The S(uicide) Word

storm

In the neighborhood next to Polk Chester High, down a couple of dark, twisty roads you'll find a small brick faced house with so much personality you could cry just looking at it. It's only one story and it sure doesn't look like much but it really isn't all that small on the inside. White shutters flock the windows and white paneling layers the side. It's been my home ever since I can remember. I've lived there since the day my daddy brought my mom and twin brother through the doors right from the hospital, the day we were born. I was there when my first cat, Yonkers, died from choking on some glass shattered onto the green carpeted floors and I was there when my dad hit my mom for the first time. We were all there when daddy packed all of his things into one small suitcase and never saw us again. And I was there to realize that my mother was one of the strongest people I'd ever met.

But most importantly, I was there when I came home from school the day that Blake Gladly killed herself and collapse onto the fraying brown couch in the living room next to my four best friends. And for a couple of minutes we even settled down like it was a normal day. I fall down onto the couch, sinking into the worn down cushions; staring up at the white-ish, yellow-ish ceiling. Johnnie lifted my feet up and settled down at the edge, letting my legs stretch across his lap. Cathie and Suzan took the other, equally worn down couch and Nick claimed the yellow arm chair. This place smelled like pizza and a teenage boy's cologne in the afternoon. I never loved anything more. Jack wouldn't be home until five—after basketball practice ended. He'd head straight to his room, probably planting a kiss on the top of my head, and Suzan would follow him with her eyes. Then, slowly, she'd get up and tell us she had to go home.

Everybody knew she wasn't going home; she was going around to the back of the house to climb in Jack's open window to fuck him. But until then we would just sit there, talking about our day and gossiping about drama. At least, on a normal day we would. And for a couple of minutes we even settled down like it could be a normal day. And then Nick said, "You know, I really wanted to fuck her."

It felt like something inside me was ripping as I shot up, gasping at him. Nick's voice was course and so was his skin. He was the oldest looking of all of us, wearing stubble across the chin of his dark Italian skin. And even when he said that he sounded older and wiser, like he knew what he was saying was alright. "Nick, what the hell?" Cathy reeled back.

Nick looked at us from under his thick eyebrows, "What? It's a compliment, isn't it?"

"She's dead." Johhnie leaned back against the couch, squeezing my leg, "You can't just say that stuff about a dead girl."

"Well, what's changed? If I said that about Blake Gladly while she was alive you'd all probably laugh it off, wouldn't you? What's changed?"

I stared at Nick, suddenly so foreign in my eyes. What had changed? He'd said it about a million girls about a million times. I stared at him like I didn't get it but I really think I part of me knew exactly what had changed the moment it came out of his mouth; Nick just wouldn't have said it before.

He didn't have a filter. He said whatever he thought and so if he really wanted to hook up with Blake Gladly he would have already said. And, chances are, he would have already done it. What had changed wasn't really whether or not Blake was dead.

Nick just wanted attention. He wanted to feel something for the dead girl.

Blake was dead and he just wanted to be a part of that.

It wasn't an ordinary day and I don't know why I thought we'd be able to just force ourselves into our everyday habits.

What had changed was that Blake Gladly had committed suicide.