CHRIST: FINDING THE LIGHT

Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Statistics show that depression is one of the major causes of suicide in teenagers. Statistics rarely lie. Tears followed the familiar paths of their predecessors and trickled onto my bed. The knife I held tightly in my grip, glistened in the moonlight.

It had been three weeks—almost a month--since she had gone. Since she had left us, and taken with her any shred of happiness I had had. I couldn't bring myself to mention her name; it was too painful. My eyes flitted around the room, looking for something, anything to settle on, that wasn't the knife. They finally came to rest on a picture we had taken a few months before she had been diagnosed with the terminal illness.

In the picture, her long, lustrous blonde locks had cascaded down her back like a golden waterfall, and her eyes had sparkled like sapphires. The epitome of health and happiness. Less than a year later, she had been struck down, forcibly crippled. The hair fell out, clump by clump, and the healthy little girl was soon bedridden. Yet those two sapphires kept on burning as bright as ever.

In spite of everything, she hadn't lost hope. She had continued fighting, even when those around her had accepted defeat. She had expected a miracle. Yet here we were. She was gone. No miracles. Just pain. Endless, heart-breaking pain.

Mia had helped me with my studies, so I wasn't slacking in that department. Yet in every other aspect of my life, I had just...what word to use...stopped. Yes, I had stopped living, I functioned like a robot, doing all that was required of me, but not one thing more. After all, I would die one day, and then where would all my efforts go?

Down. To the grave, just like her.

I looked up, and furiously brushed the tears away. She had believed. Getting to the latter part of her stay in the hospital, she had honestly believed in God, that he would perform a miracle. He had done nothing. She had prayed more than most Christians I knew, yet nothing! What kind of God was this?

And yet, even as she grew weaker and weaker, her faith in Him had only grown stronger and stronger. She had never lost hope, never given up. Maybe, just maybe. That chance was gone now. Dead. Six feet under, buried. Gone.

"What kind of God are you?" I screamed, finally releasing all my pent up anger at the invisible being up there. "You took her...took her away from me...she prayed so hard...how could you?..." I broke down into sobs, and the knife fell from my hand and clattered onto the floor.

Weeks of bottled up anger, sadness, grief—it all came out at once. I screamed, bit at my pillow, and then dissolved into tears again. When I was spent, I simply curled up into a ball and chewed at my lip.

Then, as if propelled by an unseen force, I stood and walked out of my room, unsure of where I was going, exactly. Then I stopped at an all too familiar door, one I hadn't been anywhere near in three weeks. Her door.

Gritting my teeth, I pushed it open. The maids had been instructed not to enter the room, so it looked like it did the last time she had been here: messy, unmade bed, toys strewn all over the place. As if she'd only gone out for a little while, and would be back again. I knew better though.

Why am I here? I asked myself. For that, I had no answer. Yet, somehow, I knew that I couldn't leave. Not yet. I gingerly sat on the bed, my fingers unconsciously making circles in the bedspread.

Then my fingers hit something solid. A...book? Pulling it out, I saw that, it wasn't so much a book as a binder, filled with papers. I opened it and flipped through, blowing at one strand of hair in front of my eye.

My eyebrows creased in confusion as I inspected the contents. They were letters, written by...her to...God? I frowned, and flipped through the letters. The very first one caught my eye.

Dear Jesus,

Billy told me about You. He said You're a saviour, and that you love children. I don't know if that's true, but I do know that I need a saviour right now. You see, I have cancer, I'm supposed to die. But Jesus, I'm scared...I don't want to die. I want to live.

I'm only nine and three quarters. Please let me live.

A scared little girl,

Stacie.

The tears started again, before I reached the end of the letter, tracing new tracks down my cheeks. I clutched the binder to my chest and sobbed. My heart felt like it was being ripped out of my chest. Curling up into a ball, I sobbed into the bed sheet, which still held her scent. That only made me cry harder.

After what seemed like forever, I finally stood up, taking the binder with me. As I headed back for my room, I heard someone weeping. And the sound was coming from Stacey's room. I felt sorry for my stepmother.

Dad was having an affair with a British model who was not much older than I was. It was plastered all over the tabloids, and he hadn't once called to dispute it. I didn't doubt it for one second.

Yet Stacey had to be hurting, and I couldn't console her. I could barely help myself. The family was breaking apart at the seams. Little Stacie had been the glue that had held us all together.

Yet she was gone.

Tears pooled in my eyes as I rushed back to my room. Dropping the binder on my desk, I picked the knife off of the floor. I looked in the mirror, and my reflection stared back. Pale skin, bloodshot eyes, wild hair; I was a mess. No wonder my own father hated me.

I pulled the knife down my wrist. As the thick, warm blood pulsed out, I smiled. It hurt. And this pain was....good. It was better than the ache in my chest, at any rate. I tugged the knife through my skin again...and again...and again. Each time was better than the last. The blood ran down my arms, staining my clothes, my skin, and the floor. Everything.

And as the blood pooled on the ground, bright red contrasting against the white of the tile, I looked in the mirror. The same empty girl stared back.

******

I know, it's been a whole year since I last updated. And I am so sorry! I was working on finishing my other book, and I am a boarding school student, so I work during the vacations.

I'll try my hardest to update sooner.