Fucking emo

Not fucking playing

I just sat there, staring at the piano. It had been a couple of days like that, where I would just sit in front of it and do nothing. I couldn't explain why.

My mom noticed and suggested that we go to the city to see some shows. There was a music festival happening. I agreed because I needed to distract myself and get my mind off things.

However, there was still the rest of the week to deal with. And there was him to contend with.

The next morning, it was raining heavily, and the emo kid was up on the flag pole, like a scarecrow on display. He was shirtless and pantless, his skinny figure impaled by his underwear, hoisting him up as a warning.

In those moments, I felt waves of compassion washing over me, like waves in the ocean. They came and went, sometimes feeling like they were going to overwhelm me, drag me down, and drown me. I wanted to run over to him, to help him.

Just as I felt a wave coming, a voice came from behind me. It was the psychologist.

"Do you see this often?" she asked.

For a split second, I thought I was going to be in trouble. In another place and time, I probably would have. But in that moment, I just stood there and nodded.

I glanced up at the emo kid's dead eyes from below, and then our eyes made contact. He smiled, but it was just a reflex. He didn't mean it.

"You two friends?" she asked, and after I shook my head in denial, we both continued our way into the building.

"You know," she continued, "When I was your age, my boyfriend loved getting wedgies. It was kind of a kink for him. I never understood why, but I did it for him. God, that seems like ages ago."

Why was she telling me this? I felt uncomfortable and suddenly nauseous.

"He would have loved to be seen hanging like that," she said. "I hope that kid loves it too."

But he didn't, or if he did, it wasn't enough. He wanted to die, although that wasn't the first thing that came to mind whenever the emo boy crossed my thoughts. The reality of his desire to commit suicide always lingered.

"It's the suicides," I blurted out.

She remained silent, caught off guard by my statement. I pressed on.

"They keep happening, and I can't help but just watch... in the news, I mean."

We had arrived at her empty classroom, and she gestured for me to take a seat.

"I didn't know there had been another one," she said more to herself than to me. "How many is that this month? Eight?"

I shrugged, hoping that the couple on the roof had indeed been found and reported.

"Do you fear someone might do it?" she asked, and I nodded.

"You must tell me who," she insisted. "If someone is in danger, it's your duty to get them help. They are not okay."

"But what if..." I hesitated, "they deserve it?"

☆