Page 148 of Outspoken

Still picking at my jeans, I swallow, trying to piece my thoughts together. I’ve never said any of this out loud or given a voice to my motivations. Maybe I don’t fully understand what Old Amber was thinking at the time, but I take a breath, letting the words flow out. “A lot of reasons, I guess. I was involved in a car accident when I was eighteen. A doctor and his dog died. I felt like a horrible person and a murderer, even though everyone kept reassuring me it was an accident. It didn’t stop me from thinking about all the ways that day could’ve been different if I had only changed one thing. Got out of bed one minute later. Turned left instead of right. So many little actions that would have saved that man. Then he would have gone on to save so many other people.”

I glance at Angel. He’s giving me his complete attention, so I keep going.

That’s all I can do—keep going.

“I guess I was tired of being alive and struggling and feeling like this horrible person who couldn’t change. Every bad thing that happened, even minor stuff, piled onto the reasons I told myself I should do it. It seemed like a relief to remove myself from the drama and pain permanently.”

I pause and Angel nods at me, his eyes dropping to the concrete floor as he gets lost in his thoughts.

My throat is swollen from admitting so many vulnerable things all at once, but it kind of feels good to say them. And I have a feeling Angel can relate to a lot of these raw emotions.

I cough, forcing more words out. “But, um, it wasn’t just the accident that messed me up. I did a lot of shitty things in my early twenties, especially to my brother. Then I felt guilty. Then I’d do more shitty things, hating myself for doing them but not being able to stop myself. There was always a lot of drama in my life, mostly from the crappy people I hung out with.”

“You have a brother?”

“Yeah.”

He smashed a cockroach under his toe, hugging his knees to his chest. “I don’t have a brother or sister. It’s just me.”

I scoot next to him, proud of myself for ignoring the very crispy crunch when I sit. There’s now bug guts on my ass and Ireallywant to scream and run out of this place.

But I’m staying. I’ve come too far.

Angel shifts away from me slightly, his voice raspy. “Do you still think about it?”

Inside, a wall is trying to rise because I have the urge to tell him 'no'.“Nope! Life is all roses. I got clean, I fixed my life, and it’s all smooth sailing from here. A positive attitude solves everything. Just fake it until you become it. This is the first day of the rest of your life!”

I want to say that because everyone says those dumb quotes, and I suspect they’re all exactly like me: scared of being the first one to admit that yes, sometimes you think about removing yourself from life. For a million different reasons, that thought can pop into your head. It can linger. And then you feel shame, like you’re the only one on the planet thinking that way because everyone else looks happy. Why can’t you just be happy like them? So you keep quiet, letting the thoughts get worse, thinking you’re the only one.

But you never are. Everyone around you has the same thoughts. And they also think they’re alone, so they never speak up.

Not admitting how difficult life is causes so much unnecessary suffering.

“Yeah,” I say. “I still think about it when I’m really down. But I’m learning to separate myself from my thoughts. They’re only words in my head, not reality. They happen, then I let them go. They don’t have to mean anything if I don’t let them.”

“What if there’s proof?”

“For what?”

His voice is thin and low when he responds, “Proof you should do it.”

Heaviness fills my chest as my heart aches for him. He’s so young, and he thinks there’s proof he shouldn’t be alive? He’s barely gotten to live.

I swallow the lump in my throat. “There’s no proof, Angel. Just…a darkness in your thoughts. It’s a crappy thing, but it’s not real.”

He squeezes his knees, making himself into a broken, angry ball. “Bullshit. There’s proof.”

“There’s no proof.”

“You don’t get it. My family wants me in jail. They’re praying for it. Or they say I have poison blood or some shit.”

I resist the urge to touch his shoulder because he’s too closed off for that. “I’m sorry they said those things. You’re not poison. You just had a rough life.”

He scoffs. “Parents are supposed to love you, right? Not mine. You think they cared when I ran? Mom didn’t see I was gone forthreeweeks until I went to Lupita’s and she called her. Now my parents are running to Chicago or some shit and they didn’t even ask me. They just fucking left me here.”

“They shouldn’t have done that,” I respond, sniffing.

He narrows an eye at me like he’s fighting to prove a point and convince me he has evidence why he shouldn’t be here. “I was a mistake,” he spits. “Dad said it. He said the condom broke.”

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