*trigger warning*
~
I can barely remember the events of yesterday evening. I remember Jasper's words and the way that they hurt, and I remember the rest of the day up until the point where I got my hands on a blunt.
It's not like alcohol, where the events are just completely blacked out from my memory, it's more like a blur. The weed made everything feel like a dream, or like it didn't really happen.
"We need to talk about last night."
Owen's voice coming up from behind me answers my questions in an instant. Everything that I think I remember happening did, in fact, happen.
I tried to tell him about the crushing numbness of my childhood memories and the way I've been feeling for the past few years—a tremendous mistake, on my part.
I watch from the island stool as Owen enters the kitchen and takes a stance across the counter from me. He takes authority in his position, and after he takes a quick second to turn around to start brewing his morning coffee, he turns right back to me with eyes that, like usual, are impossible to read.
I move my eyes up from my untouched bagel to his calm, confident stance and he peers back down on me with watchful eyes. He even tries to get me to make eye contact, but like a guilty puppy, I can't bring myself to look at him.
I wish more than ever that Mason were here to break the silence, but Owen's been letting him sleep in lately. So it's just us, the dripping sound of Owen's brewing coffee, and the lackluster countertops that my eyes can't look up from.
"I'm worried about you."
"Don't be."
I move my unsteady hand to my bagel and push it around on the plate. It was stupid of me to even try to eat. I thought that maybe, if I could preoccupy myself with eating, it would show Owen that I'm not in a position to have a talk. But I'm not hungry, and Owen doesn't seem to care that I'm 'trying to eat'.
"Stop wasting your breath on me," I speak up. I need to get the confidence to let him know with certainty that I don't want his help. "We both know I'm leaving here eventually. Don't waste your time."
"I don't care when you're leaving," he states calmly. "I care that something's hurting you."
Life is hurting me.
I sigh and push my plate away from me. I hadn't realized how much I don't want to have this conversation. At least not until he started trying to pry his way into my feelings.
I step off of the island stool and pick my jacket up from beside me. He notices my desire to end our conversation, but before he can jump in with more pointless words, I cut him off in a harsh tone.
"You don't know me," I bite. My eyes narrow on him in defiance, an act that makes me feel wonderfully powerful. "Stop acting like you can fucking fix me."
His eyebrows draw together in confusion as he backs off. He even steps back against the counter, and he moves his eyes off of me for a brief second. Silence fills the kitchen and begins to hang over us like a heavy blanket while I wait for my opportunity to officially end whatever conversation Owen is trying to have.
"I never said I was trying to fix you," he begins before he raises his eyes back to me. "There's nothing wrong with you."
I want to believe him. I really, truly do. From his patient stare to his serious composure, I know he deeply believes what he's saying. But he's wrong, because there's a huge part of me that he doesn't even know.
"It doesn't always feel like that."
"I'm just trying to help you, sweetheart," he says with a shake of his head. "I'm really worried about you."
His eyes pierce deep under my skin, and they crawl and bite at me as I remember what I've planned to do today.
What I'm planning to do when I leave this house is selfish. It's unspeakable, and it's heartbreaking—for me and for the people I'm leaving behind. That is, if they even care.
But as I stare at Owen's electric green eyes, taking in the lines of compassion and trust that go along with them, I remember that he has no idea. He doesn't know that I'm not going to school today. I'm not going to sleep tonight. I'll be in a body bag by the end of the hour, if everything goes as planned.
And just the thought of that makes me panic a little bit more than I already was. It's real. It's happening. And as much as I always thought I was ready for this day, I feel myself wanting to pull back.
I want to hear something that might make me think twice, even though my plan is set in stone. I want to stay, but it's going to hurt so badly if I do.
"Why? Why do you even bother?"
My words make Owen stand up straighter, and he approaches me with an outstretched arm and a steady gaze.
"Because you're angry all the time. You never talk about what's on your mind."
"Should I?" I scoff as I use my attitude to distract myself from my growing vulnerability. "Because you're not my dad."
Owen stops in front of me and lowers his hand at my jabbing words. It's impossible for me to tell if I truly hurt him or not, mainly because I can't bring myself to look him in the eyes. If he's hurt, I can't tell. And that might just make what I'm about to do much easier.
I can't look into his eyes, because seeing the desperation in him will only make this harder. I feel so guilty. I feel so ashamed of what I'm about to do once I walk out of his house. He'll never forgive me. But I can't help it, because I've been in so much pain for far too long.
"That's not the point," he states before shaking off whatever emotion he was holding. "I'm trying to tell you, Ramona, that if you hold in what you're feeling and what's hurting you, it's only gonna tear you apart."
His words bring familiar tingles and stings to my eyes, and I back away from him the instant I see him step closer to me. My eyes grow glassy and wide while my throat suppresses a knot that's threatening to constrict my ability to take proper breaths.
"It already has."
"What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I said."
He stops talking and pauses once he realizes he's not going to get anywhere with me. He almost looks frustrated as he stares directly at me, and I watch him lean against the marble countertop as he analyzes my battle against my glassy eyes.
"Well, last night you said something about your parents. Why'd you bring them up?"
"I was high. I didn't know what I was saying," I push out before vigorously swallowing in an attempt to rid my throat of the painful knot.
"Jean only told me that your parents went to prison for drug charges. Is there something I don't know about? Is there something she doesn't know about?"
There's plenty you don't know about, I want to throw back.
But I keep my mouth shut, knowing it's better this way. It's better to keep it to myself, where I can push it down and pretend it isn't real.
"No," I state blatantly.
"What about your mom?" he presses. "I know she tried to kill herself multiple times when—"
"God—shut the fuck up, Owen!"
Yelling at him makes me feel so much better, despite the fact that he doesn't entirely deserve it.
But when I look at the few feet of space between Owen and I, and when I really think about what he's just said to me, I feel more sad than I do angry.
Everything I try to forget is still there, lingering dangerously close to the surface of my conscious memory. Because of course I remember the countless times my mother tried to end her life.
Of course I remember my brother screaming for me when CPS had to separate us on the night my parents were arrested. I remember it all, but I choose not to feel it. After all, it can't hurt me if I don't let it.
"It bothers you. I know it does. I'm just trying to help you."
I clench my jaw and stare impatiently back at Owen. He doesn't understand any of this. He doesn't understand that I need to end this pain and this misery.
He doesn't understand that everytime I close my eyes I see my dad, Joseph, and my old foster parents. I see Allen standing over me and kicking me like an animal. I see Jasper laughing at my pain, and Willow's husband hurting her.
It's an inescapable life of agony, one that goes on and on until I finally decide to end the miserable cycle.
"I don't know what you think you're doing," I sneer. "But talking about my parents is not going to help me."
"Ramona," he speaks in a collected voice while offering a completely rational answer. An answer that I can't listen to, because I've got my heart set on only one thing. "I think it will. I think you need to let go of whatever's hurting you."
"You can't help me," I reiterate as I glance towards the front door. I want to get away from here as quickly as possible. I want to get this over with. I want to end it while I still can.
"Why not?"
I stare up at him and pull my jacket across my chest. His intense gaze is causing a pit in my stomach, and I know that I need to leave now, before I give in to his kindness. The compassion that he holds towards me is too much to bear, and the thought of him receiving the news of my death is more painful that I could've imagined.
"Because I'm already gone, Owen."
Our eyes meet for a long pause, and I can clearly see the confusion present on his face. It's like he's trying to decide whether or not my words are morbidly serious or not.
I take his speechless stupor as a way out, and after I snatch my phone off of the island countertop, I bolt away in the other direction and out the front door.
His protests echo in my ears like pleading sirens, although they silence the moment his front door shuts behind me. And the fact that he's not coming after me makes this hurt even more. He's not going to try to stop me. But I know it's not fair to put it on him. The poor guy doesn't know what I'm about to do when I leave this property.
With slow steps, I make my way across Owen's front lawn and down the block. I feel my eyes sting and my throat burn as I approach the bus stop, and I feel the silent part of my mind begging for him to come and stop me. For someone to appear and give me a way out of this end.
But as I stop in front of the bus stop, I remind myself that there is no other way out. There never was, and that's why I'm doing this.
So, as I get on the city bus and take my seat in the back, my tears dry up and my throat relaxes. This is the right thing. It has to be.
School is where I'm supposed to be headed, although that's not at all where I'm going. The bus rumbles down the road and towards the downtown area, the numerous bridges that line the area coming into view.
There's a bus stop just before one of the bigger bridges, and my hand jerks up to pull the yellow 'stop' string as we begin approaching my end.
The bus screeches to a halt and lets me off at the stop near the bridge, and the second I get off of the bus I'm hit with the cold, March air.
It's icy against my skin as it blows around me, and the loud, bustling downtown district is ringing around me in my ears. There are cars, buildings, traffic lights, and people bustling all around me, and the bridge about a block away looms in front of me like a demon ready to pull me under.
I stare for a moment, frozen where the bus has let me off, and I watch the cars pass over the bridge. They're ordinary people, dropping kids off at school or going to work, just minding their business.
I can't think. I push out rational thought, and I block out voices that tell me to think twice about my choice. My feet bring me down the street with haste, and my mind follows without hesitation. The air around me is cold and biting, but I don't need warmth. I don't need anything but peace.
The clouds are thick and grey, and they hang over the city like a thick blanket—a blanket that's less about warmth and more about suffocation. Breathing feels suffocating, but I don't think that's entirely new for me. Everything is suffocating.
And strangely enough, even though I'm about to commit an act that's frowned upon in all fifty states, I feel an odd sense of calm—like everything might finally be okay.
It's the feeling I've been searching for my entire life. A placid feeling of tranquility, almost like emptiness, but it's a peaceful kind of emptiness. Like I don't have to fight it anymore.
Once snapped out of my head, I find myself standing right where I'm meant to be. In the middle of the bridge with the restless and rocky Atlantic Ocean laying one hundred feet below me.
I peer over the edge of the rail to look at the water as the reality of the moment sets in. The calm composure that I was keeping before begins to crumble when I feel a lump in my throat.
The freezing waters below are enticing and terrifying at the same time. They're beautiful, and they're tragic. They're my way out.
I wrap my hands around the top of the rail until my knuckles turn white, the dirty water below blurring in my eyes. My lungs feel deprived of air, unable to breathe from the weight on my chest as I put my feet up on the first bar. The longer I think about it, the more likely I'll chicken out. So I don't think. I just do.
I don't know what the people behind me are doing—I don't even know if they've noticed me. I can't hear them. All I can hear is the noise in my mind, reminding me exactly why the pain doesn't end.
I hear my father's voice.
I hear Joseph's voice.
I hear Jaylene, and Jasper, and my old foster parents.
I hear them all, and I put my feet on the second bar. And maybe this is naive, but I hear the part of me that wants to be saved. I hear the part of me that's wishing, hoping, someone will stop me. That someone on this bridge will see me, and see what I'm about to do. But the larger part of me is telling me to jump. To get it over with.
There's so much that I've never let out. Things I'll never be able to say, and feelings I'll never be able to feel. This miserable cycle of hating myself, and hating every single day of my life needs to end.
And the second I think of Mason, it just gets worse. My eyes blur as silent tears streak down my cheeks, and the thought of my little boy being all alone feels like a knife piercing straight through my heart.
As I'm staring at the water below, I hear a familiar voice split through the air, and it's a voice that makes me sick to my stomach.
"Ramona?"
I glance behind me to confirm the voice, and my eyes lock with Willow's as she gets out of her car.
That is not what I meant.
"Honey, what are you doing?"
I don't want her to have to see this. She's been so good to me, and she just filed for divorce with her abusive husband. This is the absolute last thing she needs.
But suicide is a selfish act anyways; it's not like I care about how she feels. I don't. I only care about getting rid of my pain.
But looking around, I can see that a few people have taken notice of what I'm about to do.
Willow is inching closer to me, and the closer she gets, the harder I hold onto the rail. She's dressed in jeans and her average blouse, her hair pinned up into a casual bun, suggesting that she's going into work for the day and I've just made her late. I always do manage to screw everything up.
"Why don't you come over here, okay? C'mon, I'll take you home," she suggests with an arm outstretched in an attempt to reason with me.
She knows what I'm about to do. It's obvious from the way my feet are planted with determination upon the guardrail of the bridge. And she can't change anything. Nothing she says can get rid of the things that constantly weigh me down. My mind is made up.
"I don't have a home," I respond, my voice more broken than I expected. My closed off throat makes it hard to speak or breath, but I force words out of my mouth anyways. "No one w—wants me, Willow."
She takes a step closer as she still desperately tries to make me change my mind. I grip the edge with white knuckles and block out the sound of her kind, tender voice.
"We love you, Ramona."
She's lying. Why is she lying to me?
I can't breathe at this point. All I can do is keep staring at the water below, promising myself that it's the best thing to do. Every word she says is wrong. No one loves me. They never did. I mean, how could they love me when I'm so pathetic?
"Owen, Grace, Carol—we all love you so much."
"No you don't," I choke out, more tears spilling from my eyes as I listen to the crashing waves below me.
The wind is biting at my ears and nose and it makes my face ache and sting while more salty tears drop down from my face to the ocean.
"That's not true at all. Just come to me." Again, she gets closer to me. "And I promise, we'll get you some help."
I try to catch my breath, although I just end up choking on my tears once again. Trying to take in air without my body shaking and rattling becomes impossible.
"You can't help m—me." I lean closer to the edge, watching the ocean grow wider and more vast before my eyes.
But as badly as I want to jump, there's a piece of me that wants to stay and hear what she has to say. Because I know, deep in a buried part of my mind, that this is wrong. That I've got other options, and people that care about me. But the second I let myself remember that is the second I fail in my plan to end my life.
"I know it seems like the easiest way to get rid of the pain," she begins with a pleading voice. "But I promise you—you will regret it."
I won't be alive to regret it. I need to stop listening to her. I just need to fucking jump already.
"There's still hope for you, sweetheart."
I glance back at her again, and this time I'm surprised at how close she's become to me. She's almost within arms reach, and I can see clearly into her eyes, now.
Her green eyes are red and glassy, and I can tell she's terrified of what might happen to me. I'd feel bad if I wasn't in so much pain already.
"Willow—" I breathe, desperately hoping I can make her understand before I do what I have to do.
I don't want to leave her without any departing words, so as my tears stain lines into my cheeks I make sure to make my feelings clear to her. The last thing I'd want is for her to blame herself.
"I don't think—I don't think you understand how sad I am."
I begin to cry uncontrollably, not knowing how to keep myself calm as I prepare to step onto the third and final bar.
"I understand that you're sad. But things can get better. I promise there is still a reason to keep going," she pleads. "And I promise you that you are loved, Ramona."
Her final words have the most of an effect on me, and after a moment of me trying to stay tightly bound to the guard rail, I feel myself start to let go.
It's slow at first, as I'm trying to fight against the demons that scream at me to jump, but the second my feet hit the pavement again, I collapse in complete and utter defeat as I give up on trying to pretend that I'm strong. The truth is, I'm not strong anymore. I'm so weak, and this is my last straw.
It's evident from the sobs escaping my lips, uncontrollable and cathartic at the same time. I feel Willow's arms wrap around me and I feel my body being pulled up from the cold, hard, ground as my cries grow muffled and quieter.
I appreciate that Willow doesn't make me walk back to her car. All she does is hold me and let me sob and cry everything out, pouring it onto her chest while I lean against her with limp, noodle-like legs.
I feel years and years of suffering and hurting, all being released at once through my agonizing and terrifyingly painful sobs. I never realized how much pain I've been holding in, and just how badly I've needed to let it all out.
I can't hear the people around us, and I don't know what they're doing. I don't know how long she held me for. But I do know that it felt so good to have my arms wrapped around someone, not having to be in overwhelming pain by myself.
"Ramona, just try to breathe."
Willow reassures me everything will be fine, running her hands through my hair as I try to catch my breath.
"I can't—"
"Don't talk. Just breathe."
I listen to her sweet, calming voice as I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to focus on filling my lungs with air. But the icy air around us makes it even harder to breathe, and I'm left gasping into the warm crook of her neck.
It takes quite a while before I can catch my breath, and even after I've managed to slow my breathing, I don't want to pull my face away from its warm spot against her jacket.
The world around us is unforgiving, and I don't want to have to interact or deal with it anymore. I want to stay here in her hold, where no one can hurt me. But I know that's complete bullshit, and I'll have to deal with my demons very, very soon.
I should've jumped when I had the chance, because there's no going back from this.
"Let's go home, okay?"
I'm hesitant to nod, and I reluctantly pick my head up and look around for the first time.
People are staring at us as they walk by, probably wondering why there's a crying girl in the middle of the bridge, and rightfully so. I'd likely be doing the same, if I were them.
I'm full of a slew of different emotions, and there's a part of me that wants to tell them all to fuck off. But I know that won't do anything, so I keep my mouth shut as Willow leads my body over into the warmth of her car and towards the safety of Owen's house.
~
Owen called me into school when Willow brought me back to his house, which allowed me to stay home for the rest of the day to sleep and relax.
After sobbing into his shoulder for a good ten minutes, he also told me that he's going to call a psychologist so I can have someone to talk to.
It feels strange knowing Owen is now aware of how much I'm hurting, although he still doesn't know about my cutting. I decided not to disclose that part.
He tried to get me to talk and open up, but I refused to let myself admit what's going on inside my head. He'd probably just think I'm crazy. Everyone else does.
I've been getting texts from Luis and Nadia all day, both of them trying to ask me questions about my cutting and the rumors that Jasper and Jaylene are likely spreading.
They're all variations of 'Is it true?' and 'Why would you do that to yourself?'.
I don't bother answering. Every time my phone buzzes, I just shrink farther under the covers and try my best to hide from any social interaction.
"Ramona?"
I roll over to see Owen peeking his head into the guest bedroom.
"Hmm?"
"Mason's school just called. He's not feeling good, so I'm gonna go pick him up. I'll be back in a bit."
I look up at him through the mess of blankets laying over me, only able to utter a single word.
"Okay."
He lingers in the doorway for a moment longer before speaking up again.
"How're you feeling?"
"Fine."
I can sense the slight agitation in him at the fact that he's not getting anywhere. From our conversation this morning to the way I'm treating him now, after I just tried to jump off of a bridge, I think he's realized that I'm not going to offer him very much.
"Let me know if you need anything."
I wiggle my hand out of the thick mess of blankets and offer him a meager thumbs-up, a gesture that makes him finally turn out of the room and leave me alone in the darkness.
I listen to his footsteps after he closes the guest room door and as he leaves me back in silence. Once I hear the front door close, I sit up in bed slowly, rubbing my eyes.
The room around me is still; just as I remember it. The keyboard Owen got me for my birthday is leaning against the wall, still in the box and not set up yet. The framed photo of Mason and I from years ago is still on my nightstand, although this time, there's a glass of water next to it. Owen must've brought it in sometime during my nap.
Speaking of my nap, I check the time on my phone only to see that it's almost one in the afternoon—I remember laying down at eight this morning. Not that I'm complaining. After all, sleep seems like the only release nowadays.
As I'm about to lay back down, my phone buzzes again.
You gonna be in school tmrw? Luis asks.
I decide to respond this time, hoping it'll make him stop spamming me with texts.
No, I reply.
Owen hasn't officially said he's going to let me stay home tomorrow, too, but I think I can talk him into it. At least I hope I can. I don't ever want to step into that school again.
Luis texts me again. Will you at least come over? I need to tell you something.
I contemplate even answering him, knowing Owen isn't going to let me leave the house. He seems to think I'm going to kill myself the second I'm not being watched.
Which, is accurate. I'll do it the second the opportunity presents itself. I could do it right now, seeing as I'm home alone, but I don't want Mason to see my dead body. I'm not that selfish. Besides, I don't have anything on me to do it with.
Fine. I reply. I'll come over when you get out of school.
Okay, he responds.
I should probably clear the air before I die, anyways. Of all people, Luis deserves an explanation. He's always been good to me.
I get out of bed to allow myself time to wake up before Mason gets home, gulping down the glass of water Owen left me.
I hear the front door open soon after, and I exit my room to check on Mason, knowing Owen had said he wasn't feeling good.
Sure enough, when I walk into the living room I immediately see that Mason's face is pale, the color almost completely drained from it.
"Here, sit down, Mason," Owen says to Mason, who obliges happily.
Owen walks away once Mason has situated himself comfortably on the couch, disappearing into the bathroom.
"How're you feeling?" I ask softly as I sit next to him and put my arm around him.
His shaggy blonde hair is it's usually messy self, sticking up in odd places and falling in front of his bright blue eyes.
"Not good. My body hurts."
I give him a kiss on the top of his head, wishing I could take his sickness and put it all onto me. He doesn't deserve to feel like crap.
Owen returns to us with a bottle of liquid cold medicine and a thermometer, instructing Mason to keep the metal stick underneath his tongue until it can give him a reading. I watch Mason go cross-eyed while he tries to look at the thermometer as it's in his mouth, and his silly look makes Owen and I both let out a small laugh.
"That's weird," Owen says after removing the thermometer from Mason's mouth. "He's not running a fever."
"Really? He looks pretty sick to me."
Mason's breathing is uneven, too. It almost sounds like he's got mucus in his airways, which he can probably just clear up from coughing.
"Did you feel sick this morning?"
"Well," Mason croaks, clearing his throat. "My head kinda hurt. And my legs, too."
"Your legs?" Owen asks, kneeling down to Mason's height.
"Yeah."
"Well why don't you try to take a nap? You might feel better."
Mason stands up slowly from the couch and rub his eyes.
"Okay. Can Ray lay with me?"
"If she wants."
He turns around, but before he has the chance to ask me, I nod.
"Of course I'll lay with you."
I stand up and follow him to his bedroom, where he lays down the second he reaches his bed. I take off his sneakers for him before climbing in beside him, his small bed making my feet hang off of the end awkwardly, although I don't mind. It's nice to be able to hold him again, which is something I haven't done in a while.
"I love you," I murmur as I wrap his small body in my arms and pull him close to me.
"Love you too."
I reach my hand up and touch his cheek, trying to find the right words to explain what's going to happen to me. I've completely forgotten to say goodbye to him.
"Mason, if anything ever happens to me," I whisper. "I want you to remember how much—how much I love you."
I'm thankful that Mason has shut his eyes, mainly because I don't want him to see the tears that are threatening to spill out of my eyes.
"And I want you to remember that it's not your fault."
He makes no move to respond, he only yawns.
"Okay, Mason?"
He nods, and I can tell he's not really internalizing my words. I don't know what I expected. After all, he's only eight. How is he supposed to understand?
"Okay," he agrees, not sensing the heaviness in my heart and in my words. He keeps his eyes closed and ready to fall into a deep slumber.
And it just keeps hitting me, over and over again—he'll never get to know how much pain I'm in. I won't be here to tell him when he gets older. And I hate myself for wanting to leave him on this horrible, tragic, Earth by himself.
But I just can't take anymore pain.