When you decided to leave, I was torn apart, forgotten, never to be seen ever again. The worst part was, you wanted me to go with you. But it's not for you to decide. I'm supposed to forge my own path, even after you have left me. And I intend to. Because you made me want to.
The rain pounds the cold, hard ground. I'm shielded from it, but it doesn't help the pain. Why, I repeat. Why, why would anyone ever do this to themselves. It's not fair, that they felt a certain way, and I had to watch them slowly break into sharp, unforgiving fragments of glass. "Rylie, I'm so sorry for what you've been through." "I wish for the best in your future." The endless flow of kind words make my head spin and ears ache. I don't need your pity. What's the point of words that don't really have any feeling?
The grave is too dark, too grim. It makes me uncomfortable. The rain changes it to an even darker shade of grey. It shouldn't be this way. I can't stand it. The words on it don't even mention who I was. "Tom Marksom, Beloved Son, November 3, 1996 - March 17, 2014" I mutter under my breath, and as 2014 leaves my mouth, the tears began. "He was mine," I whisper. "He had so little to share, so he gave it to me," start to take big, gulping breaths, and I cover my eyes, and think, "This is rain. It is rain, and I am not crying, and this isn't happening. He's not really gone. There's no way. He was cheerful, and he was mine. I.." I couldn't finish the last sentence, I was so lost in my tears.
Chapter 1
Tom Marksom suffered from chronic depression. He fought so hard, but it overtook him. His body, his mind, it was everywhere. I like to think that he didn't really want to end his own life. But he did, right in front of me. The last thing I heard him say was, "I'm so sorry." He went into the bathroom, and never came out. I was so afraid to see what was going on, I ran to the telephone and then heard a terrifying gunshot ring in my ears. "No," I had said under my breath, and I, like a blind fool, ran up to the door, and after five minutes of banging on the door, I managed to kick it open. The image flashes in my mind from time to time. the blood, hair, him. Tom, dead on the floor, his hand still clutching the probably stolen gun.
The police were on the verge of throwing up. I could tell, even though I was on a stretcher, suffering from shock. The neighbors heard the gunshot and called the police. The world was a total blur, the sobbing, the yelling, the commotion around me, medical personnel attempting to calm down my heartbeat, but I was in shock, and they couldn't get me out of it. The one thought on my mind was "Tom. What's happening to Tom?! Where is he?! The blood. Is he dead?" I was plunging deeper into shock, and had to be transported to the hospital.
I woke up alone. No nurses, no family members, none. Just me, my mind holding on to whatever it could, and I was trying to put myself together again. What is going on? Where is everyone? These few stray thoughts made me begin to hyperventilate. "The beeper, the beeper," I thought. My shaking hands barely managed to push the desolate red button, and a nurse ran into me having what looked like a seizure, and my shaky breaths. "Miss Briggins!!" She changes the fluid of the tube dripping into my arm. I sank into my pillows, peaceful again. "I'm going to call your parents, all right?" I recall her saying, and I thought, "My parents don't know about this?"
Mom and Papa ran into my hospital room about a half hour later, and they started asking me many questions. The questions I never wanted to answer. But I told them. That Tom is dead and gone. I saw everything. My parents were incredulous, they said, "No, he can't be dead. He was so happy." That made the tears flow down my cheeks. I said through the sobs, " Why else would I be here?"
I knew that school would be worse. And it was. Once the news spread, here and there I would come across another apologizer. What do they have to apologize for? I should've expected it, but I expected to be ignored. Left alone. To wallow in pity, to be in sweet solitude. Alone. My parents started to dote on me. Buy me clothes and bags, pointless things they thought would get me through it. But the only thing that would bounce me back is if he was back, and he's never coming back. "So," I had thought. "Will the day come that I move on?"
The rest of the days were a blur, just like when I was in shock. Countless cards, flowers, questions. I of course, brushed them off. I didn't need others, I just needed me and my computer. And I would search the web. For hours. They would peek in, occasionally checking on me. They thought they were sneaky. I could hear them sigh. I thought this: "My life is a disaster. Boyfriend dead, parents not getting that this is not a gifts-make-everything-better-situation. Like when my first goldfish died. My boyfriend - I mean technically ex-boyfriend's - life is not equivalent to a goldfish's." I laughed to myself at that remark. But I was completely serious.
When I woke up at my desk the next morning, my parents were on my bed, waiting for me to wake up. They said, "We have something to tell you!" I looked at them, confused, half asleep. "What." Mother grabbed my hand.
"We... Well... We got a call from Tom's mother. She wants to see you today. Um, you should leave now, actually. We don't want to bring you back... There... But she insisted that you go..." Mrs. Marksom wants to talk... to me? I thought, and begun to put on my shoes. "I'll go..." I had muttered, and walked out of my room, into the garage, onto my bike. The whole time, I recited, "Do not panic, do not panic, do not panic, do not panic, do NOT panic..." I got nervous. Tom died in that house. When I was there. She really expects me to want to go there? Well, she is Tom's mother. She probably is having more trouble accepting that it happened in her bathroom, her son, killed himself.
The Marksom house loomed in the distance, although a bright, open home, I had never experienced it be so... so... introverted, so to speak. The normally clean, cut grass, seemed overgrown and mangled. The driveway was cracked, with occasional lonely sort of chalk drawings.
~~~~~~~~~~
And now here I am, my bike parked in their garage, me on their couch, sipping a glass of water they provided me with. Tom's mother sitting across from me, her children playing with blocks behind the dining room table I remember eating dinners on with this once happy family.
"Well, Rylie. I'm assuming you understand that this was an extremely unfortunate event. I was trying to find his old license in his room, to confirm his age for our insurance company, and I opened the drawer and found... Well... Please just take a look at this." She hands me a small, folded up notes paper with my name, Rylie, written on the front of it in Tom's scratchy handwriting. "Please open it." I look up at Mrs. Marksom, and she nods quietly.
My heart beats fast and hard. He touched this paper. This could be one of the only things Tom Marksom has left behind for us. Carefully, so I do not rip it, I peel of the tape that makes this piece of paper a neat envelope. I begin to read.
Dear Rylie,
By the time you read this, I'm going to be gone. But...
There is a reason why I am no longer here. There is a whole story. And I want you to find it. On your own. Without me, to guide you through every step of the process. This is my last wish. I will, however, give you destinations through these notes. Here is your first clue.
159 Millington St., the barista named Linda, ask about me.
Love,,Tom Marksom
"Um..." She looks up at me. "I have to go, Mrs. Marksom, and-"
"Please, call me Jane. No need to be so formal. We've known each other for years."
"Well... Mrs. M -I mean Jane,- I actually must go now, thank you. May I keep this letter? Or is that asking too much?" She puts her hands in a fold, and leans over a bit. "If it isn't too personal, can I read it before you take it with you?" I stop. Well, it is her son... Like I realized before, she's probably having more trouble than I am in these past months. I look at her eyes. They are full of anxiety, of hope. I can't say no! That would be extremely rude! "Here." She quickly reads the paper.
Tears pool in the corner of her eyes. "I wonder-sniff- if he has done anything terrible in his life, is that what he is trying to tell you? I... I... My baby is gone!" She starts to sob. I hand her the tissue box that was sitting in front of me, waiting for something like this to happen. "Jane... Shh... That can't be it... It's alright. I'll find out what he's trying to tell us." I take the note, and walk out of the house, into the warm air. 159 Millington St... Oh, right! The coffee shop is down there. I remember going there on my way to school in my freshman year. The shop's name... Well, I'll see it. I bike down the street, extremely wary of the cars passing bye, trying not to let my mind wander from biking, so I can reach my destination as fast as possible. If my parents bought me a car instead of thousands of dollars worth of clothing and bags I'll never wear, this would be much easier for me...
As my destination came into view, a car speeds in front of me. "Watch your car man!" I shout, and the guy flips me off. And speeds away. I lock my bike up on the rack, and open the door to the seemingly empty coffee shop, with only a few filled tables. A barista stands behind the counter, drumming her well manicured nails on the surface of it. Her eyes perk up. I can imagine her thinking "A customer!" in her head. "Hello! Welcome to Coffee Corner! Can I get you anything?" She smiles broadly.
Her name tag reads "Alina". Sigh. "Hi. I have something to order, but first, may I ask you a question?" She puts a menu on the counter, all the while grinning. "Yes, what would you like to know?" I scratch my head, and pick up the menu. Decent sounding stuff. "Is there someone named Linda working here?" She rubs her thumb and pointer finger against her chin. "Actually, yes. She isn't working here today, though. She has the weekend shift. What would you like to order today, miss?" I scan the menu. "I'll just have a latte to go, please."
"Coming right up! That will be 2.50, please." She begins running back and forth, grabbing ingredients here and there. "Would you like a flavor?" I stop digging through my wallet. "Um... Vanilla would be nice." I finally come up with a five dollar bill. "Oh yes, you would like medium? Or small? The small is only two dollars."
"Medium is fine." She hurries back and forth to get the latte done quickly and smoothly.
"Here you go. Thank you for your business." I grab the latte, put down 2.50 (plus tax) and walk out of the cafe. Well, I guess I'm going to be there again this weekend. I hop on my bike, and pedal back to my house, to my room, to my family. There's a lot of things that I need to think about before Saturday.
I sit at the table in silence. My parents glance at me, then each other, then Amelia, my 8 year old sister. "Amelia, sweetie?" My father father breaks the silence in a higher voice. "Can you please finish up your dinner quick and go in your room? We need to have a private chat with your sister." She smiles, shovels down the rest of her food, and runs off into her bedroom. What could this be about?
"Rylie. I understand that this situation has been hard on you. It's been hard on everyone. But you are beginning to concern us. Today was the first day you've been outside the house in almost two months. And you came back so quiet, so forlorn." I look up at my parents.
"So what are you planning? Sending me off somewhere? Or committing me to a mental hospital?"
My mother smiles. "None of the sort. We have set appointments with a local psychiatrist. We are concerned that you may be depressed, or becoming a shut-in." I look up at them, my hair reacting to the movement by becoming sharp, flowing whips. "Depressed?! How can I even allow myself to be depressed after what happened to Tom?! HOW could you even SAY such a thing to me?! I would be betraying him if I ever considered the thought that my life is the worst and I should die because of it!!!!" I throw my fork against my plate and storm to my room. "Riley-"
"Cancel that freaking appointment!! I don't need help in this situation! Not from you or any doctor in this world! I just need myself and my own thoughts! Good night!"
I slam the door behind me. My knees hit the floor, and I cry there, amazed at myself for the sudden show of rebellion I've never seen before. "Why... How... HOW COULD THEY DO THIS?!" A loud voice screams in my head, flashes, Flashes. Flashes. "Urk-" Flashes. Bangs. Flashes. Flashes. Blood. Screams. Bang, bang, bang. Blood. Hair, Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. "NOOOO!" Flash. "STOP IT, STOP!" Bangs, bang bang, bang. "TOM!"
"Rylie?! Rylie! Open the door!" Need to drown out noise. Bang. There. There. I need to smash it. Smash. Smash. Smash. I shakily pick up the piggy bank. Smash it. Let it out. The voice whispers unfamiliar, yet known words. "Drown in your anger." Smash. The piggy bank breaks into a thousand pieces, the coins scattering across the floor, the measly dollars not worth saving.
"RYLIE!" A foot slams against my door, and it swings open, my father panting in its frame, me, surrounded by sharp bits of plaster, a halo of coins, blood seeping from my cut hands. "Rylie, what on earth are you DOING?!" The voices left, The voices are gone. I'm okay. I'm safe from it all. I'm safe. Another pair of footsteps. "RYLIE! Oh my god, what did you do?! What did you do? Those could scar, why would you-...?" A grin sweeps across my face. "It's okay. I'm okay." She shakes her head.
"Let's bandage up those hands." Mom leads me to the bathroom, and I follow. Unwillingly. She shuts the door, and begins to gather up gauze and alcohol to disinfect the cuts. "What where you doing?" Her face shows no emotion as she cleans my cuts. "Why was your piggy bank on the floor?" I don't say anything. The fact that she shows no outward emotion worries me. She's showing the root of her anger. "I... I don't know. There were voices. Repeating 'smash' and 'bang' and... I saw it... Flashes. Flashes of his body, flashes of the scene... Flashes... Yes, flashes..." She looks at me, perplexed by the odd mutters coming out of my mouth. "Flashes? Like, camera flashes?" I look down. "No," I whisper. "Flashes of what I had saw... I guess what I saw that day. The day he died." She suddenly wraps the bandages around my hands, quicker, too tight, to rough. "Ow! What was that for?" She looks up at me, stern. "The pain got you out of that weird state. Good. Oh, good. These don't need stitches. But I'm afraid that there'll be a scar or two." I flinch at the word. People are going to get the wrong idea, that this was the result of my -almost- depression.
~~~
I spent the rest of the week silently tending to my wounds, taking all of the scar-preventing measures I could think of. All of them went away, except one, long, moon-shaped scar on my left palm. A perfect crescent, in memento of these strange events I am forced to experience. My parents left me alone. Good choice. The only time I left room was to eat. Twice a day. Every day. Just enough to curb my appetite until Saturday.
"You're going out?" I look over at Mom and shrug, silently leaving the house, onto my bike. "Hey! Rylie! You can't just leave-" I pedal off to the coffee shop, letting the wind drown out my mother's shouts. I lock the bike, grab my bag and walk towards the front entrance.
"Hello! Welcome to Coffee Corner." It's a different girl today. Please, please. "What would you like?" Nametag... Linda! Yes, finally. I sit down at the bar stool. "Um... I have a question. Do you know Tom Marksom? Like, a tall, dark haired teenager my age?" She looks up at the ceiling for a moment. "Ah! That's right. He's a regular here. We talk sometimes. Why? How is he? He hasn't been here lately." My eyes widen. My lower lip quivers. "W-well..." I stutter. "I-I'm sorry to inform you, but he is no longer with u-us." She drops the towel. I expected that. "I'm sorry, what?" I feel tears. "He died about a week and a half ago. S-suicide." She leans in towards me. "Honey, it's ok. I'm sorry to hear that. It's a shock." I swallow my tears. "Well... He told me to come here, and meet you." She squints. "Oh! You must be Rylie! Yes, yes. He gave me something he said was for you." She hands me a small envelope, my name inscribed in his handwriting. Yes, yes, I finally have it." I look up at her, wiping my eyes. "Thank you, I'll get a medium iced tea to go, please. I'm in a hurry." She picks up a plastic cup, and smiles. "Of course. I'm on it."
I walk out of the coffee shop, three dollars short of what I came in with, and a cold cup of tea in my hands. I hop on my bike, and try to avert my eyes from the houses on the road. I don't want to know if I pass it or not. I don't know if I'll never see it again. I don't want to know. Ignorance is bliss, and at this point, that's the only thing I don't have.
I shuffle up the steps, and open the door. My mother stands in the entrance, about to go upstairs. "Rylie! Oh my god, why did you just run off like that?!" I look down, and then up again, but not at her. "I'm seventeen. I'm pretty sure that you can trust me with a bike ride. I'm going to my room." "Rylie wait a -" I slam the door shut. Locked. Good. I set the drink down, and sit at my desk. Finally. I can read his next letter.
Dear Rylie,
I'm surprised you went through with this. You must think this is kind of stupid, huh? It's just like you. Well, I know that this must be frustrating for you, but just complete this letter set for me. And I'm sorry that I left you behind like this. Please, I want you to know the reason. Fight through this, and in the end, when it's over, forget me. You deserve a better life than this.
Here's the next address. You'll meet someone here, so pay close attention to your surroundings. 89 Burlington Ave, ask for Oscar, he's got something for you.
-Tom
P.S. I love you, even though I'm no longer with you.