See If We Care: a short story

Untitled Part 1

The worst part of attempting suicide? Remembering it. Its like a Humvee plowing into you. It punches you in the stomach and painfully replays the memory in your mind.

The cold air whipped me in the face as I stood up there. It was actually a nice night in San Francisco compared to the normal cold drizzle that almost always blanketed the city. The sky was beautiful from the bridge. The bridge itself was so gorgeous. The street lights coating the bridge in a dim glow that was warm and comforting, yet also cold and menacing. See, the bridge was built with so many safety precautions such as security checks at the entrance if you were to be driving. However, pedestrians had little to no safety precautions. It really is quite strange. What I don't understand is why they don't put up better blockades than a measly railing. It's like they're inviting you into the cold water. It's like a sign marked: "See if we care." Would anyone really care if yet another sad teenager took that fateful leap into the frigid waves churning below? Regardless, I sat there on the edge, a water bottle in hand. The contents were not water though. It held liquid courage and paint thinner to numb my instincts telling me no. I shakily twisted the cap off, pressing the opening of the bottle to my trembling lips. I sighed, slightly breathing in the fumes that lingered in the bottle. It burned, but I knew that it would be the last pain I would ever feel. I closed my eyes and let the darkness surround me. I slowly slipped one foot off of the rail, gasping as my weight shifted, bringing me closer to my inevitable end. I felt the tears that I had so courageously held back begin to pour down my cold, reddened cheeks. I let myself slowly begin to slip off of the rail until I was no longer sitting, but dangling my foot and hands. They acted as an anchor, holding me there. I quickly placed my other foot back onto the rail and leaned back, unable to breathe. I swung my legs over the rail and fell onto the cold sidewalk of the bridge, pressing myself to the ground. Laying there, I held my stomach as I began to dry heave from the inability to breathe. I opened my eyes, and my vision was watery and blurry. I stared down at the bottle in my hands, anger boiling over.

The best part about attempting suicide? It was an attempt. Realizing that it's selfish, and that your life is more than: take shit, cry, cut, contemplate, repeat.

I stood up, taking a deep breath. I breathed in air that I deserved to breathe. I looked at the plastic devil in my hands, and I did what I should've done in the first place. I threw it. I chunked it into the darkness, as if it were my demons. I lobbed it into the air, aiming for the stars. I closed my eyes as it whistled through the night. I opened them again, and looked around the nearly empty bridge. I took in the lights from the soft-glowing lamps that dotted the bridge. My eyes wandered over the beautiful and colorful aura of San Francisco. I smiled to myself a little. This was my town. This was my life. And I wasn't going to cast that away like garbage. I looked up through the stars and realized that in the infinite eternity of my existence, this was just a miniscule tick of the second hand. I looked down at my hands and examined my fingers and nails and arms. Thoughfreckled with scars, they were beautiful. I looked down at my legs that were blanketed by skinny jeans. Though my thighs slightly touched and my legs were bowed, they were gorgeous. I was gorgeous. I smiled and looked up at my city, tears still wetting my face. I took a deep, refreshing breath of life, and reminded myself: Pain is temporary. I know that I was born, and I know that I will die. What's in between is mine, and this life isn't over.