Skip forward 18 months, and Connor's parents cared even less than before he got rid of all his clothes. His mom was a little upset and his dad was furious, but they let it slide. He heard them arguing one evening about an article his mom had read about kids changing their clothing style as attention seeking. His mom thought it meant Connor needed help, but his dad convinced her that he was just being petty and he would return to normal if they just acted normally.
Connor had started off his sophomore year by doing pot and completely removing himself from all of the social happenings in his life. He hadn't willingly spoken to anyone in over a year.
Sloppily hitting his alarm clock, Connor pulled himself out of a restless sleep. He dragged himself out of bed, got dressed, and fixed his hair. It had grown out past his shoulders, despite all of Cynthia's efforts to get him a haircut.
Connor shuffled downstairs for breakfast. He had grown to dread this part of his day. His and Zoe's relationship had become increasingly strained to a point where they would argue over breakfast. Cynthia and Larry's relationship was becoming tense as well. They fought a lot more than was healthy and stopped doing family outings all together. Connor still showed up when he decided to go to school, but that didn't mean he enjoyed breakfast at the Murphy house.
Connor didn't plan on going to school today, though. He was going to the river today. He couldn't wait to get out of the house. He was starting to get antsy, even forgetting to pick at his sister.
"Did you do all your homework, Connor?" Cynthia asked as she poured Larry another cup of coffee.
"Sure, Cynthia," Connor said, turning his head to face the bowl of, uh, oatmeal? He couldn't tell anymore. Cynthia was always on some new diet or trying some new philosophy or something.
"Couldn't you just call me mom?" Cynthia says, exasperated. He ignored her.
He didn't tell either of his parents why he called them by their first names. He started calling them Larry and Cynthia at the beginning of his freshman year of high school. He did it because they didn't live up to his expectations of parents. They left him to the wolves.
After a few bites of sludge, Connor realized it was practically inedible and lept up from the dining room table.
"I'm walking to school. I have a project I need to finish this morning," he said.
"Give me two minutes and I can drive you," Cynthia said.
"No, that's okay. I want to walk," he said. He draped his satchel over his shoulder and started to walk out the door.
"Don't forget to go to class after you meet with your dealer," Zoe called out to Connor. He flipped her off as he walked out the door. He only met with his dealer every other Tuesday. Today was Wednesday.
He walked the short distance to his favorite park and sat in front of a tall oak tree that bordered the river bank. He dug around in his satchel, searching for the cold metal knife.
He dug it out, twirling it in his hand. He took off the protective plastic cap, designed so people wouldn't accidentally cut themselves. It was useless against people like Connor.
The blade was a window opened in a the suffocating confines of Connor's head. It was a way out of this world. It was a relief. Just holding the cool blade dampened the fire burning in Connor's brain.
Connor knew that nobody would care if he died. Cynthia and Larry would stop fighting about what to do with him. Zoe would get to live the life of a normal teenager. She was already in high school and was making so many friends. He hoped she would keep pushing forward when he was gone.
Connor wanted to vanish from this world. It held nothing for him but despair. He twirled the Xacto knife in his fingers for a few more contemplative minutes. He turned the knife to hold it in a firm grasp. He rolled up his left shirt sleeve.
He looked around him once more and breathed in the fish scent of the river. As he breathed out, he sliced deeply into his arm. He wasn't quite sure which direction would kill him, so he cut a line vertically and horizontally into his arm.
Colored blotches flashed in Connor's vision. He closed his eyes, waiting for oblivion to wash over him. He allowed himself to fall unconscious, not fighting the urges of his body to shut down.
He didn't see a light. He didn't see anything. He wondered if this was the afterlife. It wasn't quite all it was lived up to be. Wait, maybe his eyes were just closed. He tried to open them and was met with a harsh bright light.
