How a Potted Plant Saved My Life

Prolouge

May 17th 3:07 AM

I stare down in front of me with tears streaming down my face, cuts, fresh ones and fading scars, littering my arms, stinging as the cold air hits them. But it doesn't hurt. Not anymore- that is. I think every part of me is used to pain by now.

I'm not numb though, like people like to think. Just because I'm used to pain doesn't mean it doesn't burn. I just have better ways of hiding my reactions to it— to the outside world.

I wish I was numb.

It seems like such a peaceful mindset to be in. Not having to worry about any of your emotions. Not having to worry about getting hurt.

The concept of feeling nothing seemed nice. Kind of like a rainy day.

But I'm not. I'm not numb. That's yet another thing that can be added to my overflowing list of problems, because unfortunately, 'numb' doesn't even exist.

The word is described as the 'absence of emotion', but being 'empty' in and of itself is an emotion. The cold hard truth behind it is that human emotions are inescapable. You can't get away from them no matter how hard you try.

I peer over the edge of the bridge where I'm standing, with my toes hanging off the edge slightly. It would be so easy. No one would even know until its already been done. I can't even see the water below because of how dark it is outside, but still know it's there, based on the sound of it rushing over the jagged rocks that lay at the bottom.

"Give me a sign universe. If this is the wrong choice give me a sign because I'm so close to just doing it" I whispered through chocked sobs.

The silence of the night unnerves me slightly. The quiet has always done that to me. I hate being left alone with my thoughts. Giving them the opportunity to consume me. But isn't this what I wanted? A peaceful death? One where there would be no one there to watch or stop me?

So whats holding me back?

I didn't have anything going for me anyways. There would be no one to miss me with a deadbeat mother who cares more about drugs than her own child, a father who ran off when I was two, and my best, and only friend being a stuffed animal that was slowly deteriorating. I had nothing. So why does it seem so hard to jump? Why does it feel like my feet are glued to the bridge?

Is it fear— I'm not sure. Maybe?

I expected this to be easy. I expected to be so desperate to die that I could jump without any hesitation. And I did want to die. I really did. But for some reason my body kept freezing every time I leaned forwards slightly, almost as if there was some invisible barrier pushing me back.

I sighed, looking up at the blank sky above me, void of any clouds or stars. It was a state I wished to be in— empty. Completely and utterly empty.

That was impossible though.

I was so lost in my thoughts that i didn't even realize the presence of someone else until the sound of something colliding with the ground and shattering drew me out of my daze. My head whipped around in shock, so fast, that I fell backwards off the bridge, sending myself flying back onto the sidewalk, somehow scraping my knees in the process.

Ow

"Holy heck" I muttered to myself, my shoulders slumping in defeat.

"I just broke Walter" the boy in front of me whined childishly as he picked up broken pieces of a pot off the ground, his fluffy brown hair falling in front of his face. I furrowed my eyebrows. Walter?

I cleared my throat, finally catching his attention. Neither of us said anything, only staring at each other awkwardly, a few feet away from one another. I broke the eye contact, glancing down at the broken pieces of the pot laying on the ground.

He followed my eyesight, and his eyes widened, almost as if he had forgotten about the plant momentarily, but was finally remembering again. "I broke my potted plant" he explains, as if its not the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yeah I can tell" I deadpan, rolling my eyes. When he doesn't respond, another question pops into my head. "Why the hell are you carrying a potted plant around at three in the morning?"

"Couldn't sleep" he shrugs with a goofy grin on his face, taking a seat in front of me with his legs crossed, as if he was a child and this was story time or some shit.

"And so what? You just decided, 'hey! I'm gonna go buy a potted plant?" I ask incredulously.

"Succulent" he corrects "and yes. Thats exactly what I thought."

I blinked.

He blinked.

So I blinked back because have a stubborn personality and hate admitting defeat.

"You're weird" I commented with a tilt of my head.

"At least I'm not the one who was standing on a bridge"

You saw that? Is what I wanted to ask, but when my mouth opens, the only words that come out are, "At least I don't buy potted plants—"

"Potted succulents"

"— at three in the morning"

"Actually" he checked his wrist theatrically, that had absolutely no watch on it whatsoever. "It's probably closer to around four by now. And besides, any time of the day is succulent time for me" he puffed out his chest as if that statement won him some sort of award.

"Have you ever thought of therapy?" I asked. Wow. I'm such a hypocrite.

His face lit up like a kid in a candy store. "I actually have this really great therapist. Her name is Linda and she—"

Oh my god how old is this kid? He looks 17 but acts like he's freaking five.

"I don't really wanna know" I cut in.

His face scrunched up at the tone of my voice. "You're a really grumpy person. Maybe you should try therapy."

My mouth dropped open in shock. Its not that I haven't heard those words before. Quite the opposite, really. I was told that phrase for a good portion of my life. Tried it once, hated it beyond belief and never went back. I was just surprised when he said it because this dude was a total stranger and yet he had the audacity to tell me I needed help.

I mean, he was probably right— but I would never admit that to him, or anyone else.

"Ok well I gotta go" I muttered, rolling my eyes as I stood up, dusting the dirt off the back of my jeans. He shot up from where he was sitting as well, with a small grin, pulling a black backpack, which I didn't even know he had, off his back. He unzipped it, pulling out a mini succulent, before placing it in my hands.

"What—"

"I got two. You can have that one" He smiled

"Woah dude I don't—"

"See you around!" He yelled as he ran off, not letting me complete my sentence. I watched silently as he run away, only turning my gaze away from that direction when he was out of view.

I glanced down with furrowed brows at the plan—succulent— in my hands that was given to be by a boy I didn't know the name of, who had accidentally stopped me from ending my life.

And that marked the start of the story on How a potted plant saved my life.