If The Sky Could Speak

To live or not to live

Darwin behind his window. Everett behind her desk. Exactly where we wanted to have them. In this very moment both of them stood up, decided. Darwin tried to write a letter.
Dear Mom,... he started. And couldn't continue. He tried again.
Dear Ruby, I'm sorry... and he tried on and on until he realised words aren't his strong side of character. But he needed to write a letter even though he wasn't so sure about doing it. He was lying on his bed for good twenty minutes when it hit him. Drawing. He drew a series of pictures. A main theme was his life, of course. But he also put stories of his family members in there. Everything he had on his mind.

For someone who loves happiness this scene was absolutely terrifying. Darwin was strong for too long. But don't get me wrong this ain't the end.

Darwin spent three days in his room. No school, no fresh air. His mother or anyone haven't even bothered telling him to get outside. They knew that would be for nothing. Second day, he pulled out pills from his drawer. He opened the bottle, eight pills landed on his palm. Not enough, five more. No water needed. He swallowed pills and waited. Nothing's happening, he thought. He didn't remember the rest. But I do.

A boy, his eyes whitening and his face turning into emptiness, falling down to bed. He was sitting, no harm. His eyes closed shut. I could see that his head spun for a moment before he went unconscious. Thirteen pills. Not much. Even though those were pretty strong ones. No one cared. No one knew. And no one tried to save him. Not a soul crossed his room's doorstep. A boy laying down on a bed as he was asleep. When in fact, he's dying inside.

Let's take a look into the one incident in the past. Just a moment before we'll see him laying unconscious on his bed again.
It was a day. Sun was burning down the Earth. Not a cloud seen. Kids couldn't have been swimming in the local pool, absorbing the fire of the sun, because it was a school day. Thursday. Darwin was sitting in the cafeteria, doubtful cheeseburger and mashed potatoes by his right hand. Pencil in his left hand. Sketchbook in front of him. He was quiet. But it seems like a quiet kid can be much more noticeable than the one screaming around. He was just finishing some kind of a square object on the paper when Ethan Osteen appeared. He sailed on the chair in front of Darwin.
"Look at you, not a bite? For what your dad pays?"
Just so you know, Darwin's father passed away when Darwin was 9 years old. And Ethan Osteen knew it.
Darwin chose to ignore him.
"What was it? Oh right, your mommy? Why doesn't dad pay for anything? Why doesn't he come to your shows? Tell me, Walter. Why is it?"
"He," he left a space between words "is," and one more "dead."
When lips of Ethan's friend drew off, Darwin used the pencil in his hand. I got to tell you, that boy has guts.
One little fact before we get back to Darwin: Walter couldn't play the important football match because he was operated with a pencil stuck in his hand.

Darwin opened his eyes and felt like he was about to puke after the ride on the roller coaster. He was confused at first and when he realised that this can't be place where he was supposed to end up after he dies, his face was in a colour of a surprise. Why, Darwin? You have no idea what's waiting for you on this world and right now I can assure there's something making up for you. Just wait a little longer.
We'll see each other soon enough.
Just please, stay alive.