The murmurs and whispers filled the dead air. The smell of cigars and whiskey always lingered in my grandparents\u2019 house providing a sense of comfort, but I couldn\u2019t feel it that day. My arms were still wrapped around my body from the cool air outside that seemed to blow right through me. Everyone seemed so much older and concerned and I could sense them building a wall between me and them. It was like I wasn\u2019t there at all. I searched to meet my mom\u2019s gaze, but she wouldn\u2019t acknowledge me. I felt her cold fingers grip my shoulder, soft at first but becoming firmer as she continues the whispering. I could hear footsteps approaching the door forcing everyone to move. We hadn\u2019t made it a few feet from the entrance since being there. He walked in.<\/p>\n
A family friend. At the time, he towered over me by nearly two feet; Nowadays it\u2019s only one. He spent every Thanksgiving with us rather than his own family due to their negligence and hostility. We never talked about it.<\/p>\n
Silence draped over the room, the kind that happens when you walk in on someone talking about you. I knew he could feel it. I break apart from my mom\u2019s grip and begin to pick at a pomegranate I had had my eyes on since I walked in. I didn\u2019t like the flavor, just the smell and joy of picking at it. The guest glided by the kitchen and upstairs towards my uncle\u2019s room where they hide every year. The tension broke when he left the room. My mom leaned down to my height pulling her straight silky hair behind her ear.<\/p>\n
\u201cHis girlfriend killed herself.\u201d<\/p>\n
I looked up at her and back down at my pomegranate without saying a word. My fingers were stained red and looked like blood. People didn\u2019t actually do that, not in real life. That hurt was reserved for movies and tv shows and books and songs and adults talking amongst themselves. It didn\u2019t happen to people I knew or on Thanksgiving or to people I looked up to.<\/p>\n
I was ten years old.<\/p>\n
The class period before lunch was always the worst. I was slumped back in my chair, practically laying down, trying to ignore the sounds of my stomach growling. As soon as the bell rang, the class ran to the door for the race to the limited drive-throughs the town had to offer. I speedily went through the hallways, dodging the people leisurely walking but came to a halt. All my friends were circled around my locker looking towards me. My best friend looked right at me, her breath frantic and the color in her face nonexistent. The hallways kept moving, loud and fast, but time stopped in the distance between me and her. Her silence was deafening. I began the slow process of approaching my locker.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe\u2019s dead.\u201d<\/p>\n
I couldn\u2019t move. Or breathe. Or think.<\/p>\n
\u201cShe killed herself.\u201d<\/p>\n
We weren\u2019t close. She was a friend of a friend, hosted parties, asked me for rides, followed me on social media. I didn\u2019t know her, not really. Maybe if I paid more attention, I would have noticed something was wrong. Maybe the parties were something deeper for her. The feeling of guilt, of loss never really leaves. February is never the same.<\/p>\n
On the day of her funeral, I packed six people into my small car. They all squeezed together, pushing my clothes and bookbag to the side. My best friend was yanking at the seatbelt that you had to position perfectly for it to work. As I started the engine, it made the terrible screeching noise it always did, and I began to drive down the highway at 50 mph\u2014the fastest the car would go. I was the only person who was old enough to drive us to the service. We were kids. The kids I grew up with. This wasn\u2019t a part of the plan. We weren\u2019t supposed to be wearing black and avoiding eye contact. We began to play music, but it felt wrong. Smiling felt wrong. Laughing felt wrong. Guilt washed over all of us. The forty-minute card ride to the funeral felt like it would never end. No matter what we did, who we talked about, the weight of the air couldn\u2019t be lifted. The letter that my best friend had written me begging me to go to the girl\u2019s house to read her poetry was haunting me\u2014I never went. It was shoved away in my drawer at home. I wouldn\u2019t be able to touch it for years.<\/p>\n
Her mom came into my job a few months later. She looked older, tired. I went to go check her out. I wanted to talk but I couldn\u2019t find the words. She paid and began to head for the door just as I noticed her arm. There was a beautiful portrait tattoo of her daughter covering her bicep. She was smiling,<\/p>\n
\u201cI knew your daughter.\u201d She looked back at me and smiled a solemn smile.<\/p>\n
\u201cI miss her.\u201d<\/p>\n
I was sixteen years old.<\/p>\n
\u201cI just don\u2019t think I will be alive that much longer.\u201d In the past, his eyes were filled with tears when we talked about this, but this time there was nothing. He stared straight ahead like I wasn\u2019t even there. Darkness draped over the town\u2014it had to be close to midnight and we still hadn\u2019t finished closing. We had gone outside to share a cigarette and get some fresh air, but the air was cold and windy. I looked down at his hands\u2014cigarette burns and poorly done stick and pokes were scattered across them. I lifted my hand towards him.<\/p>\n
\u201cPinky promise that I\u2019ll see you tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n
He looked at me for the first time, laughed a little, and wrapped his finger around mine.<\/p>\n
\u201cSomedays this promise is the only reason I don\u2019t do it.\u201d<\/p>\n
He was a coworker turned friend. He had tried it before. Suicide. It was a year before I had met him. He was in the ICU and then the institution. There\u2019s a picture of him there. His lifeless body lying there, a tube down his throat, his eyes purple and bloodshot from trying to puke up the bottle of pills he had swallowed. It\u2019s the type of image that doesn\u2019t leave your mind no matter how hard you try.<\/p>\n
I took a key to his house for myself. I laid on the floor next to him, the carpet scratching my face. The smell of vodka on his breathe was intoxicating. I couldn\u2019t find the words to speak. His house smelled of smoke and half-lit shorts were lying around. It reminded me of my grandparents\u2019. I had started having nightmares since he confided in me about his suicidal thoughts. I would dream I was at his funeral and hear the screams of his parents. I would dream I would get the call when I was in class or at work. This felt like one of those dreams.<\/p>\n
\u201cWould you forgive me if I did it?\u201d<\/p>\n
There is no right answer to this question. I didn\u2019t want to go to another funeral. I didn\u2019t want to see another mother bury her child. I\u2019m not sure I would forgive him. I was twenty years old.<\/p>\n
I was in a daze. I watched his dad begin to write an obituary for his own son at the table. The same table we had all shared a meal at just a few days ago. His hand was steady writing in his notebook, but his body looked weak. It had only been a few days and the grief seemed to have aged him; it aged all of us. If I were to go through the rest of the notebook I would find philosophy quotes, bible verses, book ratings and recommendations\u2014evidence of his life before it happened. I stood and stared at him writing. I couldn\u2019t distinguish reality from fiction.<\/p>\n
Why did he do this to me? How could he do this to me? It\u2019s not fair. It\u2019s not fair It\u2019s not fair. I can\u2019t breathe. I\u2019m in the kitchen. I hear my heart in the head. I\u2019m outside. This isn\u2019t real. I hear screaming. It\u2019s me. I\u2019m back inside. My hands are numb. My knuckes are bruised. What did I hit? I\u2019m on the floor. His brother is there. He\u2019s breathing with me.<\/p>\n
So many hours were missing from my memory. The days never seemed to start or end. It was like the moment I found out he had died time stopped and I was desperately, frantically, hopelessly trying to claw my way back to the past. My stomach was empty, but I couldn\u2019t eat. My body was collapsing from exhaustion, but I couldn\u2019t sleep.<\/p>\n
You never forget the sound of a mother finding her child. You hear it in your nightmares; in coffeeshops; in grocery stores. Months later, when her laughter eventually returned, I heard the scream within in. I crept down the stairs away from his dad and into his room. The cold air hit me as soon as I opened the door. The emptiness was screaming at me\u2014he\u2019s not here. I fell into his bed; his perfectly white sheets; his memory foam pillows. The intended comfort of his bed felt like some sort of sick joke. I turned my attention to his nightstand. Everything was as he had left it\u2014his phone charging, his clothes in the dryer, his leftovers in the fridge. He water bottle, half empty, sitting exactly where he had left it, was mocking me. It read \u201cLife is Good\u201d.<\/p>\n
He was my boyfriend. Of four years. High school sweethearts. We spent countless nights in that bed together\u2014reading, laughing, playing scrabble, watching TV, doing homework. I fell asleep that night in bed with him. I woke up alone.<\/p>\n
I turned the water bottle away from me and felt the all too familiar feeling of guilt sweep over my body. It had made its home in my stomach. I had moved one of the last things he touched. It was no longer where he left it, but where I decided to put it. I had tainted it. I shut my eyes. Maybe if I did it tight enough, I could open them to a new reality. It didn\u2019t work. It never does.<\/p>\n
He is forever twenty-one years old.<\/p>\n
I turned twenty-two.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Silvia Knowles The murmurs and whispers filled the dead air. The smell of cigars and whiskey always lingered in my grandparents\u2019 house providing a sense of comfort, but I couldn\u2019t feel it that day. My arms were still wrapped around my body from the cool air outside that seemed to blow right through me. Everyone… <\/p>\n