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TW: Suicide mention, violence, gore, wrist cutting



            It was nighttime when we made plans to return to Portland, the place that almost killed me. The dark hung around me and pressed down on my spine, attempting to drag me back to that place where it all truly fell apart. And as your voice filled with excitement, there was a small part of me I tried to ignore. The part that was already there, in the basement of my home with a bright computer screen burning my eyes. 2 AM was quickly approaching. My room was across from my parents’, and I knew that if I tried to get up there, the floorboards would squeak and my mother would wake. I would never be able to stay up this late again, but I was determined to make the best of it. My fingertips touched the keyboard.

            She sat in a corner, eyes glazed over, blood dripping from her wrist wounds. Large cuts were in her wrists, and she sat with her mouth open. She had slit her own wrists.

            Sam’s typing icon popped up as soon as I hit send. A constant game of RP, where my true desires slipped through into my characters. Writing was my release, but I used it wrong. I injected it into my veins like a drug and it was slowly killing me. I sat back in my chair, my large shirt curling uncomfortably against my skin. I exhaled and closed my eyes a moment. I fantasized about my own death. There were knives upstairs. I could do it and sit in the garage, wait for my death to take me. I could disappear, tonight, before anyone had a chance to stop me.

            A ding indicated Sam had replied, continuing our twisted story. Her character rushed to mine’s, pressing his hands to the wounds and calling for a healer. I rested my chin on my hand, silent tears dripping onto the keyboard. I wanted her to talk to me. To recognize this was out of character and ask me if I was okay. I lay one hand on my chest, feeling my heart beat somewhere beneath the flesh and muscle and bone. Did anyone really care? The shadows crept closer. Did anyone really want me here? They curled around my neck. Would it even matter if I died? Tendrils of ebony slipped into my mouth and clogged my airways.

            I should just die, I thought. I should just die.


            The sun never shone so brightly as it did when we sat outside that ramen shop. The metal chair beneath me was warmed from the sun’s rays, and I sat perched precariously on the edge of the shade, hoping not to get badly burned. You noticed me shift the chair closer to the buildings and grinned.

            “Aren’t you going to get cold?”

            I rolled my eyes. “Probably, but I don’t want to burn.”

            You snickered, your smile reflected in your eyes. You glanced at my pale, freckled shoulders and I pressed a hand to them, worried the heat I felt was because my skin was already fried. You laughed harder and I shook my head with agitation.

            “Whatever,” I spat, resting my arms on the table. “Have you ever had ramen before?”

            “Not made from scratch,” you said. “But I’m excited to try it.”

            “Same here. I’ve been wanting to try it for a while, but there’s no good places in Moscow.”

            The waiter slipped out of the glass door to the restaurant and smiled as he approached the two of us. He was a broad-shouldered man, and he carried two large bowls of steaming ramen. He set them down in front of us, hoped we would enjoy, and retreated back out of the sun. I picked up the pair of chopsticks on my right, determined to finally be able to use them for once. You did the same, though you seemed more sure of your abilities than I. I gave you my egg and went about stirring my contents together, excited to try real ramen once and for all.

            I don’t think I’ve ever been happier than that day with you, in the city I almost died.

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