Either you leave with me or you take this.
It’s all your fault, Toby!
My mom’s blame:He fucking killed my Nina!
If you weren’t such an asshole, maybe your mom could’ve loved you.
He’s hitting you.
Ken hit her. He. Hit. Her. And you let him, you little pussy. You’re worse than him.
Nina’s pleas:No, he’s not. I fell taking the trash out a few days ago.
You should’ve fought for her, not armed her.
My mom’s declaration:If you thought a gun was such a goddamn good idea, you should’ve just used it on yourself!
You should’ve never been born. Think of all the devastation that could’ve been avoided if you’d never been born.
My mom’s wish:It should’ve been you, Toby!
It should’ve been you, Toby!
It should’ve been me.It should’ve been me. It should’ve been me. It should’ve been me. It should’ve been me, until everything else is a cacophony of blended angry white noise beneath the incessant bloodcurdling scream of my own persecution. With each iteration, something I already believed to be true morphs into a desperate need to make it reality immediately. Solutions to end this flash interlaced between the nonstop visions of Nina lying on the floor bleeding out: stepping out in front of a bus, jumping off an overpass into highway traffic, hanging myself in the basement of the Victorian on Clarkson.
Rising to my feet requires a feat of strength and I have none left. I’m completely and utterly drained. The required graduation attire of black dress pants and white button-down shirt are no longer pristine. The hole in the knee of my pants feels symbolic. I’ve never been a clean slate, why should I go out looking like one? It’s fitting. I lift the sunglasses and wipe my eyes and nose with the back of my shirtsleeve, because fuck it, it doesn’t matter anymore if this shirt gets filthy.
The sun seems brighter and my eyeballs burn as I squint down the sidewalk and try to decide which way I need to go to finish this.
“Excuse me?”
I hear the voice, but I don’t think for one second that the question is directed at me.
“Excuse me, young man? Are you okay?” The voice is closer and louder this time.
No, I’m not okay, a part of me wants to answer, but I keep my mouth shut and my head down, lowering the sunglasses back into place.
A quick side-glance tells me there’s an elderly woman standing on the porch of the sunshine yellow house and somehow it looks cheery again through blurred eyes. She’s waving at me like she’s trying to get my attention, gentle and friendly like Mrs. Bennett. “Do you need help?” she calls out.
“There’s no helping me,” I mutter too quietly for her to hear and shake my head in answer before I walk away.
“Young man, you forgot your bag,” she calls after me.
I return for the bag with my irrelevant cap and gown and pick it up off the ground. Two blocks down the street, I take a right because I know it’s a major thoroughfare on the bus route. When I hear the first bus approaching from behind, my heart rate increases to what feels like unsustainable levels before it will burst. The fact that my body and mind are beyond exhaustion only amplifies the sensation of life beating through my body at breakneck speed. Stepping down into the gutter ratchets everything up: the need to end this, the fear because I’ve never been brave, the hopelessness that never relents. The bus is so close now, I can hear it roaring as I glance back over my shoulder and take two shaky steps toward the lane of traffic. Closing my eyes tight, my stomach wrings itself in two and the sensation forces fear to leak from my pinched lids.
I pull in a quick intake of breath.
Hold it.
And take the final step preparing for impact.
This isn’t the plan!I shout at myself.
Instead of moving forward, I move back toward the curb and a powerful gust of air connects abrasively with my flesh like a rasp.
You could’ve ruined that bus driver’s life! I shout.
Shaken, I walk to the curb and sit.
