Skipping Stones ➼ pjm ✓

🕟04 00 Hour🕟

04 00 Hour

It felt like a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. I hadn't talked to my parents about it. Despite the close bond we had, I was never really able to talk to them able it without leaving the room. They were there as well, and I know I'd be bringing up sad memories.

"Your brother loved you." She said when I had calmed down.

I looked at her through glassy eyes and nodded. I had hiccups and I didn't feel like talking.

"He really did.... He didn't want y'all to be worried." She said softly. "Please don't blame yourself. Its not your fault... Its those people, those bullies with words like knives. Every word they say is like... its like every cut on his wrists."

I paid close attention to her and her words. She seemed to understand so well, almost as if she understood it better than me.

"I think depression for guys is pretty underrated, that's why no one expected him to break. He probably held on for so long." She continued, uncomfortable at the way I was staring.

"I just wish he would've left a note or something. The only way we found out was when the police went to the school." I felt a tear roll down my cheek but I had calmed down and had the ability to speak. The students told them that there were these group of guys who picked on him. Like he wasn't human. And the police couldn't do anything despite the fact that they were indirect murderers. They drove him to the breaking point. Yet, they're still roaming the streets. Its so unfair."

"I know," she cooed. "But you can't do anything about it... That's the hard truth."

I nodded understandingly. Despite how much I wanted to protest, I knew that she was right.

They hadn't held the knife when he died. They weren't even there. They were indirectly murderers, but that's just it. They indirectly killed him, but wasn't directly where they held a knife.

But in my mind, I had always blamed myself. I keep telling myself that I'm a shitty-ass brother. That I should've been there to help him; protect him: pick him up so taht he stands strong again.

It made me learn a lot of lessons though - his death. It was like I finally understoof the value of being kind not that I wasn't kind previously - to everyone even if they were shitty people. If they're nice then well, you've made someone's day. If their a stupid jerk, let being kind guilt-trip them.

I also realised that just because someone seems happy on the outside doesn't mean that their happy on the inside. Its a cover up.

"So, what about you? What's your secret story?" I asked, wanting to change the topic.

"Do you really want to know?" She asked softly, her

eyes looking everywhere but me.

I reached out for her hand this time. Opening up to someone was difficult, let alone a stranger. A deal was a deal, though. Plus, I really wanted to hear her story. I wanted to know how she ended up here. I didn't even know the time, but I was sure it was past two.

I was here because I wanted to mourn about my brother's death. I wanted to be alone instead of in a house with constant sadness. It was suffocating. And, his room was right beside mine. We left it exactly the way it was; his backpack was still on the same spot. The only different was that the bathroom was spotless. Almost as if no one died.

I gave her hand a squeeze to urge her to go on, that I'd listen to whatever she has to say.

She looked scared; as if afraid that I was going to
judge her. I've seen enough to know not to judge
anyone before getting to know them.

She opened her mouth, but shut it close again without a word. I could tell she was trying to compose herself, so I gave her the time. She gave me mine, after all.

"Well here goes nothing..." I heard her barely say. She sucked in a breath.

"I got raped on this day a year ago."

⋘ TO BE CONTINUED ⋙