Someone I knew killed himself today. It wasn’t expected, at least not by those who weren’t close to him. Then again, those who weren’t close to him wouldn’t have had much to expect. I hadn’t seen him for nearly two years. When I had been with him, it was at a five week camp in the woods of western Colorado. I almost never spoke to him. I don’t regret not speaking to him. I don’t know what I would have said. What we would have talked about. We were on different planes. Nothing alike. No use in doing what can’t be done. No use in brooding over what I couldn’t have done. He had chosen an exit route. The question was why.
I was curious. He had to have had a reason. They always do. Something drove him over. Something made his life lose value.
I looked out the window. I was in my room, lounging in a chair. My computer lay on my bed, closed. I had closed it after I found out. Funny how the person who emailed our little camp group had expected everyone to already know. I imagined most people had found out immediately. Not me. I left myself out of the loop. No use in keeping up with people I only saw once a year. Especially those for whom I had a certain distaste.
I opened the computer again. I was surprised. Someone had responded to the email. Reply all. No privacy. Ridiculous. No point in everyone seeing what you had to say. Almost arrogant. The person had asked how he had done it. And why. I suppose I couldn’t blame him. The same question was in my head. But the first question I found senseless. Even more so when someone answered. Something about pills. Just a rumor, probably. But it was about what I expected. No use in extravagance. Just make it quick. Done. Over with.
I watched a bird fly past the window. So fast. I barely saw it. Just a fleeting distraction.
I looked back at my computer. Another email. A camp counselor offering her services as therapist. If you need to talk, talk to her. I wondered about that. About other people reacting. Those who were close would cry. Maybe. I imagined one or two holding back tears. Associating crying with weakness. They don’t realize they’re only human. Then I wondered at others like me. Those who had known him, but not known him. How did they react? Did they weep for the loss of life? Did they feel guilt? I had not known of death. I had seen what death could cause. Sobbing agony. Temporary loss of spirit. Temporary loss of head. Lasting scars on those around him.

Did his parents hate him? No, they couldn’t. Probably blamed themselves more. For not doing more. Should’ve seen the signs. Sent him to a clinic. Something. Anything.

I considered sleeping. It was late. I had school tomorrow. Life went on. I had no reason to stay awake. Yet I wondered. Thought about why. Such a waste. I could have seen him doing good. Someone will suffer because of this. Not now. Sometime in the future. But he couldn’t have known that.

I was suddenly faced with an image. He was running. Running across a field, where I had seen him run before. But now he ran from something. Something chased him. At the end of the field there was a cliff. He doesn’t want to jump off. Yet he runs. In fact, he runs faster. It is his only escape. It is his only way out. He bemoans his fate. But he accepts it. And so he flies off the cliff. Into nothing. Into darkness.

Something buzzed outside my window. It was a wasp now, trying to get in through the glass. I shuddered, despising the thought of being stung. Much more real than dying. To die was surreal to me. Something beyond my understanding.

I thought back to him running. Was that how he felt? That he had no choice? That something caused him to think this disgusts me. I vow never to think as such. But such a promise is useless. I am not my future self. At least I could make that vow today. But tomorrow? In five years? Who knew. But one could hope.

He must have wondered. About the darkness. About the other side. What was waiting to receive him? He must have considered the ultimate mystery of man. Life after death. Or death after death. Would he have cared? It was relief either way. It’s the tunnel he wanted. That was his way out. No light necessary. Just the tunnel.

He must have wondered how people would react. How many people would be at his funeral. How many would be stunned. Shocked. Unable to cope. Maybe he thought that number was zero. That no one would care. That they would be glad to be rid of him. Just another life passing through. No need to pay attention.

What nonsense. Someone loved him. Someone right now is crying for him. But suicide is a mere side effect. He was sick. Surely only a diseased mind can take a life.

I remember back a few weeks ago. I was sitting on the couch. Reading something. I think it was Our Town. Enjoyed it more than most books. But why think of it now?

Ah. Emily dies in childbirth. Is given a second chance. To relive one day in her life. To see everyone she loved. Everyone warns her against it. I fail to see the harm. Wouldn’t everyone do the same if given the chance?

She chooses her twelfth birthday. Everything starts out fine. It’s sad, of course. Most in the memory are dead now. But I keep reading. Suddenly the milkman comes in. Strikes up a conversation. And that’s where I freeze.

It’s impossible for me to remember how long I sat there. Book open. Refusing to turn the page. Absorbing the milkman’s words. It seemed so trite. So unimportant. Yet I want to rage at Emily. For not realizing how important the milkman was. Him, the constable, the breakfast her mother made that morning. She finally breaks into sobs. So do I. She cries about how the memory goes by too fast. I cry about how unfair it is for her. How she didn’t appreciate the little things. Poor girl.

I’ve never cried reading another book. But I remember just watching the clock on my computer. Watching each second tick away. Never blinking. Wishing it would slow down.

A character at the end of the play calls living humans ignorant and blind. I can’t disagree. Not completely.