For Crying Out Loud

15: Cigarettes or Suicide

Jake's P.O.V

     The main difference between me and Sierra is our depression. Her depression is always there. It never leaves or goes dormant. It's there at all times; every day, every hour, every minute, every second. She is depressed. She has become accustomed to it, so it's easier to handle, I believe. Plus, she has always been relatively stronger than me. My depression, on the other hand, shows up when everything around me falls apart and I can't do a damned thing. It becomes consuming and draws me into it like a whirlpool. Pulling me into a black abyss.

     I stand here, the wind tugging at my hair an clothes. My car -which I rarely drive- presses against my back. I close my eyes and take a slow breath. As slow as possible. I haven't heard from Sia in a week. She's been officially glad to be rid of me for a week. We have been completely broken for two weeks and half of a day. That is fourteen and half days. That is 348 hours. That is 20,880
Minutes. That is 1,252,800 seconds. Within this time, I believe I have become insane.

     I bend myself into the car, looking into the mirror to observe my red, puffy, tired brown eyes. Sleep. When was the last time I slept? I feel as if I have been a sleep for a week. Sleep-walking. Sleep-talking. Sleep-crying. Sleep-drinking. Sleep-smoking. Sleep-breaking-shit. But I haven't really closed my eyes and disappeared to the world in a while. Screw sleep, screw life.

     I look over at the pack of menthols on the console. I think to myself: What will kill me first? The cigarettes or myself? If the cigarettes kill me, does that still count as suicide? If I kill myself, then what was the point in the cigarettes? I use cigarettes to numb the pain, but if I kill myself, numbing it all was pointless, fore, it only slightly increased my days. If I don't kill myself, and allow the smoke to destroy me; then it decreases my days. But if I don't smoke: then I will want to kill myself because then I would have to feel. Still, smoking. Does it count as suicide? Either way I lose. Either way I die at my own hand. Or I don't. But I still do. If I decide not to kill myself but continue smoking, my life is shortened, but with the smoke, it numbs my suicidal impulse. It is all very radical and confusing. Maybe I'll just smoke on it. And I do. I place the stick between my teeth and light it, taking a long, drawn-out drag until I grow light headed.

     I question if I should allow this stick to kill me. Drawn out, long, and painful just like the burning drags I take from it. I exhale. The windows rolled up. The smoke fills the compact car and burns my throat and nostrils, causing an indescribable sensation lying between pleasure and pain. I fucking love it.

     The nicotine high hits me as I pull out the lot. I wonder if Sia went to school over the week. I wonder if she wondered where I was. I doubt it. If she did, she would have called me.

     I light another cigarette, taking small puffs this time around. I think about everything. The irony of it all. How I got to this point. How I fucked up so bad that I brought her to this point. I brought myself to this point. Everything came crashing down. I guess this is how she felt two weeks ago. Maybe even three and a half months ago when I broke-up with her. When I got her pregnant. Ironic how it happened at the same time. At least that's what Bethany said the last time I talked to her. When she told me Sia told her that the baby was conceived when we broke-up. Why am I still thinking about the baby? It's gone. It's all over. She's glad it's over.

     I look at my hands on the steering wheel, wondering where they are taking me. I'm not driving with my head. I never do. On the rare occasion I drive this shitty car, it's to drive destination-less. Freely. But as I drive up these familiar dirt roads, I feel all but free.

     I put another cigarette between my teeth, bringing me back to my chain-smoking days. Back when I could smoke a whole pack in an hour if I wanted to. Back when Sierra loved to dance in the wisps of the smoke when she was fifteen. Back when things were okay. Back when I was happy, and addicted to cigarettes. Not addicted the numbing.

     I don't light it. It just sits between my lips as I drive road after road. Tears burn at my eyelids and for a moment I think I may have an answer to what will kill me first. I swivel a little bit as I release the steering wheel, heading straight for an enormous tree that stands so out of place. I think that maybe this could be the end of the suffering. That I could die right now. In this moment. Consequences be damned. Fuck whoever I leave behind. Screw everything. All I have to do is keep my hands off the wheel. Let the world lead me to my death. Is this suicide? If the world is leading me to it?

     I'm feet away from collision. Let go just a little longer, Jake. I think about John Green. I think about all the books Sia made me read. I think about Margo Speigleman, Hazel Lancaster, and Alaska Young.  I think about how everything is uglier up close, and how I'm a grenade. I think about the Labyrinth of Suffering.

     A few more seconds. Then I think about Sierra Paige, Amy King, and me: Jake Leonardo, and I grab onto the wheel again and make the sharpest turn of my life. My heart pounds wildly in my chest. My lungs burn from the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. I breath. In and out. In and out. I grab my lighter and light the damned cigarette. "Not today." I whisper to myself. "Not today."

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So, I'm not quite sure what to say to this chapter. As someone who has been in the midst of a psychotic-breakdown, I feel this portrayed one vividly, but not too vividly to the point it would give you nightmares. I hope you, uhm, enjoyed. Vote! Tell me what you think! Love you my DARKLINGS!