Elliot's Story

A Story Worth Living

Hello. My name is Isabelle and this is not my story.

Every single day I saw him. Elliot. Not exactly the most popular kid. Not exactly like he wanted be. Though I doubt this is how he wanted it to be. But that wasn't his fault to begin with. Or end with.

He moved into the house on the right side of mine when we were both twelve. I could see their back yard from my window. Even then we never communicated; the beginning of the age where one worries about their social standing more than bonds to be made.

We had the same route to school, obviously. Not like we walked together though. I walked on the other side of the street, but I still had to encounter him on the way across. Every so often I would grace him with a smile. Sometimes genuine. More often not. He never knew how to process these small gestures of niceness. I wonder what would've happened if I hugged him? Probably freak out. Not used to the affection.

At school things didn't change much. He sat at the back of the class, hoping for no one to notice him. At least that's always what I assumed he wanted. Even with this conclusion in the back of my mind my attention would slowly drift towards him. I would stare at him, as though trying to solve a rubix cube. But none of the pieces ever seemed to go with each other just quite well enough for my brain to complete. When he would inevitably catch me staring, I turned away and acted as if I were deeply invested into the conversation my friends were having.

Lunch is where it all began. The true torture. Elliot sat at his own table and ate quietly; never to make a fuss over anything. No one dared to approach him, all too weary of their own safety that they disregarded his. That is until He came and sat with him as He did every day. He would say things. Such horrid things. Yet Elliot sat tall and continued to eat his lunch. Elliot was always brave. He shouldn't have had to be.

And of course there was that hellish last period. I couldn't stand my last class. A combination of Him and Elliot is what made it a nightmare. He would offer Elliot 'company' as He would pull Elliot away from task he had been doing at his desk and drag him to the back of the classroom. It was unwanted. He would pick at Elliot; grab him here, poke there, scratch that. Anything for a reaction. The worst was when He got one. They egged him on, giving more power towards Him. The teacher eventually came, but not before the damage was done.

When the final bell rang I all but shot out of that room. But Elliot. Elliot stayed behind. "Ellie, why don't you have some fun with us after school today?" The dark voice rings through my head. But onward I walked home with the other side walk empty.

Day after day. Elliot endured this on a daily basis. Until one day he couldn't anymore. And now he's gone.

But that isn't the point of this.

After his death, so many acted as though they cared for him. Like they had been casual friends of his. Including Him. The drama, the crocodile tears, the bullshit, that's what got to me. No one saw him. Not the way I did.

I knew the boy next store, who was amazing at making paper airplanes. There are about a dozen still stuck in the tree just below his window.

I don't think he ever told anyone, but he loved the sky. Almost every night he would walk out to his back yard and lay down the grass. I would be disappointed whenever he never came out. Because I joined him. At my window I would sit and look up and admire what mother nature had given us for the day's ending. Stars, the moon, clouds, a sunset, complete darkness, it never mattered to Elliot. He never even took into consideration the weather. Once it began to rain and Elliot got up off the ground. I frowned thinking the evening was over. Even from my distance I could make out the smile plastered on his face as he began to dance in between the raindrops.

Or the book he had hidden in the bushes of his mothers dying sunflower garden. He wrote in it every so often, never leaving the garden itself as he wrote with earbuds in and music blasting. He sang too. Ever. Single. Song. He was a terrible singer. But that never bothered him or me. I would hum along to the ones I knew and laugh at the moments when he couldn't remember the lyrics so he made them up as he went.

I never did find out what he had written in it. The book was found by his mother after his passing. I can't build up the courage to walk over and ask. Besides, I kind of like not knowing. Maybe he wrote his own songs? Or possibly a journal. I personally like to think it was a story. One of any epic tale with a shit ton of action, a little romance for the main character, and a happy cliche ending for everyone.

I don't know who she is, but he had a girlfriend for a period of time. He would walk out his house before the regular sky gazing ritual was to take place. He came with a phone pressed to his ear tightly and wondered around his yard. He talked to her nervously at first, but time went on and he talked more comfortably. No matter what though, I could always hear the affection in his voice.

"So, um, would you. Um, would you go out with me?" He managed to say such a thing one day. It wasn't until my hands begin to hurt from clinging to one of my pillows did I realize that I was nervous for him. "Okay. Okay. See you." He hung up. He stood still, surveilling the area around him. Then he gave me the ability to breath again. "SHE SAID YES! YES! YES! YES IS WHAT SHE SAID!" He shouts in joy to the world. I jump around my room in happiness.

I was there when they broke up. It lasted a while, longer than most teenage relationships, but I have to admit that I had hoped it might have been forever. The way he talked to her over the phone alone, I feel the love geminating off him. I didn't want him to lose that. But the fateful night came when he paced back and forth between dying blades of uncared for grass as he argued with the little electronical device. He started off annoyed which graduated to anger, leading to exhaustion. He became more quite until it was dead silent. The last thing I saw that night was Elliot crouched on the ground clawing at the sides of his head.

Do you see my point yet?

No one else seems to.

The worst things in life come free to us. But even so, we earn enough for some exceptional moments that are mixed with all the shit parts.

When one says the name Elliot, most will think of his death. That will be how he is placed in the majority of memories. They will see his suicide for his person. This is their mistake.

My point is that he was more than a tragic death. He was a wondrous life before that. There was more to that boy next-store. There's things about that kid in the back of the class that no one knows.

The way his eyes lit up whenever he saw the caller ID on his phone. How he talked to himself when it became too earlier for coherent thoughts. How his worst enemy were the bees that came with the summer. Always biting his right thumb nail when he was nervous. His voice becoming an octave higher when he lied. He would fall asleep on the lawn and stay there all night, but waking just before the sun came to greet him. Sitting crossed legged as red and orange broke the midnight-sky at the horizon, illuminating his body; his messy hair shining with newly found color, eyes lazily watching the world play in slow motion, smile hanging loosely on his lips. Basking in the moment that was reserved especially for him.

This is Elliot's story. Bittersweet, but one that should never be forgotten.

To all those you feel that ending it all will make things better: This is simply a conflict, not a closing scene. Don't give up, not after all you've been through already.

This is dedicated to the ones who had their endings much too soon. Thank you for your stories.

Love, Lamely