FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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MY HACKY SACK SPINS in the air and lands with a soft thud in my hand. The curtains of my bedroom are shut, but the last shred of sunlight leaks through them and creates a deep red line across my hardwood floor. I toss the beanbag as my room is submerged in dark blue.
I've been laying like this for hours.
It's relaxing in here. Without much light, the walls pulse around me like the bottom of the ocean. I'm sinking, sinking, sinking...
If I sink far enough, will I stop breathing?
Yeah, I'm too stoned to be thinking about stuff like this.
It's been this way since Lucy left a month ago. Catching the hacky sack a last time, my head falls to the side and my cheek brushes my pillow. There's a box in my desk drawer, hidden within another box, and in that box, there's a bottle filled with sleeping pills. It's fucked up, but I feel so empty.
It's strange to think this could all disappear. These blue walls, the rug on the floor, my dresser with my hockey trophies, the tote in the closet that still holds all my Bionicles and Legos and Hotwheels because I'm too sentimental to throw them out.
My thoughts, my feelings.
Lucy.
I blink. My hair brushes my forehead and tickles me, so I swipe it away. I could make it all go away, right here, right now. I wonder what dying feels like. I wonder if it hurts. It probably doesn't matter—I mean, what's a couple of minutes of pain for eternal silence? Totally worth it. So should I do it? My heart pounds. Mom and Dad are out, but Ollie's home.
I ask myself if he would care, but I don't have a real answer to that. I don't know it.
With a sigh, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and smooth my hands over my heavy eyes. My muscles are sore and stiff. I feel weak, depleted, and drained. My hockey trophies laugh at me.
I drag myself to the bathroom. I'd lay in bed forever if my mortal body didn't need to piss.
After, I walk down the hall. Charlotte's door is still shut and the contents of her room are untouched. Mom said we need to leave everything exactly how it was when she left so when we find her, she'll know we never gave up on her.
But I have given up on her. I've given up on everything. Sometimes I think the only reason I haven't swallowed those pills is because I'm scared of how it would affect Mom. I don't know how Dad would feel, but Mom would be destroyed, and she already deals with so much.
In Charlotte's room, I flick on the light to reveal her pink wallpaper and cluttered white dresser. I sit on the rose-themed bed next to the collection of Beanie Babies.
I wonder if Lucy would care if I did it. Maybe she'd think I'm weak and pathetic for killing myself. A lot of people would think that.
I pick up one of Charlotte's stuffed animals, an orange bear sitting in a prayer position, and my eyes sting. I throw the bear to the side, not caring where it lands, not caring if it knocks something out of place. Charlotte's never coming back—the cops have given up on the investigation, and Dad and his friend, Detective Johnson, are the only people still looking.
