We had finished eating dinner about an hour and a half ago, and Adam, much to my surmise, still hadn't left yet.

We were watching a movie in my room, some indie film he had picked; I wasn't paying attention.

There was some kind of an awkward and definitely uncomfortable tension between us in which I created.

I just fucking had to kiss him.

"You like it so far?" He asks me, otherwise completely ignorant to the fact that I had violated any kind of professional and platonic relationship in which we had had. Was he seriously alright with this?

"Yeah I guess," I mumble away from him.

He positions himself closer towards me, his leg brushing up against mine.

I made an obvious effort to focus my attention on the movie, but Adam kept fucking getting closer and closer. Eventually I end up accepting it, relaxing a bit against him. Despite my raging paranoia, self-defiling consciousness, and the overall suicidal tendencies, I was content with whatever was happening now.

He was too, perhaps, because not a few more minutes into the movie he slowly leant his head on my shoulder.

I felt my face flush immediately, a warm and consuming feeling, countering that of the usual cold and stolid apathy. The central idea of it all was actually leading to my inevitable loneliness. And how foolish am I to think that anyone could ever actually like me, or want to be around me. Keeping each other warm, not only physically but also emotionally. It's emotional because everything I have always ever known is of being alone, and the sharp uninhabited chill that comes along with it. No one holds you when you're of my mental state. Of course they trick you into thinking that you aren't alone, and that you'll always be warm and that you can persevere through shitty days. But eventually those occasional "shitty days" become shitty weeks and months and years and decades and now I'm seventeen and I've already tried to kill myself twice. Only twice.

I want to try again so desperately, but now I've got two things holding me back from doing what I want: unavailability of necessities, self-doubt, self-condemnation, and Adam.

I put my inconveniences at the top of the list solely because I am afraid Adam will get there in a small matter of time. I don't think I'd be able to handle that, as if I am already doing a great job of that now, but I just can't fucking stop. I forbid myself to listen to any sort of rational part of my mind in case I decide to live. After all, it tends to always be mind over body for myself.

I don't expect things to be any different to be honest, but at the same time, there's this annoying hope in the back of my mind that's making itself more prevalent everyday.

❧

I sat in my public-forum speech class a bit weary and unresponsive, as opposed to my usual oh-so-vibrant demeanor.

A boy named Scott sat next to me, always breathing out of his mouth in a rather truculent way. He would attempt to talk to me occasionally, just as a means of getting the homework, but today nothing was said.

In fact, the entire room was under some sort of a strange and anomalous silence.

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, glancing around the room in search for some kind of sign that I am in fact still alive. Was this a way of telling myself that I did want to be alive after all? Definitely not. The paranoia and anxiety was just making its usual appearance.

Although, I needed some sort of background noise to distract from my always wandering mind. Without something to complain about; such as generic teenagers discussing parties or whatever else they're into. I needed something to consume the emptiness.

Perhaps this is what I've wanted all along; something to consume and take over. I don't want control of my consciousness any longer, as it has let me down for these past seventeen years.

Adam is definitely a way to fill the void; maybe not the ideal way, considering I'd much rather take myself out of the world than shove some unfortunate boy into my fucked up company, but I'm biding my time. I'm awaiting the walk into the yellow and red woods, my stomach deleteriously full of prescribed painkillers and a bit of vodka to help my descend into the drop off. That, of course, can wait. For now I can fill the seemingly inevitable void with Adam. It also helps that I've got a chagrin of a crush on him.

I honestly cannot conclude wether he liked or disliked the kiss. If I were him, and how auspicious would that be, I would try to avoid myself at all costs. Why would someone want to be around me when I don't even want to be around me? The point is, he didn't kiss back; in fact, he pushed me away from him a bit forcefully. But then he spent the entire rest of the fucking evening with me, watching movies and resting his head on my shoulder. What the fuck does that even mean?

"Calvin," Scott says to me, not bothering to lower his voice in the situational lack of silence.

I turn to face him slightly as a non-verbal acknowledgment.

"Did you uh, do the notes last night?" He inquires haphazardly, drawing out the "uh" before finishing his sentence.

I roll my eyes in a sardonic manner, "Yes."

I hand them over to him without any other kind of consideration and continue to delve into the labyrinth of my thoughts, rooted from none other than Adam of course.

"Calvin?" another voice, from which I am not as familiar with, calls me over.

I glance around the room a bit nervously before my speech teacher raises her hand for my attention.

"Yes?"

She motions towards the red note in her hand, "Counselor's Office."

I nod briefly before making my way out of the classroom.

The hallways remained mostly empty walking through as I nervously bit the edge of my index nail. I hated my school counselor; she would always assume that I was some terribly hopeless case, and that I was incapable of anything other than my previous engagements. She was just like my parents, except without the support and love. And as a result of this entire shit show in which I had failed, she was completely aware of my suicide attempts. Which also meant that she now treated me like I was some kind of victim to my own demise. And to add on to my list of grievances, she thinks that we're "friends."

And we most definitely are not, because I can't have people in my shitty life; especially not ones like her. For now I would consider Adam a friend, if he thought I was one as well, and even that situation is a bit fucked.

I enter the office building through heavy glass doors, not at all content with whatever was about to happen.

From around the corner Dessa Nuyen appears, beaming at me with none other than her job applicable smile, "Calvin! Stop in for a visit?"

You fucking called for me, I did not do this on free will.

I sort of raised my eyebrows to emit the enthusiastic reaction she was looking for.

She leads me into her office, sitting behind the desk that anyone who's ever tried to understand my mental configuration would own, "How have these lovely days of sun been treating you?"

I shrugged my shoulders, "I don't like it as much as an overcast day, I get sunburned."

"Hmm," she pauses, shuffling a few papers around in her desk, "What about all of the awful things that have happened to you? How have you been holding up?"

"I'm fine, it's okay," I tell her, attempting to smile my way out of this conversation. I'm so fucking done with everyone pretending to be concerned for me.

She sighs, "Yeah sure it is. Don't you know how serious of a thing that is to do to yourself? It's okay to tell me about it Calvin, I'm your friend."

No you definitely aren't.

"I'm fine, much better than before," I repeat myself, emphasizing the "much" in the most obvious of ways.

She purses her lips and furrows her eyebrows together, "Well anyways, I had you come here because your mother wanted me to talk to you. I want you to tell me everything that happened leading up to the point of your attempted suicide."

And I am yet again destined to be defined by my "reckless" actions. Or rather the reckless thought of it, and that next time, I will definitely not be granted a next time, so convenient.

Honestly I don't understand what all of the fuss is about anyways; I've never achieved anything worth noting. I've never changed someone's life or helped someone in anyway. I've never accomplished one god damn thing yet  here I am, desperately trying to be saved from something in which has already taken over myself years ago. It's only a matter of time before someone realizes that I'd rather be dead than receive help from them.

My parents biggest concern, most likely, is that I'm their only child. If they would have bothered to have another child, perhaps then I wouldn't seem so valuable to them later on. But things could never be that fucking apposite, and definitely not by my circumstances.

I think that everyone assumes that I will eventually look back on what I had done in the past and think of it as a stupid, childish mistake. Something that I could overcome and eventually learn to appreciate.

A large, and more importantly superior, part of myself views recovering as losing who I am almost entirely; and relapsing is just another way to remind myself of the rare consistency in my life rather than a step backwards. There's also a smaller substandard part of my existence I believe is solely apparent only to juxtapose the other half of myself. This half, however, desperately wants to stay alive and recover. I believe this awful collocation derives from Adam.

The fucking point of this all is, I do not want to face myself because I am afraid of what I will uncover.

I let my dark hair fall in front of my face a bit, "I was at school all day."

"So you went to school and during the day you just decided to end your own life?" She inquires, mock-empathy within her tone.

Commonly jumping into conclusions..

I was sincerely debating on whether or not to just tell her the entire shit show that is my life; but a distracting and quite unavoidable force told myself otherwise, so I lied, "Yes, I was sad."

I was entirely ebullient with for-longed excitement and adrenaline, but I guess in retrospect you could classify my overall theme in my life is sadness. Or at least a form of it.

Nuyen sighs, "I'm so sorry all of this has happened to you Calvin. We're going to set you on the right track here. I think I might get you into a few clubs, pull a few strings. Maybe even get you on NHS, how are your grades?"

"Average," I mumble, suddenly a bit shy and overwhelmed.

"I can work with that," she grins, shuffling a few papers around in front of her desk, "You're free to go back to class now. You know you can come here at any time and talk to me right?"

I nod, leaving the office, the carpeted dark lavender flooring making my steps more uncomfortable than usual. I hated all of this. All of the fucking hyperbolized sympathy and commiseration. Everything spoken or unspoken was entirely bullshit, and it doesn't take an honors student to realize that no one actually cares if I'm dead or alive.

It makes no difference because I make no difference, why would I?