Gone (Ianthony)

Three Months, Three Days, and Fourteen Hours Before

Ian:       

"Hey, how was therapy?" 

I closed his eyes and took a deep breath, leaning against the wall as I slipped my shoes off. I held the fake chrysanthemums tight in my hand.

"Fine," I lied to Anthony, walking into the living room where he sat with a book on his lap.

"Where did those come from?" 

He eyed the flowers. I bit my lip. 

"Dr. Hammond."

He laughed, just a little.

"Oh, I see." He cracked a wide smile, the same one that was obviously only to see if it could make me smile too. It never did. "Your therapist has the hots for you, huh?"

I rolled my eyes. I knew he was just trying to make me laugh, but, as usual, not even he could make me smile. When was the last time I smiled? Like, really smiled? 

When I saw her down the block in her long red jacket and black pants, probably.

I tried to smile. My real smiles nowadays usually happened like once a week, and they were always around Anthony. My real smile now was just a slight lift of the corners of my mouth. This one probably wasn't even noticeable.

I kept going down the hall, and Anthony followed. I sort of wish he didn't.

"Hey, I think I might go out with Matt and Ryan and maybe a few others later. You wanna come?" He smiled. His real smile, which was like mine used to be - all teeth, squinty eyes. "We're going to that one new Indian place downtown. You love Indian food."

I shook my head. "I'm not hungry."

"You sure? You don't have to eat anything. Even if you just wanted to come to-"

"Anthony, I'm just really tired, alright?"

I closed my door in his face. I locked it.

I leaned back against the door and closed my eyes. I heard Anthony sigh. I could see him behind my eyelids: shaking his head at the white paint, sighing and getting closer and closer to leaving me and never talking to me again. 

And the worst part was, I wanted that to happen.

And that's how I knew I truly did love him. Becuase if I only sorta liked him, I would do anything to get him to stay with me and be with me forever. But I didn't only sorta like him. I loved him. And since I loved him, I wanted him happy. Sharing a house with a prescribed mental patient wasn't happy. Trying to find a job before all the money we shared was blown on more useless pills for me wasn't happy. Trying to get me to go out with old friends and then getting super frustrated when I spent all night holed up in my room wasn't happy. Happy was somewhere else, married to his old girlfriend who he gave up for me, with kid or two and a big house and as far away from me as possible. That was happy.     

I sat down on my bed. I laid down. My head hurt. So did my stomach.

I was tired. I wanted to sleep but I hated sleep. Because sleep brought nightmares. And nightmares brought more fear. And bags under my eyes and constant fatigue.

I wanted to die.

I wanted to a lot. I had thought about it almost every second of every day for five months.

But I would never kill myself. 

I wanted to die by natural causes. Every time I drove, I prayed I would get in some fatal accident that wasn't my fault. Every time I took a shower, I prayed I would have an aneurysm and drown like I remembered seeing in some movie when I was little. Every time I woke up, I wished I wouldn't have.

I would never kill myself.

Right?

If I were to, how would I do it?

I wouldn't shoot myself. I didn't have a gun and I didn't know how to get one.

I wouldn't hang myself. That would cause Anthony too much pain when he found me the next morning.

I wouldn't make myself bleed to death. That's too similar to someone else who recently died.

I did have enough pills, though. I could do the classic alcohol-and-Vicodin trick. It really never made sense to me, though. Who in their right mind decided it was a good idea to prescribe a suicidal person a dozen different kind of pills they could use to end their life with any day?

I closed my eyes. My stomach growled. I wasn't hungry.

I didn't understand. Usually after I felt bad, like, bad bad for a week or so, I had a really good week or so. But I had been having my really bad bad week or so for four weeks now. And I didn't even feel a little better. I just felt worse every day.

Maybe the world was telling me something. Maybe I never would get better. 

I thought of therapy a few days ago. I thought of Lake Michigan and Anthony and Sadie the golden retriever. 

I thought of Heaven. I didn't really know if it was real or not. But I did believe in some kind of afterlife. I didn't believe in ghosts or reincarnation or that if you were a good boy and went to church every Sunday you would spend eternity floating on a pink cloud with an angel playing a harp next to you. But if Heaven was a real concept, it would be on Lake Michigan with Anthony and Sadie the golden retriever.

My eyes sprung open.

Right then, I had the biggest epiphany of my life.

I knew what I had to do.

I knew.    

I checked my watch.

Three days.

I could do it in three days.

I would do it in three days.