To See The Stars

Chapter Eight: Jack

In 1777, David Hume asked, "Why should I prolong a miserable existence because of some frivolous advantage which the public may perhaps receive from me?"

My room, looks like I'm obsessed with the idea of suicide. On my walls are ideas, drawings, and facts. I'm not obsessed but I just can't stop thinking about it. Everything in the world reminds me of what I've tried so hard to forget, I'm clinging to the mind I once had, before everything went wrong. The days when I could look in the mirror and only see my reflection, are gone. Now the mirror, I so deeply despise, sits in the corner of the room, cracked and painted in black. A memory lost in the infinite overload of thoughts.

I remember back in the days of normality, my walls were filled with drawings of space, stars, planets, and rockets. My quotes were about space. Not just suicide and darkness. I dreamed of becoming an astronaut or working at NASA. But then I realized that a depressed boy is 52 percent more likely to die early, and an abuse victim is 54 percent more likely to die early, and people whose parent died early were 84 percent more likely to die. So I figured my chances of living were getting pretty slim. When people ask what age I'd like to live to, I just laugh and say, "Live to? I didn't think I was going to live past 17."

In the grand scheme of things, I am just a suicidal person. But if I'm looking through my own scope, I am the only person in existence, I am the only being. I walk the halls as a ghost. Trying to recall if I am still alive or not. I have a working theory that this is supposed to be my hell.

I take a seat at my desk, and open my notebook, and pick up a pen. The idea of writing a letter to others still hangs in my head. To who though? I attach a rope to a spear, before launching it into the sea of memories. It sticks, and digs. So I pull, and yank. Zach. Works well enough, for the first letter. I pick up my pen, and spill the thoughts that float in his section, onto my notebook paper.

"Dear Zach,

It's been a long time since I talked to you. We stopped talking in 7th grade, if I remember correctly. You've crossed my mind more often than I would have liked. And I guess that warrants a letter. I'm sure you've placed everything that went down out of your head, so I'll have no problem replacing it.

I don't remember when we first started talking, we were too young, but I remember the first time I started thinking of you as a friend. It was 2nd grade, Ms. Thomas's class. To us, she was about 7 feet tall, and had that permentally tangled brown hair. We were arguing about her age. I thought she looked about roughly a 100 years old and you said she looked 300 years old. Well when she walked over to yell at us for talking, you were in the middle of explaining why she was 300 years old. I've never seen her look more upset. You just calmly looked at her and said, "No, She's definitely 300." And I knew I had made a friend.

You were one of the only kids who shared my interest in books. We were good friends. Until the year, my mom died. In seventh grade, things changed. You became distant, stopped talking to me as much. And eventually just cut contact with me. I don't know if it was because I was a loner, or I just wasn't good company but you stopped enjoying the times we were hanging out. Was it because my life was too depressing for you? Was it because I was sad so often? Why wasn't I enough for you? Why wasn't I good enough? We used to trade quotes with eachother, and trade books. I miss that. But I don't miss your absent looks, and that cold shoulder.

It wasn't until half way into the year when you told me to my face, with a bunch of other kids, that I should just die like my mom because no one actually liked me, that I learned the truth about you. Which was nice to hear. Especially when in the depths of depression thanks to grief. I don't blame you for saying it though. Those kids were probably much cooler than me, and you were likely forced into it.

But you still told me to go die like my mom did, to my face, in front of a group of your buds. Do you have any idea what that does to a kid? No, I don't think so. You were the first one to introduce the concept of suicide to me, and thus began my journey into the world of suicidal thoughts. If I die, let this letter be a lesson to you. Don't be a dick, you fucking dick. I'll leave you with a quote, "No guilt is forgotten so long as the conscience still knows of it." - Stefan Zweig. I hope you never forget, Zach.

Much hate and contempt,
Jack~"

I stare at the words swimming on the page. It's withering and writhing. And the hate seems to make the page glow. The heavy weight of Zach seems to just float away as I rip out the page and seal it away into an envelope. I write Zach's full name on the envelope before placing it on my desk. The galaxy opens up and swallows my thoughts about Zach, and for a second the black hole inside me shrinks just a bit. I let myself smile. Maybe my thoughts aren't quite so infinite.

George Sand once said, "We cannot tear out a single page of our life, but we can throw the whole book in the fire."
I think one day I'll get that chance, but until then I'll just start throwing chapters out.