In A Week I Will Be Dead

Chapter Three: Goner

!!!TW!!!

Mentions of SH, suicide

IF YOU'RE STRUGGLING, CALL THE SAMARITANS 116 123 <3 <3 <3

Noah

I literally hit the exit to freedom when I notice that I've forgotten my homework book. Anguished and in pain, I emit a low whale noise and turn a full 180-degree circle. I grudgingly place one foot in front of the other, hauling myself back to the classroom.

When I arrive, my book is not on my desk. I impersonate another sea creature, and painstakingly look around the room for the bane of my existence. All the desks are clear, the shelves are too and just when I'm about to give up I notice it under my chair. Another moan escapes my lips, and I crawl under my desk and thrust my arm forward. I then come upon the conclusion that it is too far back for me to reach, so I lie flat on my stomach and inch forwards on my belly. I literally have no cares that this may look strange.

'Mums gunna kill me, I'm gunna be so late' I mutter under my breath. My hand finally closes around the spine of the book, and as I'm pulling it out from under the chair I notice an envelope messily taped under the bottom of my desk. This has to be another joke. Probably a list of why I should next time ensure my attempt actually works and I'm not found by my neighbour passed out on pills. Or maybe even a list of how to do it, not that I already know every single way of course. Intrigued at my classmates' innovative way of pissing me off, I yank the letter from its tape web and leave it stuck to my hand all the way home. This isn't stupid I think. This is advanced stupid.

After an extensive row with my mother, I eventually win by protesting that the cut on my arm was not indeed of my own doing but that of a hard encounter with the floor. I scurry away into my room and rip open the letter, eager to let the abuse flow over myself. Just as I'm about to commence the process a soft Gracie knock can be heard, and in my most evil way possible I say 'enter' and she waddles in.

I turn around slowly, and say 'I've been expecting you' whilst stroking my pillow. She shrieks with delight, and like a little mole buries herself under my covers and remains as still as she can.

'Where's Gracie gone?' I say, and I feel the duvet shaking with her uncontrollable spasms of happiness. She pops out form the duvet, and says, 'Noah I'm getting a bit old for this now, I'm seven in a few weeks.' I simply roll up my sleeves and say, 'I'm going to have to beat the age out of you Gracie, you will remain my ickle sister whether you like it or not.'

I begin to chuckle, but I notice Grace has stopped smiling, and she looks worried. I follow her gaze down to my arm, and quickly pull my sleeves down. I turn my eyes away from hers, and get off from the bed.

'Noah?'

'Yeah Gracie?'

'Why do you do this? Mum said you'd stopped but I always knew you were lying.'

I pick up the pillow from the floor and place it at my headboard.

'Gracie, I can't help it. It stops me being sad all time. It keeps The Man away.' She refers to my depression as 'The Man'. She, like myself, sees it as another part of my personality, intrinsically embedded into my nature. She's seven and she gets this. She's so bloody clever.

She slides off the bed, and walks over towards me. Her little blue eyes look down at my arm, and she places her soft fingers around the edges of my sleeve, and begins to pull. I turn my head towards the wall, and I try and hold back the tears.

'Noah, you can't hurt yourself anymore, because I want you to be happy.' There is a pause as I try and formulate a response that won't crush her childish fantasies.

'Me too Grace. Me too.'

She fishes around in her back pocket and finds a plaster decorated with hearts and flowers. As I watch, she peels away the plastic and places it the best she can over my cut. She then kisses my arm, and pulls down my sleeve.

'I will mend you Noah. I have to mend you.' With that statement she leaves the room, placing the plastic into my bin as she passes it. I wish I could tell her that I can't be mended. I flop back onto the bed, and retrieve the crinkled letter from in amongst the duvet. I begin to read.

My Dreams:

I am one of those few lucky people who was born a 'lucid dreamer'. Now some of you may now be scratching your heads and thinking 'What the hell is a lucid dream?' It's when you can control the events which happen in your dream. Trust me, it's not as cool as it sounds. Literally ANYTHING that pops into your head will occur. This means that if a sneaky little apocalypse crops up you may find yourself totally screwed, running for your life.

However, there are some very obvious pros to this situation. For example, I find myself flying and teleporting quite often. Many people say that 'if you die in your dream you die in real life' which is total bullshit. I have died many many times, and the proof exists that I am still alive as I am still writing this. If I'm quite honest, I have a belief that when a person enters a dream they actually arrive in a sort of second life, and when you wake up you die in your little world. So, I amuse myself greatly by saying something hilarious before I wake up to my hologramlike bystanders. Either that, or jump out a window and leave a depressing note on the frame just for fun. Sometimes I even stick around to see the aftermath of my death, which greatly amuses me for some reason. As you can tell dear reader, I have a very black sense of humour.

Another thing I would like to add to this section is that it is possible to become a lucid dreamer. You have to recognise your surroundings as unnatural and go from there. Or, if you want to have a specific type of dream try and think about something just before you fall asleep and your brain will choose that as the next sleep time adventure. But many sites on the web seem to say that if you're having lucid dreams every night that you have something wrong with you, but that is definitely not the case. I am healthy enough and I lucid dream 24/7. Ha ha yeah. I make myself laugh sometimes.

I have dreamt of telling people my true self, my real identity. Like lifting up a superhero mask and showing my ordinary self. But if I was lifting up a mask, I would be removing an ordinary person and revealing a supervillain. I would be called 'pretending person': powers include false smiles, supporting others, and daydreaming about what a liveable life would look like. I want the power to heal others, to stop them feeling pain. There were thousands before me, and there will be thousands after me who feel like I do. I am not special. When I use the terminology 'nobody understands' I am merely stating the few contacts I surround myself with, not the entire world.

When we dream we create a world which appeals to us. Which sounds very cool. A world where others listen to me. They don't ignore me, and they don't interrupt me when I am saying something. Everything I say under my breath is said directly to them, and I have the ability to love without struggle. I am respected as an individual, and I can comment on what I observe. I am not punished for what others don't understand, people don't misinterpret me, and don't spread rumours about misinterpretations. I am me, and I am appreciated as an individual. I am free. Which is what I intend to do. I am free in seven days.

I place the letters down and contemplate their titles. Is this the joke, draw me in and make me feel special just to send me another one next week telling me to top myself? I am confused, but I can't help the hope which is beginning to boil inside of me. Maybe, just maybe there is a person out there who feels the same way I do. Maybe I'm not alone. Maybe the word one doesn't just fit in 'alone', but also in 'someone'.

This thought remains with me the entirety of my night. 'What if' rings around my head over and over again.

Wait.

With a jolt I sit up and turn on my light. I repeat part of the letter 'I am free in seven days'. What does this even mean? In what context is this person free? All the while, a crawling sensation inches up the back of my spine as a horrible realisation forms. Seven days. How can one possibly know they have exactly seven days left? Unless they know they will be causing the seven-day deadline. Then it hits me: in a week, this kid will be dead.