Tyler Petrit Isn't Here | ✓

16

The doctor starts pressing me for what I remember. I make up some story about how I lost control of my car, which he accepts, but only to a degree. My blood alcohol level still registered at .08 percent because they needed a blood sample, and there's some federal officers waiting to talk to me.

After they stop hassling me (and take my license automatically for ninety days), I find that Polly's number is still visible on my arm. I ask to call her and when they give me a phone, I tell her where I am and ask if she can come (so I won't be alone, but I don't say that).

I'm spiraling into a pity party until I hear a barely audible, "Hey."

Lulling my head to the side, I see Polly. Her hands are clasped around another takeout coffee, forehead crinkled with what I assume is worry.

"Car accident," I say, because it's technically true. I don't say it was intentional. Saying suicide attempt out loud is probably the most embarrassing thing I can think of at the moment, considering, y'know, I survived.

She asks me how old I really am, because my fake ID said I'm twenty-two, like her, and she saw me drinking some days ago.

I sigh. "Eighteen."

"You're alcohol-dependant and you're not even of age? That's...both horrifying and depressing. Are you insane? Do you have any idea...You need help."

"Wow, you're definitely the first person who's ever told me that," I say sarcastically. "The next thing you'll be telling me is that the sky is blue."

Of course, I need help. I could get it, and spill my guts, all that bullshit. I might be believed and get back on my feet...or they'll laugh in my face and I'll continue digging my own grave, like usual. But I'll be back at square one. Everything I've worked for would be for nothing, only for the possibility of relapse.

Only to start over.

"I don't know what to do," I lament. "My car got really fucked up. I don't have a home, Polly. What's the point?"

Please don't say I can come stay with you, please don't-

"You can come stay with me. I need a room mate. It's the least I can do after you helped me out."

"I said you didn't have to repay me. I just wanted someone to talk to, I guess," I say, as if that would prove I'm not mentally drifting away and sinking into myself.

"Well, I'm going to."

I appreciate that, I really do, but I'm so undeserving and chaotic that I know it will fall to pieces like everything else. She's wasting her time.

The next biggest mistake I make (other than not buying a gun) is telling the doctors about my kidney and throat problems. I can't hide my discomfort anymore. Instead of leaving me alone, they subject me to X-rays and I have to give a goddamn urine sample once the alcohol fully leaves my system.

If I have to get surgery, it could cost well over ten thousand. For my eighteenth birthday, I got a thousand from my grandparents that I threw into savings because I still had a job.

Now that I have nothing, the biggest issue in my life would be paying off this fucking bill if I go through with the surgery.

I get off the topic by asking if I have to give any other personal info, and he says I don't. The hospital I go to back home is still a pediatric one, so I start setting up here, getting my papers and shit sent over.

I make it out like I'm "adulting" while mentally planning out my second suicide attempt.

This time, I'm going with my original plan and jumping. Going splat is way easier than cutting. Faster, too.