14

It’s a Tuesday when I empty my books into my locker, as well as anything else in my bag that I deem to be superfluous. I’m left with my phone, my purse and my diary. They are the only things that I can think I might need for where I’m going this afternoon.

With whispered laughter following me everywhere, with the impossible situation at home, with teachers looking at me like I wasn’t the kid they thought I was… I can’t pinpoint the exact thing that tips me over the edge. It’s just too much. I’m not sleeping and I can’t concentrate. Whatever I’m doing, there is a gnawing pain in the centre of my chest.

It’s time. I don’t know how I know this, but I do.

There is a tiny bit of relief that my bag is now so light. Maybe it’s the thought of never having to go back to studying from those textbooks. Soon, this will be over. I think that’s what is really causing the sense of relief. Because I know that I can’t keep doing this.

The advantage of going to an independent school is that the school doesn’t really have any measures to prevent truanting; I guess if your parents are paying, you’re less likely to peg it. It’s not hard to get out of the school building, and the main gates, front and back, are always open. Today, I walk out of the back gate purposefully. I don’t think anyone sees me, but if they do, I doubt they think anything is amiss. They probably think I’m just going to the dentist or something.

It’s another slight relief just leaving the gates. This place has felt like a prison the last few months – if not the last few years. I know that now that I’ve walked out, there’s no going back. How many times have I pictured doing this? And in every version, I know I can only do it once. This is it.

I haven’t decided, exactly, how I’m going to do it. I’ve thought of a few options. I have money on me – not a large amount but enough to get a train somewhere to throw anyone who might care off the scent. Or I could use the money for pills, over-the-counter ones. Paracetamol, or cough mixture, maybe. Something that’s toxic in large quantities. Or I’m sure I can find somewhere that will sell me a thick cord. Thick enough to hold my weight.

You can guess, now, what it is that I’m planning to do this afternoon.

I know that I have a few hours before anyone notices that I’ve gone missing. Five years of being a goody-two-shoes in my lessons have earned me the kind of reputation with teachers that means they won’t question my absence. Even though I suspect most of them know about the self-harm by now, I don’t think they will put two and two together. The truth of what I’m going to do this afternoon has probably not even occurred to them.

I haven’t told my friends where I’m going, but they won’t wonder where I am either; I have been spending even more of my time on my own recently. I do feel a pang of guilt, though, when I think about them. I know that what I’m about to do is going to hurt them. And that they might feel guilty that they couldn’t stop me – but it’ll be better in the long run. They won’t have to deal with me anymore. They won’t have to think about me anymore. I’ll fade quickly into a memory. And that will be better for everyone.

I walk down the hill leading from my school into the town centre. It’s a long way, and I feel slightly sweaty on this hot day. It would have been better if I could have changed out of my school uniform, but I don’t have any other clothes with me. Dressed in my uniform, I feel a little conspicuous. I could be imagining it, I suppose, but I’m sure I’m getting looks from people I pass. In any case, I keep walking purposefully.

I don’t know the way very well; usually the only place I walk to from school is the train station to get the train home, in the opposite direction to the town centre. Something keeps me going, though. It’s easier to just keep walking than to think too hard about which way I’m going.

I find myself in a park. It’s not the park that I’ve spent time with my friends in, at least; it’s on the other side of town to where we usually hang out. I’m not sure I could face being in the usual park, where I first told Amelie, Charlotte and Lydia that I was gay. More than that, though, I have good memories of that park. I don’t want my friends to know that I died somewhere where we were happy.

I’m starting to shake, now. I haven’t taken this decision lightly – how many times have I wanted to do this but I’ve held myself back? It was always going to end like this, and I genuinely feel like I’ve held on as long as I can.

Still, in the park, I take a seat on a bench. I’m sweating, and almost without thinking, I roll up my jumper sleeves. Since Mrs Fletcher caught me, and both the teachers and my parents found out about the self-harm, I have been much less careful about which parts of my body I cut. Frankly, I no longer feel the need to hide it. Consequently, my forearms are now covered in fresh cuts to an extent which they weren’t before.

I close my eyes. My body is in fight-or-flight mode, but I feel oddly calm.

I start guiltily, however, when I sense someone sit down beside me on the bench. My eyes snap open and I swivel to face whoever it is. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to focus and register that the person next to me is a kindly looking older woman.

For a second, I hope that she just needs a seat, but I quickly realise that she’s looking right at me. Self-conscious, I roll my sleeves down hurriedly, edging away from the woman. The damage is done, though. She’s seen the cuts. The expression on her face tells me that with no doubt whatsoever.

“Can I give you a hug?” she asks gently.

I feel slightly frozen and my mouth is dry. I don’t feel like I can speak. Is she being genuine? Should I be suspicious? She is a stranger, after all, but… I get a strong sense that this woman’s intentions are good. I nod, and she pulls me quickly into a tight embrace.

“Oh, my dear. You’re really suffering, aren’t you?” she murmurs into my hair.

Tears spring to my eyes but I still feel frozen. Is this a sign from the universe? Or just a weirdly timed coincidence? I didn’t think anyone would care. But this woman cares, and she doesn’t even know me.

I suddenly feel panic rise up in me, and I automatically jump up, wrenching myself away from the woman. Any calm is now gone; I can feel the terror that my eyes must be showing. For a brief moment, the woman looks slightly put out, but then I can see her register the look in my eyes.

“It’s alright,” she says quickly, her voice still gentle. “Look, I’m not going to… do you want to help me walk my dog?”

I can tell she’s grasping at straws for a way to keep me nearby, to stop me from hurting myself anymore today. She must be able to tell that I’m in danger somehow. Why else would I be alone in a park in the middle of the day, covered in cuts, still in my school uniform?

I’m shaking my head, though, backing away. “I have to go,” I choke out.

The woman’s eyes are big. “Come on, love—” she begins, but I’m already running. I’m so stupid. I shouldn’t have sat down; I shouldn’t have relaxed. I chance a glance behind me as I run, and I can see the woman has her mobile phone to her ear. She’s calling someone. Probably the police.

Suddenly the hours that I thought I had have depleted down to barely any time at all. And I have to do this today. I’ve walked out of school. I’ve run. I have to do this today.

My many options are slipping away through my fingers like sand. I haven’t got time to get to the station, even if I’m not caught on CCTV; I haven’t got time to buy a rope, or wait for pills to take effect. I only have one option left that I can think of. It was the last one on my list, but now it’s looking like it’s the only way.

I run across the grass and out the gates. The river runs parallel to the park, and as soon as I’m out of the gates, I’m on the river path. It’s quieter there, with fewer dogwalkers and little kids, and I slow to a purposeful stride, because now at least I know where I’m going.

Sweat drips down my back as I walk so fast that I’m essentially running. The sun beats down on my head; where half an hour ago, it was pleasant, now it’s forceful. I feel like it’s pressing down on me, crushing me.

To my relief, I don’t see any police; I can’t think of any reason why they would need to be patrolling around here in the daytime anyway. The river is in a nice area of town, and it’s quiet at this time. It feels so odd to be looking out for police when I haven’t done anything wrong. This is a very new feeling for me. I’m not a criminal and I never have been.

I keep walking and try to focus on looking normal. Not much longer, not much further. I’m buzzing now, with adrenaline and anxiety. I’ve never really been out on my own much. Especially not in such an intense situation as this.

I can’t decide how I feel when I finally see the bridge loom in my eyeline. It’s a big bridge, high above the river, but not big enough to be covered in fencing like some of the main ones. There isn’t even a plaque advising people to phone Samaritans. As this flashes into my mind, I briefly debate calling them. Calling anyone. But I can’t think of anything they would be able to say to make any of this feel less terrible.

I stop on the pavement, as I reach the bridge. There’s something daunting about this – but of course there is. This isn’t just life-changing; this is life-ending. I don’t believe in the afterlife. I know that I’m never going to see any of the people I love again. I’m never going to have a job or a husband or a baby. Any of the things that people have planned out for me.

Tears bud in my eyes and I don’t feel strong enough to hold them back. I stand for a minute, tears dripping down my face. I try to shake myself out of it; I’m only wearing the minimal amount of makeup that I can get away with in school, but that includes mascara, and I’m going to have black all down my face soon. I use the corner of my jumper sleeve to try and wipe some of the mess on my face away.

But if I’m honest – I don’t care. I just want this over. I just want to stop feeling like this. I’ve got to steel myself. I’ve got to be brave. I don’t want to be sobbing when I die. I want to walk into this bravely.

I force myself to start to walk; there’s a pavement on either side of the bridge, with the road running through the centre. There aren’t many cars driving over at this time. This is a good thing, I’m sure; fewer people to see what I’m doing. Fewer people to try and stop me.

I reach the apex of the bridge in seconds. I’m shaking. I grip the edge of the wall. Something tells me that looking over isn’t going to help anything. I know it’s going to hurt. I know it’s a long way down. Obsessing over it isn’t going to help.

I have to keep urging myself, keep forcing myself on, before I am finally able to push down firmly on the wall and haul myself up to sit on the edge of it. I hear a car beep its horn at me, but it doesn’t stop. Of course it doesn’t.

This is it. I’m going to keep edging over until I fall…