No one should have to walk in on a suicide. Especially not a teenage kid.
Dad had always warned me about depression. "Depression is a demon," he would say. Looking back, I could see why he would want to grind that topic into my head so often. When I was younger, I was very absorbed into my own life. That is what teenagers do.
Teenager problems. Teenage drama. Teenage angst.
You miss some of the larger issues that are right in front of you. I missed that Dad switched jobs not for better money or for something he liked better, but because he was let go...The yelling that happened late into the night that I would drown out with music. The nights I came home after curfew and Dad was always "waiting up" to make sure I was okay.
Dad would say that depression would loom around. It would hang on your shoulders, and even when you think it's gone, it'll be there waiting for that low point.
I don't think I noticed what he was trying to tell me.
I remember we would go on family trips, and Dad would always smile but he would look off into the distance. Almost like he wasn't really there. He was thinking about something else that only he knew about. I think Mom noticed it too. It tore her to the point that she moved out. She said she couldn't handle him anymore.
When I found the note...I didn't know what to do.
I had no idea what the word "goodbye" could be as powerful as it was on that yellow notepad.
I ran through the house screaming for him. "Dad?! DAD!"
My feet thumped around the first floor and up the stairs towards his bedroom. A thin line of light showed under the bathroom door. I pounded on it yelling for him again. "Dad?" Sobbing. All I could hear was my dad's sobbing coming from the other side. "Dad, please," I said more to myself than to him, unsure if he could even hear me with such a whisper. The doorknob was cold to the touch. My hand wrapped around it, but I couldn't will myself to turn it. I knew what the note meant. Dad was behind the door, and I wasn't sure if I wanted to see him as he might be. Had he already gone through with it...? What should I do if he had? Should I wait and just call 911? If I didn't go in now, would he go through with it before anyone else was here to help me?
Thoughts raced through me, but finally instincts took over. My body moved before my mind could find a conclusion. The door swung open slowly. There he was. Razor to wrist and sitting in the bathtub. A small trickle of blood ran over his arm. He was shaking. The blade had just barely pierced his skin. He hadn't gone through with it yet. I could still help him.
I didn't know what to say. "Dad, please. Don't, please." It was all I could think of. He didn't listen. He stared like he always did. Away at something like he wasn't there with me.
I followed his line of sight.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see it. I couldn't see it until I really wanted to. The shadowed figure. An outline figure of a man with no form. The form knelt beside Dad. He was touching him. No, he was holding him. Holding his arms. Holding his hands. Dad wasn't cutting his wrists...the shadow. The thing I could see but couldn't see was cutting him. The long smokey finger of the thing held the razor over Dad's wrist, and it's head would shift from the blade to meet Dad's gaze and then back again. It played with him almost asking, "Should I?" When I could finally break my eyes away, they locked into my father's. He stopped looking at the shadow. He was looking at me. Right into my eyes.
"Help me." The blade slid effortlessly down his arm. Dad's eyes were watering and I was frozen. I had no idea what I had walked in on, or what I was witnessing. Worst of all, i had no idea how to help...Dad went limp. THe shadow turned its head to me.
His funeral was a few days ago.
I haven't really left my room much since then. Mom calls me down for dinner and I try. I really do, but I don't think I can ever tell her about the shadow that I saw with Dad. I don't think I can ever tell her that it hasn't left my side since that day.