Me, Me & You

Chapter 1

The blood on my fingers glistened and clung to the pads of my fingers like syrup. Adrenaline heightened my senses and I could now smell the cloying stench of copper and perspiration that hung in the air. My favorite band shirt was splattered with flecks of ruby red.

What had I done? What had she done? Why do we always do this? We build a fortress out of dynamite, an ice palace in the desert—one wrong move and we destroyed one another.

As I looked at the pool of blood that now stained my carpet and the body I must dispose of, I wondered if anything could've avoided this.

Perhaps if Luna and I never met, an already extraordinary series of events that had to align perfectly.

Maybe both of us would've succumbed to our demons if we hadn't supported each other. Perhaps, our mutual support awoke larger demons. There weren't alternative timelines to compare this one—this was all we had: the one where Luna was my only best friend, my anchor, and my enabler. I looked down at the corpse and decided that I would rebuild our castle again. Our fates were intertwined. I had no choice and didn't want more options. This was perfect.

Ironically and appropriately, the most incompetent counselor ever indirectly introduced me to her. It was seventh grade. The school counselor was a middle-aged woman with a heavy Midwestern accent. Behind her on the wall was a framed poster of a cat, dangling by its paw from an imaginary ledge, with "Hang in there!" printed in Comic Sans. At least it wasn't a meme wall.

"Young love," she said with a gentle shake of her head. "And thirteen is a difficult year for young men, too. Emotions are very intense. Everything is taken to extremes." She spoke as if she personally understood what teenage boys go through and wasn't insulting me by implying I was over-emotional. "However, self-harm is not a healthy coping mechanism."

I rubbed my wrists. My "self-harm" was actually my first suicide attempt when I'd tried to cut my wrists with a pair of scissors. I couldn't finagle the blades and left only shallow cuts—they didn't even need stitches. I didn't correct her because protocol required counselors to alert parents and I didn't want my dad to worry. Instead, I nodded and participated with performed eagerness as the counselor went on some wholistic diatribe about the difficulties of puberty or some shit.

It didn't work because I tried killing myself again.

For something as traumatic as suicide, you'd think I'd vividly remember it as an adult, but my memory is foggy and there are only fragments of the event. Actually, what I remember more is the emotions. I remember running down the sidewalk and leaping over puddles of melted snow, joy flooded my chest because this was the day that I die. I'd make all my bullies pay for their shouting and incessant antagonism. Tori would regret turning me down in front of the entire school. My revenge would be my death—may it weigh heavy on them.

Now, looking back as a quasi-sane individual, that thought process was whacked. If they didn't care about my feelings alive, they wouldn't care when I was dead. I'd be a footnote in the yearbook, and maybe someone would bring my name up at parties.

"Hey, remember that kid who committed suicide by jumping from the top of the school?"

"Yeah, what was his name again?"

"It was something weird, like, something from a comic book. Peter Parker?"

"No, it was Archie."

"That's right! Archie! Archibald Brown!"

"What a name. Did he really jump from the top of the school?"

"Yep!"

"How? The building was only one story tall!"