I spring up all of a sudden. I’m sitting on the basement couch. It’s pitch black down here. I must have fallen asleep. I can’t believe it’s already after one in the morning. I spent the past eleven hours watching TV, playing games on the desktop and sleeping. Eleven of my final hours doing nothing. Not exactly going out with a bang, but whatever.
I watch a YouTube video and make sure to set up my noose properly. I find out that two metres is enough of a drop for my neck to snap. I cut the rope there. If it’s too long, the head can snap right off the body. My goal isn’t to make the headlines. The Toronto Sun would put me on the front page if I decapitated myself. I sneak out of the house and jump on my bike.
I ride toward Cherry Park. There is hardly anyone on the streets. I pass a bus that’s empty except for the driver. In the park, there is no one. I head for the bridge. As it comes into view, I see that there’s someone there. It has to be nearly two in the morning. Who the hell is in the park at two in the morning? I can see that it’s a girl. What is she doing? She’s tying a rope to the railing of the bridge. I stop dead in my tracks. Sure, people try to kill themselves every day. But two people, same method, the same bridge, on the same night? What stupidly rotten luck.
What should I do? Give this person her space . . . and just wait my turn? Should I offer to help? With the research I’ve done, I feel like a bit of an expert. If she’s got the wrong length of rope, or it’s too weak, or the wrong knot, she’s going to either fail her attempt or slowly choke to death. What would I even say? Excuse me, I couldn’t help but notice you were about to commit suicide and I thought I could help? With my luck, I’d help her, and the police would get here before I do me. I’d end up in jail for assisting in someone else’s suicide. While I’m going through this in my head, she notices me.
She’s startled. Her face is whiter than the moon that’s hanging low in the sky just behind her. I have half a thought to get back on my bike and ride away. But I’m frozen to the spot. I know this person. I’m not sure from where. She doesn’t move or say a word. This is awkward. I should say something. I manage to get out the word hi.
That’s when I recognize her. The bus. She’s the girl from the bus who I saw getting yelled at by her boyfriend. The same hair — the colour I can’t figure out, same aqua windbreaker. The girl from my dream. She’s here in Cherry Park and she’s holding a rope that’s tied to the rail of a bridge. I feel my brain pounding against my skull.
My instinct is to try to get her to change her mind. She’s crying out for help — right? It’s something programmed in my mind by the mental health talks at school, or maybe watching too many movies. I try to think of something to say but the words are stuck in my throat. It’s because I feel like a hypocrite. I am a hypocrite. This is uncharted territory. What can I possibly say?
I take a couple of steps toward the bridge. “Um, I don’t suppose that you’re building a swing with that rope?” I sigh inside my head. I am so lame.
“Can you just go, please? This isn’t what it looks like. I’m fine,” she finally says.
Crap. She wants me to go away. What did I think she was going to say? Thanks for showing up?
I say the next thing that pops into my head. “It’s kinda late. Not good to be out alone at this hour. If you want, I could just hang with you for a bit.” I wince at my choice of words — how stupid! She doesn’t flinch though. I hope she doesn’t think I’m an idiot.
“I can’t sleep. I don’t feel like going home,” I say. I’m grateful I managed to say something normal. There’s no response, she’s just staring downward. I climb the steps onto the bridge. The sky’s clear now but everything’s still wet from the rain earlier tonight.
“So, what’s your excuse for being out in the park alone in the middle of the night?” I keep going. “There are a lot of weirdos out here.” Still no smile. At least she’s not freaking out, as I half-expected her to. I know the worry makes no sense. I’m essentially in her position — or would have been if she weren’t here. She’s still not saying anything. I search my brain for something to say — anything.
“So where’s your boyfriend? Does he know you’re out?”
Her head jerks up. I guess I touched a nerve. “Do I know you?”
“Um . . . no. I mean, a girl like you must have a boyfriend, right?” I’m not about to admit to seeing her on the bus. “So, do you have a boyfriend?”
“Uh — yeah. I guess so.” Her eyes are back to staring at her feet.
“Would he be cool if he knew you were out here chilling with some random guy?” I was trying to be funny, but as soon as the words come out, I hear how not funny they are.
“He’d freak out.” A slight laugh slips out of her mouth, but it’s drenched in contempt.
“Is he . . . the reason you’re out here?” She looks at me sharply out of the corner of her eye. Based on the scene on the bus, and my dream, it was a logical guess. She says nothing.
“I mean, if he is . . . aren’t there less drastic ways to deal with it? Like maybe just break up with him or something?”
“It’s not that simple.” She’s not agreeing, but at least she said something.
Five or six seconds pass before I can think of anything more to say. Five or six seconds of brutal awkwardness — it feels like a lifetime. Finally I come up with, “I guess not. You must have a ton of crap going on.” There’s a part of me that just wants to say that it couldn’t be that bad. At the same time, a part of me wants to tell her that I get that she feels that way. I get wanting just to die. Weird — something inside me wants to help this girl. I want to help her change her mind. I don’t quite get why I care this much.
“There are probably people who might have a really hard time if you . . . you know, weren’t around anymore.” The hypocrisy bites me again. My parents and sister enter my thoughts.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
After two long seconds of silence, she looks up and our eyes meet. “It’s Max.”