I stood inches from the road, knuckles white, clenched to my sides. The rain pouring down was a cliché, like a Nicholas Sparks novel, I could almost see the long lost lovers running to greet each other after months or years apart, except I was no model actress, and the person I was greeting was no lover or a person at all. This state of being you could only find staring down the barrel of a gun, in someone’s eyes as the life slipped out of their body, or in this case looking in the headlights of the oncoming traffic.
Two steps closer.
I remember my head pounding, body shaking, uncontrollably crying, and screaming. Screaming. Screaming about how much I loved him. Screaming about how much I wanted to die.
More tears, more steps forward.
I couldn’t see anything, the white road line a glowing blur reflecting the fraction of what little life was left of the night. I started talking to myself but the talking turned to sobs and the sobs to more screaming.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” I repeated over and over again. I thought of him, worried. I thought of him running to my side. I thought about never seeing him again.
Four steps back.
I thought of my parents who surely hated me.
Five steps forward.
I thought of love.
Eight steps back.
And then as cars whipped past me, pulling my hair in the wind, catching my breath-I thought of relief. And I wondered, if it felt anything like that.
Fast forward a year. I’m a sophomore in high school and a boy had just committed suicide. He was quiet if you (like me) had not known him. His best friend-who had been the definition of our school’s spirit had gone silent in the hallways, and refrained eventually from going to school altogether.
It was during this time that I realized no matter where I went after death, I was still leaving someone behind someone I loved but more importantly someone that loved me. I believe that suicide doesn’t make things easier, in the end it will only make it that much harder for someone else.