Nobody's going to catch you. No one's going to take your arm and cling onto it and beg you no, don't do it, please as if it was the only thing left to do (because it was); as if your life depended on it (because it did).
Nobody said that was where you start to feel everything—not at the goddamn last second when your head had already given up trying trying trying, fighting fighting fighting; not when your heart beats faster than it should trying trying trying, fighting fighting fighting.
The wind prickles your skin, the hairs on your arm and at the back of your neck stand in the bitter, biting, frightening cold. You always thought it would feel cold when it happened: dark skies (enough to cover you in shadows), bellowing wind (enough to throw you off), and the sound of the thunder echoing above (enough to mask the sound of the winds resisting your fall).
Your toes curl and collide with the bottom of your shoes (the pair your mother got for you two birthdays ago), your fingers twist clumps of the fabric of your sweater (the one jack never came back for), your heart thumps against the pendant you always kept around your neck (the one ben said was a sign of brotherhood, until he threw his down a cliff); and you feel.
You feel more than you ever thought you would feel again—at the goddamn last second when pain will be nothing but forgotten, when sadness will be nothing but a numbing hum in your ears, when happiness will be nothing but a distant memory, when anger will be the sound of your body hitting the waters, when hope stops being what you are.
The beautiful girl is not going to stop her car in the middle of running errands when she sees you stepping towards the ledge. The lady across the street won't notice, she's too busy attending to the crying child in her arms. The man who greets the world with a good morning! each day thinks today is going to be a good day, unlike much of yesterday or the big possibility of tomorrow's disappointing events.
The beautiful girl won't be able to sleep tonight because she'd seen you before her very eyes, and now she's watching you through the screen of her television, announcing the first suicide off the bridge in two-and-a-half weeks. The lady across the street would find out about what you'd done and she'll weep for the days you thanked her for her delicious pies and asked for more; she'll share the sorrow with the crying child in her arms. The man doesn't think he should greet the world his good morning! today; not when the kid from two houses away jumped off a bridge yesterday, not when you no longer have a possibility of tomorrow.
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a/n:
a boy people from my school knew fell off a tremendous height and nobody knows if it was an accident. his name was eddie and he was only sixteen. (i overheard things about him: "he was so nice" "he was always so happy;" and it saddened me to think that in those short hours, he became nothing but past tense.) i didn't know him personally nor before the news broke out, but please keep him in your thoughts and prayers.
michael clifford, on the other hand, just confessed that he was seeing a therapist to deal with mental health problems and he brushed it off like it was nothing. maybe this was his way of dealing with the situation, but remember that it is important to talk about it, even if you aren't some famous guitarist millions fuss over. you are loved and you are not alone. x
YOU ARE READING
For The Moon
Teen Fiction“the saying ‘i love you to the moon and back’ doesn’t seem so precious now, does it?” he asks, she shakes her head. but he does anyway; he loves her to the moon and back (and so does she).
