Before the Rain

Twenty: Every Stone is Smooth Until You Turn it Over

"I knew something was up whenever I found my semi-automatic Ruger in Cal's room."

"Wait, you found a gun in his room?! Steve why didn't you tell me?!"

"I didn't want you to worry. I went looking for it after that night we thought we heard an intruder, remember Anne? Well anyways, I went to go get it but it was gone, so I decided to look around for it. I was really hoping I wouldn't find it in Cal's room; but I did. It was underneath his little lamp stand thing."

"Oh, that 'intruder' was me, sorry. Cal called me in the middle of the night because he was having an anxiety attack. I should've asked, I'm sor-"

"No need to apologize Cal, you've done so much for us, for him. If Steve wouldn't have went looking for that gun, he'd probably be dead. We're so grateful that you could save our son."

"Don't mention it. I just really did not want to see another one of my patients deceased in the same week. Or ever. Especially Cal."

"He really likes you, you know?"

"I think you might have given him another reason to live."

The voices surrounding myself are muffled yet coherent.

The first belonged to my father, the second, my mother. And the third, Adam Olivas. That's odd, surely they were not all damned to hell as I was.

Adam, or a spirit of himself, replies, " I'd be lying if I didn't say the same. He gave me a different perspective on mental illness that was very useful in treating other patients. I just wish I could have helped him more."

Oh god, this really is hell.

"Please, don't beat yourself up, you did all you could," my mother's voice adds, "The important aspect of this is that he is alive. And I think he will finally receive the proper hospitalizing he needs."

Impossible.

No fucking way did I survive such a violent and motivated attempt. The red rolled off of my arms like a goddamn roaring rapid; so how could I have possibly survived?

Why can't I accomplish one easy task? Why must I succumb myself to such failures? What did I ever do to deserve this life of self-deprecation and solitude?

My head burned still, the pain aching rather than loud and unavoidable. I attempted to grip the bleached sheets, however, my body does not respond.

Aggravated and indefinitely, morbidly sad, I let out a despondent sigh.

The muffled voices cease.

I open my eyes slowly, the light harsh and blaring.

My father is the first to say something, "Calvin? The doctor said you wouldn't be awake for another three days."

"Oh, Cal," my mother begins to break down immediately, messy tears forming in her eyes.

I do not feel the slightest bit of guilt. Rather, I feel guilty for in fact not taking myself away from them. I should've tried fucking harder; I should have slit my throat. There's no way I could have survived such an attempt to that degree. Although I interpreted cutting my wrists as a sort of art form, it was the beauty of it all. The beauty of an ending.