“I WANT TO DIE! Just kill me now!” -9:50 p.m.

Oh man. What do I say? What should I do? What if I say something wrong? What if something happens! It’ll be my fault! I’ll be a murderer! I couldn’t live with myself knowing I killed my best friend! Okay, okay, breathe kid. Deep breath. You can do this. Ask her why. Let her vent and hopefully all she’ll do tonight is a little cutting and possibly some self-harm and she’ll be alright tomorrow. Hopefully. Oh, God I hope so.

I push these thoughts away as my fingers tap dance around my keypad, searching for the right words to phrase my response.

“Why? What’s wrong? Talk to me here.”-9:52 p.m.

I can only hope I am not too late as I hit the send button and wait for the scrambled message to reach the receiver on the other end.
My heart pounding against my rib cage is the only noise in my room, making the incessant sound a cacophony to my sensitive ears. Sitting still is not an option. Back and forth I pace, my hands cold with fear, my thoughts scattered and disconnected as I wait for her reply. Will she text back? What will she say? Do I even want to know?

It is not like this is the first time she has been on the verge of killing herself so why am I acting so weak and frightened? She doesn’t need me to be vulnerable; she needs me to calmly talk her out of committing suicide. Can I do it? I don’t know.

The vibration from my phone alerting me that I have received a new text message sends my heart leaping into the base of my closed throat. My hands grasp the phone, yet my eyes refuse to look down in fear of what I might uncover. After a few brutally long seconds, I accumulate enough bravery and dreadful curiosity to glance down at her answer.

“Multimedia. Would I like to receive this image?”-10:00 p.m.

With quivering fingers, I press yes. Two silent tears trickle down my face, a world of pain in each one. I already know what I will see. And I know I don’t want to. Every picture I have ever received from her is either of her handiness of self-harm, bottles of alcohol in various stages of emptiness, drugs, or cigarettes. And the aftermath that follows is always worse than what precedes it.
Reminding myself to breathe deep, I perceive the pixelated photograph before my stomach tightens; I look away before my dinner finds its way back into my sarcophagus. Deep, horizontal, angry, red gashes decorate the entire length of her right arm only centimeters away from one another. Already the skin has begun to inflate around the edges and the different shades of dark scarlet are evident in her wounds where she dug deeper.

Blindly my fingers type out, “Why! Why would you do that to yourself?” -10:01 p.m.

The silence afterwards is profound and chokes me with its merciless strength. Rushing to the window, I jerk it open and stick my head out into the uncluttered, cool, night air. Slowly my heart decelerates as oxygen fills my lungs and my stomach gradually begins to settle back down.

Wrapping me in its safe inviting blanket, my thoughts become dispassionate, calmly assessing the situation and trying to figure out a strategy to get her to see my point of view.

How she can mutilate herself like that pains me to no end, but if she starts explaining her ideology behind her actions, that will force her to start thinking more rationally and might just save her life.

A look at my phone nearly dashes all of my hope.

“I wanted to.”-10:03 p.m. Those words reply over and over in my mind. As if her action didn’t affect anyone but herself. As if that is her justification for her horrific act. As if that makes everything okay in the end.

Anger at her lack of concern prompts me to retort, “That’s not a good reason.”

Quickly the irritation passes, leaving aching sadness and the feeling of helplessness in its place. She has so much to offer this world; it is heartbreaking to see her carelessly want to throw it all away. Doesn’t she realize how important her life is? How absolutely talented and amazing she is as a person? But considering her home life and past experiences, it’s no wonder she doesn’t. All she has ever been told is the exact opposite and after so long, instead of fighting it, you just begin to accept it as truth. All I can do now is attempt to help her whenever possible. Adults know her situation but nothing they do ever help her. Their interference just makes it worse. Which makes me wonder, what can I possibly do? If grown adults can’t help her, who am I to believe a sixteen year old kid can?

“….” -10:10 p.m.

A deep sigh escapes my lips along with a short shake of my head at her reply. She knows I don’t respond to ambiguous answers like that. All she wants is to ignore the consequences of her actions and forget that there are people in this world who care about her because it makes following through with her plan much harder to do. But it is up to her now to take the initiative and stop talking in circles. I am terrified about what could happen but she has to make the decision to let me help her. And when she does, I’ll be there for her. That’s what friends do.