Perfect Suicide

Ch. 12 - A crumb of the pie

"Fuck, ouch!" I yelped as I walked right into a wall.

I hoped these TranspoDoors were usually a little bit more considerate of where exactly it puts me because walking through the door then being swarmed by darkness only to walk smack into a wall was not it.

Looking around, I saw Zhollo staring at me with his mouth wide open and a gun held up to his temple.

For a few minutes, we both stared at each other in surprise.

I couldn't believe what my eyes were seeing.

Zhollo Kraftens.

The most attractive and popular guy in the school, and here he was. Gun in hand and to his head.

"Earthly?" He asked confused.

I tried my hardest not to swoon over him using the nickname he had given me. I couldn't believe he remembered.

"It's Heavenleigh," I cleared my throat. "Uh, what's going on?"

After seeing his name on the slip of paper Jeo had given me, my mind had begun to race.

Personally, I didn't know much about Zhollo. I only knew the same things everyone else knew or what I could see. I was nothing but an outsider looking in.

"I gotta be hallucinating." Zhollo squeezed his eyes closed and pressed the barrel to his temple.

Rushing towards him, I stopped shy a few feet.

What was I supposed to do?

"Hey..." I closed the distance between us and sat on the floor in front of him, right next to his leg.

Leaning against his right leg, I tried to get his attention by touching his knee. At my touch, he opened his eyes and looked at me.

The pain emitting from his eyes was almost enough to make me take a step back. I wasn't sure what had happened to lead him to this moment, but I was determined to do what I could to help him.

"Tell me what's wrong. What's going on?" I said, still touching his leg.

"What're you doing here?" He blinked a few times before rubbing his eyes.

He looked like he had seen a ghost.

I wonder how long it's been since my suicide...

I had yet to ask if time passed the same way here as it did in Summerland.

"I'm here to help you."

"How could you help me?" He vacillated.

"Tell me what's going on, and I'll tell you how I can help." I coaxed as gently as I could.

Searching my face and finding whatever it was he was looking for, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

"I'm dying... I have seven months to live." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "And no one cares. All everyone can talk about is what their plans are for when I'm gone. And I'm still here."

"Mhmm..." I nodded.

I wanted to chime in, but I could tell he needed to do this—to rant.

"I just don't want everyone to be awkward or depressed about me dying, you know? I don't, but I want them to act like they at least care and like it's actually a big deal because it fucking is! I'm sick and visibly getting sicker and weaker every day. Yet no one really cares. Not my coach; he dropped me from the team. Not my friends; all they care about is trying to plan a fundraiser for my funeral, and not my parents or my brother; all they care about is my brother making Varsity. It's like now that I'm not at my best; I'm of no use to anyone. It's like I'm invisible or something." He slumped forward, the hand holding the gun started to waver.