With a longing stare into my eyes, I see the need for truth written across her face. This outer shell she wears like a metal armor is breaking down, and I’m not sure she’ll be okay if I’m the one who takes it from her. I also believe she’s thinking the same about me, and she might be right. What if that protective armor that I shield myself with is what makes people assume I live a happy and carefree life—what if people were to see the truth I’ve become a master at hiding? This could be a disaster for both of us.
Journey drops her focus to my free hand and takes it within hers. “Finish telling me what happened, please.”
I take another long swig of my beer, unashamedly needing the liquid courage to continue digging up these old, buried bones. “I haven’t told anyone this stuff, Journey. It’s not my story, and it’s been easier to avoid than to share.”
“If it affects you, it’s part of your story, and avoidance isn’t going to make the pain go away, it’s going to postpone it from erupting in your soul.”
Her point is valid, so valid, and I hope she follows her advice and shares her pain with me, too.
Journey’s thumb sweeps back and forth within my hand's palm, maybe a gesture to show she’s listening and waiting.
“He hated me after that night,” I say. “Like, there were times he said he wished he had pushed me over the ledge first—that kind of hate.” Part of me thought that he would realize how big a mistake he almost made when he came to his senses and would know I was doing nothing more than trying to help him, but I became his enemy after that night. It was a hard pill to swallow after being friends for so long, you know?”
“Did you lose touch?” Journey asks.
I shake my head. “No, I wasn’t about to let that happen, no matter what shitty things he said to me.”
“You strike me as the type who doesn’t give up on anyone, Brody Pearson,” she says.
“My gut speaks louder than it should, and it motivates my determination more often than not.”
“That’s a good quality,” she says.
“To some, that’s debatable, but in any case, there is a wide array of circumstances surrounding an attempted suicide. It’s not cut and dry. Everyone has their own story and reason. Some people are remorseful after an unsuccessful attempt. Others are horrified at how close they came to dying. There are ones that are afraid of themselves or the voice in their head that was louder than their rational thoughts. Then there’s the person who is only sorry that the attempt to end their life, failed or in Pete’s case, was interrupted. A psych evaluation usually determines what the outcome might be for each individual. There was a quick determination that Pete needed advanced therapy—inpatient rehabilitation, where he was on suicide watch and needed monitoring twenty-four hours a day.”
Journey’s hand squeezes mine, but I'm not sure if it’s because of her feelings or the awkward trembling in my voice as I continue speaking.
“I was convinced an inpatient facility might be better for him than living with his parents since they were partially to blame for the cause of his problems, but his stay there was only temporary. I didn’t know who would be watching over him after his release back into the real world.”
“Aren’t people usually kept as an inpatient for just a week or so?” Journey asks, making me wonder how she would know such a specific piece of information. Between the movies and books, people have the preconceived notion that inpatient therapy can be a year or longer, but most often, it’s a week, although sometimes up to a month if the situation warrants it.
Pete’s parents had him admitted since he was under eighteen. The psychiatrist assigned to his case explained that they would release him when they determined he was mentally stable, on a regimen of proper medication and follow-up visits scheduled to treat his depression.
Pete was either trying to extend his stay in the psych ward or lost a part of himself the night he tried to jump because he ended up staying longer than I thought he would since he was being monitored under intense supervision for five weeks. Even then, he had a transition period between inpatient and outpatient therapy. He wasn’t making anything easy on himself or the doctors, for that matter.” Nothing about Pete resembled who he used to be.e. It was like his old personality was stolen, and as the days and weeks went by, I was sure the person I once called my best friend was never coming back, and even if he did, he would never trust me again.
14
My bodyand mind are beyond the point of exhaustion, and even though it’s almost four in the morning, there’s no way I’m going to fall asleep. Shock at what I saw firsthand and the reality of what occurred on top of the tower ... a place where most of us always went to have a good time, is hard to digest. Even in my room, a safe cocoon, with darkness and quiet surrounding me, the realization of what happened and what could have happened, is overwhelming. I wanted to follow the ambulance to the hospital, but Dad spoke to Pete’s parents, and while a “thank you” was sent along, they asked that I stay home.
I didn’t see the signs. Or maybe I did, but I overlooked them. Should I have done something sooner? Maybe this is somehow my fault. If I stopped thinking about myself so much and considered what someone else might be going through, I might have saved Pete from feeling that this was his only way out. Thoughts about the end of the school year are consuming, what I plan to do this summer, and a million other little things that don’t matter compared to what Pete’s been going through. Why didn’t he tell me? Why did Pete even want me to be with him tonight? Was it a cry for help … for me to save him, or did he want me to watch him jump to his death? Maybe he intended it to be a punishment for something I unknowingly did to him?
Three hours pass, but it feels like twelve, with my mind reliving every moment of last night. It’s seven now, and the sun is blinding even through the closed curtains. I need to know what’s happening to Pete. I wonder if they'll keep him in the hospital or send him to a psychiatric facility. Surely, they won't just send him home. Someone needs to keep an eye on him.
My bedroom door opens without a knock, which means it’s Brett. The bonehead doesn’t get the meaning of respect when it comes to walking into my room.
“Are you okay?” he asks, tentatively. “Pops told me—”
I don’t have the energy to tell him to get out of my room, but I don’t have the energy to talk about anything either. Brett pulls my desk chair away from the wall, spins it around, and swings his legs over the side. He rests his arms on the back of the chair and rests his chin onto his crossed wrists. He’s ready for school—his backward Sox hat, and his favorite crap brown Green Day t-shirt. “I don’t know,” I say, hoping the answer will suffice his curiosity enough to leave and go to school.
“I take it you’re not going to school today?”
“They said I could stay home.”
“You’re just going to sit here and think about it all day. Maybe school would be a distraction. I doubt anyone knows what happened.”
Not yet. I don’t know how the word will spread about Pete because it won’t be by me, but this town has no secrets. Brett doesn’t want to take the bus. I bet that’s what this is all about. I’ve been driving him for the last few weeks, and he’s seen the finer side of life without the ‘squeezed into a sardine can’ bus ride to school. “I’ll drive you, but I’m not going to stay,” I say.
Brett lifts his chin from his arms. “I wasn’t asking because I wanted a ride. I’m worried about you. No one should have to go through something like that with their best friend.”
