**Liva's point of view frist person** when they find Jason on the floor**
When i sat in the living room with Marco, sipping on my herbal tea and scrolling through the latest fashion trends, I heard a faint sound. It wasn't anything alarming, just a soft thud, like a book falling from a shelf. But something in the air changed. It thickened, grew heavy with a tension that didn't belong in our perfectly curated lives.
Marco was lost in his script, mouthing the words to a scene that would surely make him a three-time Oscar winner. He didn't hear it. I set my cup down and walked towards the stairs, each step echoing through the silent house. "Jason?" I called out, expecting to hear his laughter or the faint strums of his guitar.
Silence.
My heart started to race. We've always had an open-door policy, but Jason's door was closed today. I knocked gently, "Jason, honey? Can I come in?"
Marco looked up from his script, his eyes flickering with concern. He laid it aside and followed me upstairs. "Everything okay?"
I nodded, trying to keep my voice steady, "Yeah, probably just forgot to tell me he had a friend over." But the lie didn't sit well. Something felt off.
The door creaked open, revealing the immaculate room that mirrored Jason's perfect life. His bed was made, his trophies gleaming, and his homework laid out neatly on the desk. But my heart stopped when I saw him.
He lay on the floor, a knife in his stomach, blood seeping into the plush carpet. His eyes were glazed over, a small smile playing on his lips, as if he had found peace in the chaos he'd created. Marco's scream tore through the quiet, shaking the walls.
The world spun around me as I collapsed to the floor beside him. The coppery smell of blood filled the air, mixing with the faint scent of his cologne. The crimson stain grew larger, reaching out to me like a dark hand.
Marco's panicked voice was a distant echo. "Jason! No! Why?!"
I couldn't speak. The room was a blur, and all I could do was touch his cold, sticky skin and feel the warmth of his life slipping away. His eyes flickered open, and in that moment, I saw the pain, the emptiness that had been hiding behind his smile all along.
The world outside had always envied us, the Caking Mists. The perfect family with the perfect son. But no one knew what lay behind the mask. The pressure to maintain the facade, the endless expectations, the loneliness in the sea of admirers.
My perfect son, my sweet Jason, was gone. And all that was left was a room filled with the echoes of our shattered hearts and the cold, hard truth that even the brightest lights can cast the darkest shadows.
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**Marco's point of view first person** when they find Jason on the floor**
Liva's scream pierced through my focus on the script, and I looked up to see her frozen at the doorway of Jason's room. I didn't need to hear what she said to know something was wrong. I dropped the pages and sprinted up the stairs, my heart hammering in my chest like a drum announcing doom.
The door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open, expecting to find a mess, a broken vase, or maybe a prank gone too far. What I saw instead was a nightmare come to life. Jason, my beautiful, talented son, lay on the floor, a knife in his stomach, blood pooling around him like a grotesque painting.
My world stopped. The air in the room grew thick, and I couldn't breathe. The only sound was the rushing in my ears and the wet gurgle of his last breaths. Liva's cries seemed to come from a million miles away.
I fell to my knees beside him, my hands shaking as I reached out to touch his face. "Jason! Oh my God, Jason! No! What have you done?"
He looked at me, a hint of recognition in his eyes, and that's when I saw it. The smile. It was a smile that didn't belong there, a smile that spoke of a peace that shouldn't have been found in that much pain.
I tore my gaze away from him and looked around the room, searching for answers. The trophies, the posters, the books—everything was in its place, a picture of success that had always been his armor. But now, it was just a stage set for this final, tragic act.
My mind raced. What had we missed? What signs had we ignored? I had always been so proud of him, so busy with work, that I never saw the cracks beneath the surface. The pressure of living up to our image had crushed him, and we had been too blind to see.
Liva's sobs grew louder, and I realized she was trying to pull the knife out. "No, love," I whispered, taking her trembling hand. "Don't."
I grabbed the phone and dialed 911, my voice cracking as I gave them our address. "Hurry," I pleaded, though I knew it was already too late.
As we waited for the ambulance, I held Jason's hand, the warmth of his life seeping through my fingers. His grip was weak, but I felt it tighten briefly, as if to reassure me.
When the paramedics finally arrived, they worked with a frenzied urgency, but it was like watching a dance in slow motion. I knew the music had already stopped.
But by some miracles, Jason didn't die that day. He hovered between life and death for what felt like an eternity, giving us the chance to whisper apologies and love into his ear. To promise that we'd be there, that we'd listen, that we'd change.
**Conversation in the hospital**
"Marco, he's going to be okay," Liva said, her voice brittle with hope. We sat in the stark white hospital room, holding hands, watching as Jason lay in the bed, tubes and wires attached to him like a marionette.
"I know," I said, trying to sound strong. But the doubt gnawed at me. Would he ever be okay? Would we?
We had to face the truth. The perfect life we'd built was just a facade, and our son had been suffering in the shadows. The world had adored him, but he had felt so unlovable.
**Conversation when they ask him why**
"Why, Jason?" I whispered, my voice hoarse with tears. "Why would you do this?"
He looked at me, his eyes filled with a sadness that no 15-year-old should ever have to carry. "Because I couldn't keep pretending, Dad. I couldn't keep being perfect for everyone else."
The weight of his words crushed me. We had pushed him to the edge, and all he'd wanted was for us to see the real him. To understand that behind the smile, the grades, the sports, there was a boy drowning in his own expectations.
From that day on, we made a pact to be there for him, to listen, to love him unconditionally. We didn't know if we could ever fix what we'd broken, but we were determined to try.
The Caking Mist family was no longer just a shining image to be envied. We were real, flawed, and hurting. And maybe, just maybe, that was the most beautiful thing we could ever be.
**Warning**
If you or someone you know is struggling with thoughts of suicide, please reach out to a trusted adult, a mental health professional, or call a crisis hotline. The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline in the U.S. is 1-800-273-8255.
