Amy's Purpose (Final Draft)

Chapter One

TW: Self-harm.

Death is inevitable. That's what Jay Sallow would tell himself when he was feeling down on any particular day. Death was inevitable, which meant that it could end, it could always end. It meant that despite everything he was going through, somehow, he would get out of it. Everyone knew that. Jay knew it. He knew that there were a million different possibilities. There were ways to slow the process down, to take every year, every breath, to hold out as long as possible, but it comes for the weak, it comes for the strong. It comes for everyone. Death is inevitable, Jay would tell himself. And with the inevitable came hope. Hope that it would get better. Hope that he could lead a different life. Hope, that it could stop. But was it the end?

Jay had planned his death for a long time. When it came down to it, he was ready, excited even. He had thought about it for such a long time, had become so accustomed to the idea that death was at his fingertips, that it was a mere reach away, that he had forgotten how to live. He had forgotten the simple joys of life, the way the rain misted his face, the smell of fresh dirt, the scrape of a knee. He had forgotten what it felt like to wake up and breathe and feel okay. He had forgotten the simplicity of life.

He tried not to make too much of a big deal about it, about wanting to die, but it was increasingly hard to pretend the thought wasn't there when it was constantly there. He knew it was present, he had always known that, but he was coming to terms with the fact that it wasn't going away.

When he had first thought about killing himself, he had been terrified. He had been ten, just coming home from school, and he had thought: what if I stopped living? What would happen? And then he had quickly brushed it off, telling himself that he would never think about it again. That had been a lie, but it was the thought that counted.

Once he had thought about it more, he began to not feel so terrified of dying, and he began to realize that he, in fact, did want to die. Scholars would say dying was the end, that your soul went elsewhere, but Jay found himself not believing that death was the end, how could it be? He couldn't believe that he just...stopped existing, so it gave him something to look forward to. Maybe he could have another life, a life better than this one. Death brought comfort, emptiness. He already felt empty, but the emptiness of death was something entirely different. He didn't want to come back to this earth, and death could ensure that. It could ensure that he would go elsewhere, even if he stopped existing.

Death was appealing, he couldn't say that it wasn't. The thought of his heart stopping, his breathing ceasing, it was art. He thought about it too much. He wondered if he would go slowly on his bed, staring at his ceiling. He wondered if he would just slip away, or if he would be instantly put into another body, another world. He wondered if he would look down on himself, and then go elsewhere. It was a fine thought to have, but he could never be sure until he did it. He hadn't been scared to die for a long time, but something always held him back. Something...he couldn't explain what. He had many opportunities, but there was always a voice in the back of his head, telling him to wait, telling him that he had to do something first. So, he did, but waiting came with a price.

Jay couldn't hold on for long, and he had to find things to remind him that he was alive, even if it wasn't a healthy way to cope. Even if he was mutilating his body.

At first, he cut himself for the blood, he liked to see it flow, it was a pretty picture to paint, to him at-least. He liked to know that it was his, that he was in control. He would let it drip and drip and drip, and he would watch, mesmerized, as it fell against the white surfaces of his bathroom. He liked that, but he mostly liked to sit in his shower and watch it swirl down the drain, wondering if he sat there long enough, would all the blood drain from his body? It was his favorite thing to do; it reminded him of red paint. Only, he never used red paint.

But then it became for something else entirely. Then, it became for the pain.

At first, he was wild, too wild. He would cut so deep that his vision would blacken. One night he had passed out from the blood loss, and he had woken to his cheek pressed against the cold tile of his bathroom floor, his glasses fogged up on his face. After that night, he vowed not to go that deep ever again, not until he was ready. Even then, he already knew that cutting wouldn't be his way to go, but he still liked the pain; too much. It reminded him that he was alive, and that any moment, one slip, and he could end it. He was addicted.

It didn't help that it was too easy to hide from his mom. They had been close once, but that was a long time ago, and Jay was accustomed to being alone, welcomed it even. She worked at the hospital, so she was rarely home. She worked doubles all the time, so she didn't notice when he left, or when he came home, or when he cried, or...anything. He didn't tell her, and she rarely asked. She was sweet, he knew that, but she was only physically there, not emotionally, and even then, she was barely home.

He supposed she knew what it was like to be alone after losing his dad, but that had been seventeen years ago, and she had never re-married. He used to wonder if it was his fault that she didn't go out. She had a depressed, gay teenager at home, no one would have wanted to be around him, but then he supposed maybe she just liked to work, maybe it took her mind off of things like him cutting took his mind off of things. They were different in almost every way, but they were the same in the worst ways. Maybe that was why they could never hold a conversation without their tempers spiking.

She might have been happy alone, he didn't know. Some people weren't cut out for relationships, he knew that, and she went on dates, sometimes. But now, he assumed they were both happy with being alone. Either that, or they had both become accustomed to it. It was hard to be around people when you had been alone for so long. It hadn't meant she hadn't tried to talk to him, but he found himself annoyed with everything she said. She had tried to cook meals, but she was a terrible cook, and then they had eaten together, which had resulted in awkward silences, and then they had barely talked, and Jay had retreated to his room, and she had retreated to the hospital.

Which was exactly the reason he wouldn't cut his wrists to end his life. She was a doctor, and a good one. He had memorized most of her shifts, so if he had wanted to do that, he supposed he could, but there was always a risk that she could come home, and he would rather not have her find him covered in his own blood.

This was where things were, and it was okay. Sort of.

She had asked once if he needed therapy, and he had obliged and went to make her happy, but it had been an absolute disaster. He didn't like talking about his feelings to a random person, and that had led to even more awkward silences. He went for two sessions, and then he never went back, and everything had fallen into place like it had before. They were fine, he told himself. They were fine.

And then he went to the party.