoes in the back of your mind when you're about to do something potentially deadly.

That leads us to today. The only pills I take now are ones that help me sleep and go down smoothly with the peach-flavored New Amsterdam that's tucked safely between my bed frame and nightstand. And in the back of the cereal cabinet. And in the flask that's hidden in the fabric of my purse.

Maybe I'm an alcoholic, but I've never been one for labels. That might also be why, when my mother insisted on taking me to see a specialist and be diagnosed as clinically depressed, I waved her away. It doesn't matter what some guy with a Ph.D. calls it, the fact was that nothing would kill the sick feeling constantly twisting in my stomach, or the devils in my head that promptly snuff out any light that filters through the dark veil they've erected.

After considering the idea of ending my life, I felt a sort of lightness that I hadn't felt since childhood. A calm, serene feeling washed over me like spring rain, assuring me that everything, finally, was going to be alright. The end was in sight. The torture that is living wouldn't last much longer. And so, just as I do in seemingly every situation, I made a list. Flipping open the notebook that held my favorite quotes and mindless doodling, I scribbled a short catalogue of things I needed to decide before I was able to complete my task.

1. Where
2. How
3. When
4. Write notes
5. My belongings
6. Terrence

Terrence is my pet ferret. I've had him for about two years now--received him as a gift from my older brother Blake in the midst of one of my most intensive depressive episodes. The scene played out just like in the movies when a child is given a present and out pops a puppy sporting a red, oversized ribbon around its neck, attacking its new owner with wet, sloppy kisses.
Well, Terrence very much thinks he's a dog and always has, and although he didn't attack me with kisses, he jumped out of that box with a ribbon around his neck (blue, not red), and immediately crawled up my arm and made claim to my shoulder. He's barely left that spot ever since.