Monday rolls around and, with school off for the day, I get the opportunity to sleep in for the day. After sleeping for twelve hours, I get up at one in the afternoon.
I lie in bed, staring at the clock for a few minutes. I wait for the clock to change the minute, too lazy to get out of bed, a tense feeling tightening my stomach every time I believe the time will change.
However, my phone goes off as I do so, making me jump. When I see it, I notice a text from Ilya, asking me if I'm feeling decent.
I send a message back to him, informing that I feel decent enough. I set my phone back on the nightstand, too tired to get out of bed.
I crawl out of bed anyway, my back cracking as I do so. I shove my glasses onto my face, snatch my phone, and waddle to the living room. Outside of my room, the house is empty, save the hamster scratching at the paper in his house, the light of day barely peering through the blinds.
I double-check my phone for the time and date--seeing as I already forgot them--and take a seat at the computer. I check the time and date there as well, just to be sure my phone is correct, and open a word document. From there, I hastily type the short story I began earlier (how long ago was that? A day? A week? I can't remember.), reiterating it nearly word-for-word from memory. However, I pause at the same spot I have before, the flow of my writing completely lost. What am I going to do to the protagonist? Should I kill them off? Should I spare them?
I could imagine that, if I happen to sacrifice the protagonist, it would have to be slow and painful. Perhaps very bloody as well. People seem to love brutal deaths.
My phone vibrates, and I pick it up. Ilya, once again, lights up my phone. He states:
I want you to know that you can always trust me, ok? If you ever need to talk, I'll always be here. btw, are you home rn?
I respond with "yeah, I'm home," and set my phone on the counter by the computer.
While my mood improves, I decide the fate of the protagonist. The character holds a gun to their head, and it ends right there. The interpretation is open on what occurs after. It's a perfect little story I've made here, where the fate of the most crucial character is simply left up to personal choice. Readers are probably going to hate me, implying anyone will set their eyes on this to begin with.
While I proofread my progress for the day, I also begin to wonder. What else is there to this character? Did I simply create a drone for a point? What have I created?
However, as I ponder, somebody knocks on the door. I sneak over and peer out of the glass. Ilya stands there, a bag in his hand.
I open the doors and question him, "Ilya, what are you doing here?"
"I got you this," he shoves a bag of candy in my arms, "I know they're your favorite."
I smile and chuckle, "Ilya, you shouldn't have. What are you doing over on this side of town anyway?"
"Senior project," he grumbles, "I just thought I'd stop by on my way there. You know, impulse."
"Well, thank you so much!" After a moment, I motion towards my living room, "Do you want to come inside for a few minutes? It's not too nice out today."
"I have to be on my way, actually. My car's still warm, though."
"Well, I'm not going to hold you up anymore."
We say our goodbyes and he strolls towards his car. I shut the heavy wooden door, the last whip of the cold causing me to shiver. However, I return to the computer and reread my short story.
I think the protagonist is still going to die, at least in my book. Perhaps that's just me, though; I feel it would make things interesting.
However, as I reread, I decide to dedicate time to describe the narrator, thus creating an in-depth idea of who this character really is.
I write a paragraph, though, and get distracted by games on the internet. By the time I even realize I've gone off track, I've wasted twenty minutes of precious time.
I close out every tab on the computer and walk through the kitchen for something to eat, finding nothing too appealing, then return to my seat and reopen the internet browser. I, for whatever reason, log into social media.
As I browse, I come to feel lonely. Everyone socializes and has fun, while I'm stuck here alone. The only person who ever notices me has so much going on with their life anyway.
Whatever.
I completely shut down the computer and instead assemble my French horn, playing through my audition pieces. However, after playing for ten minutes, I remember what the director said about me.
He had stated before that Jessica was better than me, and that she could make it to Regions in the spring. He simply brushed me aside, insulting me for playing something differently than Jessica.
Of course, I'll always do everything wrong.
I sneak to my room and wrap a blanket around me, praying that I won't be shivering by the time someone comes home.
I can't exactly point out the last time I was honestly okay. The last time I didn't wish to kill myself was so long ago that I can't recall when it was.
I've become so numb to it all that I could barely remember that it wasn't even normal to feel the way I do.
I opened my mouth about it and I'm not sure if I regret it. By all I know, someone heard what I said on the bus and everyone will know when the weekend's over. I wouldn't be able to live through everyone finding out.
I have to keep this all quiet. The only result of me talking about it is punishment. I should have learned my lesson about speaking my mind.
I look at the bag of candy sitting on the counter. I shouldn't have subjected Ilya to dealing with my problems.
YOU ARE READING
Tritone
Teen Fiction**tw: suicide. Elise wanted nothing more in this miserable world than to end it all. Just as she's convinced life is pointless, she attempts to seek her purpose in the world and what has kept her alive for so long.
