Why I'm Not an Idiot

Not Alive

The Good Side is pissed. So is Graham.

The Good Side is pissed because I gave myself away. Dying will make it the most comfortable now, and it wants me to satisfy it. That's the best option. But Graham is pissed with me, too, because he doesn't want me dead. He still wants me to stick around, and to try to push the Good Side away, which confuses me. Graham was always on my side. He's my best friend, after all. So why is he against the Good Side?

"What the fuck, dude, are you okay?"

"No." He can hear me crying now, my sniffles and sobs sounding like crinkled paper on the phone.

"What happened?"

"Graham."

"Yes?"

"Just answer my question."

"What? I - god, dude, what am I supposed to say?"

"The answer."

"I - oh my god. Jake, what answer is going to make you feel better?"

"Neither. Just ANSWER," I choke, voice cracking on 'answer'.

"I'm coming over."

I don't answer. That's not a bad idea, actually.

"Open your window."

I put the phone down into my comforter and lift the glass up, and then the screen. The crisp night air hits me at full force and my nose starts to hurt from the cold. I sit there, staring down at my back yard through the open window.

Jump, the Good Side says. You could do it. Jump.

No, I think.

Jump!

"No!" I growl, turning away from the window.

Suddenly, the numbing adrenaline stops short and I'm scared as fuck. My breathing is quick and deep and I feel like I'm going to throw up and I don't know if I wan't to die anymore. I don't even know what I feel like, actually. My brain is screaming, and I'm afraid I'll scream out loud and wake everyone up, and I need to scream, I realize, I need to yell out loud or break something but if I do my brothers will wake up and hit me again. And I realize that that's exactly why I want to lash out - because there's no reason they should hit me, and that's just not fair.

Graham is yelling into the phone. I hear his voice yelling my name, muffled by my comforter and the crappy telephone signal.

I pick up the phone, and he's still yelling.

"What?" I growl.

He stops.

"You're scaring me, Jake. Don't hang up."

"I just put my phone down."

"Yeah, don't do that either. I'll be there soon. I'm taking my bike."

I squeeze my eyes shut. The violent feeling slowly fades away, and I start to cry again.

"Thank you," I whisper.

*****

After ten minutes of listening to the rattling of Graham's bike and the wind hitting the cellphone (which, I might add, was in the basket on the front of his bike, attached to headphones, which has a mouthpiece to speak into. But he wasn't speaking, so all I heard was his breath and his bike), he eventually tells me that he's in my yard, and that he's climbing up the fire escape now. It shakes as he climbs, and I hear the shaking, but I don't look down at him because I'm scared of what will happen if I look down again. So I just lay face-up on my bed, eyes shut, listening to the creaking of the old steps.