Amy's Purpose (Final Draft)

Chapter Two

TW: Death

Jay got home at around four a.m. It was quiet when he pulled into the driveway of his home, and it was still dark, but he knew the sky would begin to lighten soon with the first rays of morning. When he first got back, he sat in his car for over an hour, staring, contemplating, and wondering if it was all real, wondering if maybe this had been a bad dream, and that he would soon wake up. He hadn't even noticed the rain until it had come in torrents, and the pattering on the roof of his car had startled him from his thoughts. Now he moved from his seat, wincing with every movement. The sound of his keys jingling was loud in his ears as he opened his front door. Everything was loud. Even the silence. But the house was dark, confirming his suspicions: his mother was not home.

Good, he thought to himself. She wouldn't know until she got off of work, and by then Jay would be long gone. He had enough time, but he did not want time anymore. He just wanted everything to stop.

Sometimes, he thought, maybe he would stop feeling this way. Maybe one day he would wake up, and he wouldn't feel the never-ending sadness that he always felt. Maybe he would get up and finally not be tired. Maybe, just maybe, he could finally begin to live. But that was hope, and it wasn't real. Because he felt this way, and he knew that it was never going away.

He let out a grunt of pain as he lifted himself up the first step, his foot almost slipping from the slickness of his shoes. He gripped the railing for support as pain laced up his backside. Every part of him hurt, and even his throat hurt. He could barely swallow, it felt like knives were repeatedly stabbing him all over his body. He rubbed his neck unconsciously, wondering if it was already bruising. It had to be, he thought, because it hurt like hell.

He reached the landing, and finally made it to his room what felt like ages later. It was dark like the rest of the house and he didn't bother turning on the light. He only stumbled over to his bed, fully clothed, and crashed onto it, trying (and failing) to wipe the images of the party from his mind. He began to shake as he could still hear the loud music, still hear their laughing, still feel the soft sheets against his cheek, still feel the scream dead in his throat. He turned over in his bed, his eyes searching for his window. The rain had slackened, and it was gentle on his roof, easing him a bit. He had always liked the rain. He supposed it was fitting that he would die while it was raining. There was beauty in sadness, an orchestra of self-hatred.

Jay made an absurd sound in his throat, something between a squeak and a groan, and turned his face into his pillow. Vivid images were flashing behind his eyes, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not get them out of his head. He could still feel hands on his skin, violating, hurting. He pressed his face harder into his pillow, willing himself not to cry. His throat burned with the effort of holding in his tears, and with effort, he curled up into a ball and began to shiver.

Maybe if he shoved his face hard enough into the pillow, he could suffocate. Maybe if he just held his breath he could pass out and give himself a moment or two of silence. But he couldn't force his body to move.

He knew where he was going to go. It was a place he had found to clear his head, to feel the breeze on his face, to be away from society. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine the fall. He could imagine how weightless he would feel. All his worries, his fears, finally gone, stripped away. It was a comfort he had always dreamed of, a feeling he wanted, a feeling he craved. And right now, he was wasting time. His heartbeats were limited, and they felt louder in his ears, like crashing waves.

He forced himself into a sitting position, despite the aching protest of his body. He could hardly move, but he reached over anyways and flicked on his lamp, bathing his room in a warm glow. He squinted at the brightness of the light before his eyes drifted to his arms, and he felt bile rise in his throat at the sight. Bruises were slowly turning dark on his pale skin, forming whole handprints that repulsed him. He knew they went under the sleeves of his shirt, and that they were dotted along his back, and above all, he knew there were handprints around his throat.