It's funny, sadness blinds you sometimes. You don't notice small things, you don't notice big things, you don't notice anything. The only thing you notice is how sad you are.
Until you find out someone at your school killed himself. Someone you knew very well. Someone you once loved.
Oliver Smith killed himself, he downed a bottle of Vodka. I remember shouting at him to jump off a bridge, I never thought he'd actually do it. The officers think it was a drunk mistake but something tells me he knew perfectly well what he was doing. My heart feels like it was ripped from my chest and now I'm suffocating. Without knowing it I pushed Oliver to his suicide, I pushed Oliver away and it feels like I was the one that pushed him off that bridge. Instead of gripping his cloth Washington D.C. hoodie and holding him close, I feel like I looked him in the eye, yelled, "Fuck you." and pushed him. I let the one I love leave this world feeling unloved and worthless.
My earbuds blast music at an entirely too loud volume at some ungodly time. "Ollie you're such an asshole," I whisper to myself in a broken tone. My homework lays on my desk, blank. The food my dad brought me remains untouched and the box of tissues nearly empty. All muscles in my body remain stiff.
Functioning on no sleep and no food can make a person go insane. I already feel like I am. Oliver didn't leave anything behind and I'll never talk to him again. The boy was a dick to me yet I miss him. "Oliver!" my drawing teacher yells at me. I look up at the teacher with much pain present in my eyes. His stern features soften and he says, "Please try to draw something, anything don't worry about the project." I nod but don't make any attempts to move my pencil. I stare at Devyn's empty chair across the room.
Of course my house is secluded and dark. My mother's notes are now infrequent and if they are it gives minimal instruction. I sit on the cold couch with my feet up on the coffee table. The TV plays a comedy Oliver probably would have enjoyed. My gaze is fixated on the screen but my mind remains focused on a blonde haired boy. Living without him was easy. When I knew his heart was still beating. Now he lies in a morgue, waiting to be buried. Six feet down. Not knowing how much he hurt me, again. I wish I was with him, not in a relationship but six feet deep.
YOU ARE READING
The Suicide Effect
Historia Corta|| Every time a gun rings out an Angel earns its second death wish. || Each year one MILLION people take their own lives. Each year fifty-five MILLION people die. One in fifty-five angels want to die. Angels are real. Just not in the way you think...
