Eighteen days after your funeral.
This is the truth that I couldn't write down before. Maybe because some days I still thought you were alive and I didn't ever want you to know this because I knew it would wreck you. But you aren't here anymore and I'm leaving in a few days. These pages will be buried deep underground just like you were. I will not look back again. So I'll tell you the truth.
The day you put the gun in your mouth, with me sobbing into my hands waiting for the ambulance, I wanted to put it into my mouth, too.
Watching your blood seeping through the sheets inside the ambulance I wanted to retch until there was nothing left inside of me.
The days I walked the hallways of our school surrounded by ghost I wanted to chase yours. I wanted to yell Wait, please And add, Take me with you, take me wherever you need to go don't leave me, please, Sam, don't leave me behind.
Smoking on my front porch, watching the rain, watching the mango tree, I wondered what it would feel like to wrap a noose around my neck.
I went to every session with my therapist and she was looking at me with concern in her eyes. I knew what she wanted. She wanted me to speak, to let out this poison I had inside of me. I thought maybe she knew what I kept inside and that was why she wanted me to get better. But I didn't think I wanted to, Sam, because every breath I took without you felt like a betrayal.
The nights I woke up from nightmares and you were not lying there next to me I wanted to scream until my voice hoarse and stab myself so it would stop.
The nights I sleepwalked, like that night, eighteen days after your funeral, were the worst because usually you were the one who guided me back.
So, in secret, I kept a pocket knife in the drawer beside my bed on the days the pain was too blinding. When I arrived back home, I would clench it tightly around my fingers, reminding myself of the love the people around me had for me, every kind words and soothing touch, then I would put it back inside the drawer, away from my thoughts.
This would be our difference, Sam. You said you wanted the pain to stop and so you stopped it the only way you knew how: by leaving everything behind. You needed to leave and I didn't blame you. I wanted my pain to stop, but I'd find another way. I wouldn't inflict people what you did them and this would be the start, Sam.
My shame filled me with tears that didn't want to come out. Eighteen days after your funeral and I was in pain because I wanted to die, but I wanted to live more, Sam.
The worst thing was the fact that I knew you would want that for me, too.
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Wearing My Smile | ✔
Teen Fiction"I wondered if you'd ever thought that the name your parents had given you felt like sharp knife twisting through your heart in its prayer. I'd never asked you that before, now I'd never get to." Having been together since forever, Roo struggles in...
