7 Minutes ✧ Syndisparklez

Evidence

Please Read:
This chapter contains graphic content, including topics of suicide. Please know that there are so many people who love and appreciate you.
-If you are worried about a loved one, feel free to read this article for advice.
https://www.helpguide.org/articles/suicide-prevention/suicide-prevention-helping-someone-who-is-suicidal.htm
-If you are experiencing suicidal thoughts, please don't hesitate to call the suicide prevention hotline.
1-800-273-TALK
There's always another way. You're not alone. I love you all, stay safe.

~~~~~~~

"I've kept secrets?" Alice asked, carefully crossing one leg over the other. Mr. Carraway shifted his weight in his chair.

"If you were to tell the people in this room something right now; if you were forced to say one last sentence to these people, what would it be?"

Alice looked at me with wide eyes, her fingers fidgeting.

"I didn't tell him," I whispered in her ear.

"Um, I'm not sure what you want me to say..." Alice said nervously.

"Wouldn't you tell them you loved them?" Dr. Caraway asked. Alice exhaled a secret sigh of relief through her nostrils.

"Of course... I love them, I love them with all my heart."

"With all of your heart?"

"Yes, I'd do anything for them."

"Alice, may I ask you a question?"

"Yes?"

"You love them with all of your heart, but have you ever stopped to consider;" he paused. "Do you love yourself?"

Alice was taken back a little bit.

"I don't want you to answer that, just consider it. I believe everyone is so caught up in pleasing the ones they love, that they forget to nurture their own mental health," Caraway explained.

We sat in silence for a while, considering the doctor's words.

"Ingrid," Mr. Caraway said quietly after a while. "Anything you'd like to talk about today?"

"Not particularly. No," I said politely. These sessions aren't for me, they're mainly for Jordan and Tom.

"Okay... That's fine, I won't push you to share anything you're uncomfortable with sharing."

"I tried to kill myself," a whisper danced in the air. Tom's eyebrows quickly unfurrowed, his aggressive demeanor vanished into thin air.

~~A Razor Blade~~
Generally a tool used to shave or meticulously carve specific objects.
Jordan Maron is no foreigner to these rectangular blades; multiple scars printed along his thighs prove he's met with this tool on various occasions.
But never like the night three weeks ago.
Three weeks ago I had returned home, only to inform my friends - my family - of the event that occured with Oliver.
I didn't know this at the time, but after Tom had punched the shower wall, breaking one of his fingers, he and Jordan fought over God only knows what. But they fought; and Tom didn't know where to stop. Sloppy insults were thrown back and forth before Jordan had given up.
So many tramatic events start to eat at a person after a while; a new situation is like introducing a new parasite that only feeds off of the sadness and helplessness you feel in such desperate times.

"You what?" Tom asked. Jordan wouldn't face him. "Jordan, fucking look at me," he insisted, grabbing his boyfriend's face to turn towards his own. "What did you do?"

"You heard me, Tom; can we talk about it when we get home-"

"What did you do, god damn it," Tom gasped, tears gathering in his eyes now.

"I attempted suicide, but it didn't work, okay? I'm sorry."

"You're sorry for what?" Mr. Carraway interjected.

"Excuse me?" Tom asked.

"Are you sorry for attempting it? Or sorry you failed?"

"Failed! Listen here, you son of a bitch, but if you think a failed suicide attempt is a bad thing then-"

"Tom, he never said that, would you just shut up!" Alice protested.

"Now, now, let's all stop for a minute and think here like mature adults. Jordan," he asked again. "What are you sorry for?"

"I don't know..."

~~The Bathtub~~
Jordan Maron only had one emotion controlling his mind that night.
Tired.
Many people believe "tired" is a state of being after not recieving enough rest. I hate to tell you this, friends, but "tired" is very much an emotion.
When someone feels as if they've lost a battle with life; when they believe there is absolutley nothing left they can do to make themselves or their loved ones happy, they become so emotionally exhausted that there is no longer a light at the end of the tunnel. Tired is being stuck in an endless loop of misfourtune. Tired is being so drained of happiness and normalcy that the new social norm for one's life is to be constantly numb. Tired is drowing in the ocean, desperately reaching out for help, but everyone is so concerned with themselves they won't reach down into the water to save a desperate life calling out for help.
Tired is an emotion that takes many forms and creates many solutions as to how to be free again.
That solution for Jordan Maron was his beloved 'ol friend; the razor blade.
Turning on the faucet, he filled the bathtub with warm water.
"Jordan?" his boyfriend called out. "Is that you?"
"Yeah, I'm just fillin' up the tub..."
"Hey, listen," Tom mumbled, knocking softly on the bathroom door. "I'm sorry about earlier, okay? I said some stupid shit and I didn't mean it. I was just pissed and confused, and I took it out on you and I'm sorry."
Jordan remained silent, carefully slipping a razor out of the small cardboard box.
"I'm gonna make us some dinner so it's ready when you're done in there, okay? Do you want tomato sauce or butter on your spaghetti?"
"Tomato sauce..."
"Okay, it'll be hot and ready when you get done."
"Thanks, I'll be out in like... and hour."
"Okay."
"Hey Tom," Jordan mumbled.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"I love you too."
With a quick switch of the door's lock, Jordan was carefully sinking himself down into the bathtub, his clothes still clinging to his body.
He placed the cool razor to his skin, preemptively gritting his teeth at the pain.
He had planned to start with his left arm, making a slice from the wrist to the crease of his elbow, then do the same to his right arm.
Biting down on his lip, the familiar sting enflamed a fire against his nerves. Dragging the blade up about an inch, Jordan noticed another scar on his left arm. One on his bicep.
One he didn't choose to put there; one that matched his predator's.
"I can't do this," he whispered to himself, knowing that by ending it all, he would win. Jordan could never be happy. That right was taken away from the moment he was forced into a car with him.
"I can't do this," he repeated again, tossing the blade onto the tile floor. He gingerly lifted himself out of the red-stained water, scrambling through cabinets for gauze, a bandage, something. Anything.
After wrapping the wound, he drained the tub, washing away any left over color. He tossed the blade away, scrubbing the red specs spilled across the white tiles. There was no apparent evidence. It never happened.
But it did happen.
And there was evidence to prove it.

Tom forcefully shoved Jordan's sweatshirt sleeve up, revealing the fleshy, healing wound. Alice gasped, quickly looking away. My heart sank, Tom began to yell through his ugly sobs.

Dr. Carraway ushered Alice and I out of the room, trying his best to keep the situation under control.

There was evidence of a suicide attempt.