Ariabelle | One question, leads to a savior COMPLETED

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This was it.

I had written letters to everyone that cared about me. My mother's was short but I knew she would barely be able to read it anyway. She could barely remember I was her daughter, much less remember how to read. My brother's was more of a 'I'm sorry' note more than saying how much I loved him. My sister's was all about me telling her how much good she could do in her life and to follow down her brother's path rather than mine.

Then I wrote to my science teacher, she was a nice lady. She'd see my bad days and make sure to not ask anything of me in class. She recommended going to the councilor once but I was too far gone to think of getting help. I wrote a letter to her, thanking her. If it wasn't for her I'd be much worse off then I was now.

I didn't have anything with me. I didn't have the bag I carried around with so many pills in it I could be an addict. I didn't have that notebook, the one notebook that had you are loved on the front, in big bold letters. I never believed that notebook but I kept it anyway, it gave me a sense of peace when I rubbed my hand along the tattered pages.

I didn't have my phone, I didn't want any distractions but now seeing as I don't have directions, I need it. I can't even get suicide right, I really am a failure.

I mumble words, reaching my hand into my pocket and holding the only thing that I had on me, a note. I'd leave it there, tell everyone my story, though it wasn't long. Whoever found it I'd hope that it wasn't because they were about to jump as well, I'd write some encouraging words I was supposed to believe and hope that whoever found it didn't have the same fate.

A boy sitting on a park bench, probably a little older than me as he was smoking a cigarette. I smoked as well but it was illegal, so I couldn't do it in public. The boy sat staring at the world seemingly without a care in his mind. His hair was messed up as if stress caused him to tug at the roots and his red eyes were either from crying or a temporary happiness. Maybe both.

I had tried the euphoric things, the drugs that condone happiness. Saying that this will make you feel better. It did, maybe for a few moments then it was gone and I was left again. The downfall was worse than the euphoria of using it, so I stopped.

I walked up to the boy, everyone else was hustling on the streets. They barely took the time to glance my way yet this boy sat calculating everyone's movements.

"Can you direct me to the Golden Gate Bridge?" I asked. My voice didn't give away the emotions I felt, nor did my facial expressions. It took years of crying into a pillow for that to be perfected.

The boy turned his head, he stared at me as he stared at everyone else. A calculating and questioning gaze.

"Why?" He spoke in the voice of a man who has just woken up from sleep. He puffed out the cigarette watching the smoke fizzle around him.

Why did it matter? There were way too many people in this world to care about one. My mother wouldn't remember me after the first night. My brother would hurt but he had my sister, and she would buy the excuse of 'shes in a good place' or some bull like that.

"Why?" He asked again, his voice was raspy probably from the years of smoking the cigar.

It burned my throat as I breathed in his second-hand smoke. I watched as little girls ran past us with their mouths covered their mothers ushering them along. I watched little boys stare at us with fascination before being reprimanded and holding their breath as they moved as well.

"I like the view." I said pathetically. I was never good at thinking on the spot, I expected him to be so caught up in his own world that he would just murmur the directions and leave me be.

"You like the view. Meaning you've seen it before. So, shouldn't you know how to get there?" He said continuing to stare at me. I felt as if I was naked in front of him, so exposed and yet I knew I was fully clothed, one hand deep inside my pocket clutching the only life line I had. The other hanging lifelessly by my side.

I moved to San Francisco a few weeks ago. It had a better dementia facility then Texas did, and my mother could use the best she could get.

I just shrugged hoping he left it at that.

Once he didn't speak for another minute I side-stepped him breathing one last breath of the chemical-filled air before walking on, I'd find someone else to ask.

"Stop, Ill walk you." The boy said. He blew out the cigarette smashing it between his fingers. I would've wailed in pain, but he didn't flinch. The cigarette fell to dust at his feet as we both started walking.