Posted by Anonymous on 2018/04/20 under Life Short story I wrote. Motionless. He’s sitting, blinking, breathing. In out, in out. His breaths are short and slow but heavy like he just ran a race but he is just sitting there. Quiet, still and from the outside one might even say he looks peaceful. But look into his eyes. Look past the fake smiles and forced laughs. Look at the pain, the pleas for help. The trapped boy screaming for rescue but no one saves him. His breathes get quicker. His eyes are shifting. He’s in a room with hundreds of people talking, laughing and yelling at his expense. But behind those people? Thousands of doors; ways out. Rescue. But those sounds, those people, that hate block the doors so he can’t see a way out. But I CAN. I believe he can get past this. He can overcome it. I scream, "Let me help you" but he refuses to hear me. I scream louder, I run to him. But he can't take it anymore; he’s on the edge. He needs out. I reach to him, I run faster. I’m just about to grab his hand, but then I'm on the ground. The sounds have turned to silence. The people ran out the once blocked doors. I'm screaming for him to hear me. I can finally reach out to him, but he's gone. I'm too late. I'm screaming to no one. He jumped. I bolt awake. One year later and I still have the same nightmare repeatedly. Three hundred and sixty-five days later and I still smell his cologne. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty-six hours later and I still hear his laugh. Five hundred twenty five thousand nine hundred and forty-nine minutes later and I still feel his hand in mine. Thirty-one million five hundred fifty-six thousand nine hundred and twenty-six seconds later and I still see his toothy smile he gave me everyday even though his eyes were hiding the darkest of thoughts I have yet to know. I put on his gray sweatshirt he used to wear everyday. The one he gave me on the last day of sophomore year, the one with the ketchup stain that would never come out. My mother tries to give me sympathy but her unknowing smiles, her not understanding eyes and her "I'm so sorry”s only make me feel worse. I walk into school and the stares start. "You know its been a year right?" "He was such a good guy" "I'm so sad he is gone" "I miss him so much". Just a few of the whispers I hear as I pass. But I ignore them because they don’t care. They hurt him, they did this, they pushed him over the edge. They didn’t care when he was the nerdy gay kid but now that he's dead they all seem to care. I get to locker 264. This was our locker I smile thinking about how each morning we would meet here and he'd tell me stories and make me laugh. Now I stand here alone. But what kills me the most is thinking back to each afternoon. When I returned to our locker finding him with a new bruise that they gave him, or finding him shoved up against the lockers or finding hate notes they wrote telling him to "kill himself" and that "G-d hates faggots". The same people who claim to adore him and cry over him now that he listened to their hate. School comes and goes. I ignore the attempted sympathy and empathetic looks. I walk past locker 264, out the school down to the local pizza place. It's a Thursday. Each Thursday for as long as I can remember we would go and sit in the third booth to the left. He'd order a pie while I get the sodas. We would sit for hours and talk about everything. I tried to get him to talk about them. About it. But he refused; I should’ve pushed it. I should’ve gotten help. I should’ve made him listen but even if I tried he never would. And now a year later I sit in the third booth to the left; Alone. I then go home. Throw my bag on the floor and go to my bed. The bed we watched countless old movies and had countless popcorn fights in. I laugh remembering it. Remembering how the popcorn always got stuck in my hair. I lie down and close my eyes. One year later and I still remember it all. Three hundred and sixty-five days later and I still taste the salty tears as they rolled over my mouth when I heard the news. Eight thousand seven hundred sixty-six hours later and I still smell the flowers I placed over his grave. Yellow roses. Five hundred twenty -five thousand nine hundred and forty-nine minutes later and I can still see his little brother's usually happy face become distraught and devastated as they tell him the events. Thirty-one million five hundred fifty-six thousand nine hundred and twenty-six seconds later and I still feel the pain in my chest as I heard his voice one last time through the static of a voicemail saying "I'm sorry.. but I'm giving up". Sitting at his grave telling him my regrets, my favorite memories, laughing at all of our jokes. I tell him how the stain is still on his sweatshirt and how the pizza in town is still the best I've ever had and I tell him everything. I tell him how everything is lonely now. I tell him how it sucks without him. I tell him I love him. And maybe a year from now I'll come back with new stories to tell. Maybe a year from now I won’t hurt so bad. Maybe it won’t be as hard. Maybe.