Echo's POV
Have you ever thought to yourself how it would feel to die?
What's on the other end? Is it darkness, or is it that pretty place many people believe in called Heaven? Are you reborn or left wandering the Earth as a ghost?
Whatever the answers are, each one sounds far more enjoyable than living in this body of mine. I can't stop the tears running down my face in streams so seamlessly that the skin around it feels like a desert. My head and the thoughts running through them at a speed I can't seem to handle anymore. You're not good enough. You'll never be good enough because if you were good enough, you'd be able to handle the problems that millions of others face daily.
Yet I can't. I can't fathom feeling like this anymore. I can't fathom feeling like a worthless piece of shit—a disappointment. I can not handle the weight of the world on my shoulders anymore. They are too fragile and brittle, just like I've been told I am my whole life. Some people may face what I face, but I am not as strong as those people.
I am not strong enough. I am not strong enough. I am not strong enough.
I want it to end, I want this pain to go away, and I don't understand how anyone can tell me that life will get better because when will it? When will I get my happy ending? So far, right now, I see no end to my book.
The book that cuts off halfway by the pile of pills is sitting in the palm of my severely shaking hand.
I heave out a cry as I rock back and forth in my dry tub, one arm wrapped around my knees, the other holding the thing that'll end my story halfway.
"You're so pathetic, Echo," I whisper to myself. The hard lump in my throat goes down with an aggressive swallow that pains me. "You're n-nobody. You're a curse to everyone you've ever been around." My voice quivers.
No good has come to anyone who's decided to befriend me. Everyone I've ever known has gotten screwed over because I'm a shitty person, left me, or died.
My mom died giving birth to me. My ex-boyfriends have all called me a freak and left or cheated. My only friend, Hailey, killed herself just a month ago. And my dad, the only person who might've tried their best to keep me from this stage, passed away just two days ago.
I have no one. Not a single soul cares about Echo Johnson.
"Just swallow them," I hiss to myself. "Swallow them, Echo!" Tears burn my eyes, and my throat is so dry I can barely understand my words escaping.
The thing is, I've been at this stage one too many times.
I've been one step away from doing what I think about twenty-four-seven, yet I do this every time I have the chance.
I close my eyes and shake my head. "No, no, no, no, no." My forehead rams against my knees. "Not again, please not again." I stop and close my fingers over the pills so tightly it hurts.
Then I throw them against the wall of my shower, and the sound of them hitting the tiles and dropping into the bath fills the bathroom.
I scream.
I scream so loud a ringing sounds in my head till I go mute. Till no sound can leave my mouth for the next minute. I'm such a failure. Ending my life, I can't even do that correctly.
For the next five minutes, I sat staring at my toes, surrounded by the pills that were once in my palm. Tears continue to fall. Usually, I hate crying, but after the first five hours, I ignored them and let them run.
I close my eyes to feel the familiar burn and lay down flat. What is my life.
That's no question but a statement because I expect no answer. My life is pointless.
Call the fucking number, Echo.
"No," I respond to Dad's voice in my head. These are the exact words he said to me the day before he passed away in that dreadful hospital bed. As I said, he cared for me, but he was never reliable. He sulked in alcohol for the remainder of my life. I never had a home that felt like home. I never had an everyday life, and I can't help but put some blame on a man that isn't even here. A man I loved despite how selfish he was. Despite how cruel he was when I was younger. I loved him. Because that is what I do, I love the people who walk in, and I don't know how to decipher the good from the bad. Only mix them up and fuck up the good or mistake the bad with it. Either way, love hasn't gotten me anywhere.
Just dial the damn number, and I promise everything will get better. Swear to me that you will.
I had sworn to him. How dumb of me.
Unconsciously, as if my hands work alone, I open my phone and dial the number he made me memorize after Hailey committed.
I don't do it for him. I do it for her because when I was sobbing in my bed after hearing the news of my childhood friend, I couldn't help but question why she didn't call someone for help. I always wonder if she had reached this stupid number if she'd be alive today. And that might be the only thing stopping me from shredding my story apart, seeing where this number takes me.
988. The suicide prevention number.
Just three simple numbers.
I put the phone to my ear and close my eyes, swallowing. What if no one answers? What if someone does answer?
After a ring, someone picks up—a robot.
"You've reached the 988 suicide & crisis lifelines. Please hold as we connect you to a nearby agent."
Holding. No worries. Not much else I can do—oh wait. I roll my eyes.
"Hello, Brandon speaking; how may I help you today?" A voice comes through faster than I expected—a male voice.
I want to hang up, but I don't. I'm frozen, my eyes still closed, and my hands and body twitching. Tears run down the side of my face, dripping into my ear.
"Is anyone there?" His voice makes my eye twitch, not because it's unpleasant to listen to, but because the sound of another human in my ear feels oddly relieving. For so long, it's only been me and my thoughts.
I need him to keep speaking. "H-hi." I swallow.
"Oh," he says as if not expecting me to speak. "How are you?"
I huff, pressing my lips together into a thin line. "I'm not sure. I'm talking to you, aren't I?"
He ignores that sly remark. "What's your name?" I turn up my volume so that his voice can scratch the back of my head. God, how soothing it is.
"Echo."
"That's a nice name," he speaks. When I don't respond, he says, "What are you up to, Echo?"
What do you think I'm up to, dumbass? "I'm... uh..." I swallow the lump and swipe some tears off my face. "I'm lying in my tub."
He hums. "Is there any water in the tub currently?"
I shake my head, then remember he isn't here to see it. "No, there isn't."
"Alright," He pauses. "What are you doing in the tub?"
I should hang up. "I'm not sure," I whisper as I stare at the ceiling. "I wanted to take the pills but couldn't get myself to do it."
"Pills? Why didn't you take them?" It's not the question I expected to hear. It stumps me for a moment. Either he's doing an abysmal job at helping or just terrible.
"Because..." I start, but I can't finish the sentence. This is stupid; I should've hung up a long time ago. I should hang up right now.
"Can you do something for me, Echo?"
I break into a silent sob, unable to do what I want and mumble a yes.
"Perfect." He speaks to me softly. "Come on and step out of the tub. Can you do that for me?"
"Mhm." Slowly, like the action is taking my life on its own, I do just that. I stand up, feeling lightheaded and on the verge of passing out, and I step out of the bathtub, layered with pills, dressed in only a bra and underwear. "I'm out."
"Good job. Can you tell me if you are injured anywhere?"
"I'm not." I wish my voice were just as smooth.
He sighs of relief, so quiet I nearly miss it. "Okay, Echo, that's good to hear."
I look down at my hand bunched in a fist and open it to feel the shooting pain that resides. Crescent-shaped wounds are left behind in the center of my palms, caused by the impalement of my nails. "Except for these cuts on my palm."
"How did you get the cuts?"
They swell with blood, but I wipe them on my thigh, leaving a streak of blood on my skin and a burning itch that I enjoy far too much. "My nails."
"Do they hurt?" More stupid questions. No shit that they're fucking hurting.
"No," I lie.
"Well, tell me what does hurt you right now."
"My head hurts," I whisper.
"Can you find somewhere to sit that isn't in the bathroom?"
I find my way to the living room just outside the bathroom and sit in the dim room on the loveseat sofa my dad used to drown himself to sleep in with alcohol. If my nose wasn't so severely clogged, I bet I'd still be able to smell it.
"Sitting."
"Good, Echo. Now tell me, why did you call 988?"
I lean my head back on the sofa and close my eyes. I'm getting sick of his dumb questions. Isn't it obvious why I called? Why would anyone call a suicide prevention hotline? It's sure not because they want to have a fun little chat about their eventful day. I'm starting to think Brandon skipped his training course when getting hired.
"Because..." I try to answer the simple question, but I draw a blank.
Because my father told me to. Though, that isn't a valid answer. I rarely listened to what he told me to do, so what's changed now?
"Because what?"
I tell the truth. "I wanted someone to talk to."
"Do you have anyone close to you that you can talk to? Family or friends?"
"No, and I don't have any friends."
"Yes, you do," he says definitely.
"Oh yeah? Since you know me so well, Brandon, name my friends."
"I don't know you at all, yet I know I want to be your friend."
I roll my eyes. "You're terrible at your job."
He chuckles. "Terrible? What makes you say that?"
"I just called and told you I was lying in a tub with pills. Aren't you supposed to... you know... help?"
"Should I maybe be calling the police?"
"No," I answer quickly.
"Then I won't call the police."
Oh. I always thought it was a given that operators would call reinforcements or something and throw me in a mental hospital, which is why I never reached before, but it seems they don't, at least Brandon doesn't.
"What made you want to take the pills?" He asks me, his tone losing the slight humor that it held a second ago.
"I don't want to talk about it."
"Isn't that what you called here for?" He responds. "To talk?"
"Yes, but-" I groan, pushing my knees into my chest and hugging them with one arm just like I had in the tub. He's frustrating. "I just... I just..." Seconds go by.
"You just what, Echo?"
"I feel lost."
"Lost?"
I scoff softly and sniffle. "Yes, lost. Did I stutter?"
"No, you didn't," he answers nicely. So lovely that I feel shitty for the rude response. Nothing new, just Echo Johnson being a total bitch as usual.
He continues. "It's okay to feel lost sometimes. The good news is you can be found."
I lean my head back into the couch, my eyelids low. "Cute, but this unrealistic view doesn't help my cause. I was probably better off calling my dad-- oh wait, he's dead." I laugh bitterly, a tear falling from my eye. "He's dead, just like Hailey and just like Mom. Do you want to know why? B-because everyone around me dies. I'm a Goddamn curse, so good-fucking-luck to the person who finds me because they'll end up dead just like everyone else."
Brandon is silent on the other end. I don't blame him. What would anyone say after hearing that? Nothing.
I shake my head, something clicking in me, making me realize how stupid this idea was. "I hope you find a new job, you unhelpful piece of shit."
"Echo. Echo, wait—"
I hang up and launch my phone into the couch's cushion across the room. It plops back and tumbles to the floor with a thump. With my luck, it's probably cracked.
You can be found.
"Found, my ass," I mumble, walking passed the bathroom and paused, staring at the tub of my failed attempt. I only look at the pills in disgust and shut the light off before walking down the hallway to my bedroom. It's pitch black here, but I memorize the way to my bed and plop down like a starfish.
Staring into a void of midnight darkness, I blink and close my eyes.
"What the hell am I doing," I whisper shortly before closing my eyes.