Chelsea

I still remember the night; it's forever lodged in my brain. The date was September 24th; a Tuesday. A seemingly regular weekday; except that it was on that Tuesday that Chelsea had chosen to take her own life.

The warning signs were the first to come. A word scattered throughout our dialogue threw our conversation off. Anyone less experienced wouldn't have noticed, but luckily, I did.

Unfinished homework, abandoned study guide, forgotten dinner; nothing mattered anymore except Chelsea.

For the first time in my life, I picked up the phone and called Chelsea.

I still remember the night; it's forever lodged in my brain. The date was September 24th; a Tuesday. A seemingly regular weekday; except that it was on that Tuesday that Chelsea had chosen to take her own life.

The warning signs were the first to come. A word scattered throughout our dialogue threw our conversation off. Anyone less experienced wouldn't have noticed, but luckily, I did.

Unfinished homework, abandoned study guide, forgotten dinner; nothing mattered anymore except Chelsea.

For the first time in my life, I picked up the phone and called Chelsea.

"Chelsea, I know what you're thinking, and-" I began, my gut wrenching with apprehension.

"Fine. I'm fine," was her broken reply. With that she hung up.

I knew she wasn't okay, I knew she wasn't. Evening melted into night, and my fingers didn't rest idly for a second. They moved, feverishly, across the screen, my mind raced, and the night air from the open window brought a cold sweat to my face.

Fresh air had never felt so suffocating.

Images flashed across the screen, my eyes kept scrolling. I regretted everything I hadn't asked. I didn't know anything about Chelsea. I didn't know what I needed to know.

The relentless searching continued on for hours, very late into the night. I didn't give up; I couldn't bear the thought of giving up. At two o'clock in the morning, I found what I was looking for.

641 Braun Ave, San Diego California.

---

I never smoked. Being the good child I was, drinking, drugs, parties, and illegal activities were never my cup of tea. I guess in a sense I was a bit naïve as well. The concept of self-destruction was something I couldn't quite grasp, and I only pretended to know the extent of depression. Even the most moralistic have their flaws though; Chelsea was my flaw. She had a way of getting to you, whether intentionally or not, seeping into your lungs, like second-hand smoke.

Chelsea had it rough. You could tell in the way she carried herself, the way her eyes occasionally glazed over, and the hitch at the end of her words. For the longest time I taught myself to overlook it all, that I was just imagining things. Delving into her life could only lead to trouble, to drama, and I tended to steer clear of it all. Still, there comes a time when blind eyes and averted gazes just don't suffice any longer.

The night I first truly saw her was the night she showed me her scars: the physical reminders of a disregarded child and a broken family. That was the first time I was forced to acknowledge her vulnerability. The image of her hunched silhouette is still embedded somewhere deep in my mind, I listened to her speak, her voice hoarse with emotion.

One "chance" meeting just led to another, and soon it became a bit of a habit. They say habits are hard to break, and even in the seemingly harshest of weathers, I dutifully showed up and comforted her. Chelsea was like a broken china set, and bit by bit I began to uncover the pieces of her that were buried in dust. I searched under the cabinets, and attempted to fit the jagged fragments together. She'd had a long battle, fighting her clinical depression since she was eleven. Hearing that made me even more determined to help her. In the coldest of nights, through cracked lips, I would give her advice and encouragement.