I’m not going to pretend this isn’t about me. Because it is. I’m not going to put in other people’s names and ramble as though this is a fictitious person’s life. Because it’s mine. And third person? What’s the point? I only know what I’ve been through and I wouldn’t want to add imagined words into someone’s mouth, detracting from my reality – the only one I know. Where does one begin, but the end? Of course, an end is merely a beginning and a beginning is basically an end.
So…this is about me, by me and it starts in August of 2009…
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I am sitting on a bed in a room stuck in a depressed high-school boy’s dimension. AFI posters, fireworks, clothes in a large pile by the door and scattered everywhere. My eyes are swollen and exhaustion slugs my body repeatedly. None-the-less – I am looking at the shirt-less maniac who I love with a knife at his throat and a look in his eyes that can only describe as the look of someone who is capable of doing very bad things.
He is saying words, I can hear them. Saying things like “this I how you make me feel.” I, too, am forming words, yet I stumble over them – unsure what the right response is when you find your suicidal first love with a knife at their throat. I hadn’t counted on this. It’s not something I rehearsed for, prepared for.
So I cry. I cry and he screams at me for turning it around and making it about me. As if crying when you are possibly about to lose someone you love right in front of you is the wrong reaction. Considering that you make someone feel as if they are better off dead. Considering that he may kill you too. Yes, I suppose I should have gotten up and called 911. Or screamed so his parents would wake up in the room next to ours.
But I cried.
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