Empty Air

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Flash Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
A third person's view of a suicidal boy who is too tired to go on.

Submitted: August 27, 2014

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 27, 2014



It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy life because, really, he did. He liked waking up in the morning and loved seeing his family and his cousins. He had everything he could need to live comfortably. What he lacked, however, was a passion to live. To wake up every morning hopeful that maybe out of the thin, thin air a wisp of something that he genuinely loved to do would brush its ethereal body against his heart and inspire some sort of flame to ignite his soul and he would take off on the endless journey to his reason of living. However, when he would wake up hopeful, nothing in that damned day would present itself to him. It was an empty shell of things he enjoyed, but didn’t. Things he loved but couldn’t. So that’s why he decided to fucking kill himself.

Not just kill himself; that was easy. But to fucking kill himself because that was how bitter people did it. The people who were mad at life, they didn’t just snuff themselves out, they fucking pushed themselves out of it. Like punching themselves into oblivion.

He became bitter at the world as if it was the hand that shoved the lye-filled soap into his mouth. Nothing fit together quite right to make him joyful. The happy things in his life seemed to be overshadowed by the worse things, the unfair things. The unfair things that would punch him in the gut at all times and smash his face into the pillow as he sobbed. The things that didn’t seem to belong in his body like a piece of his ghostly remains just hanging with some wart leeching off his mind.

His friends left him, because of that, he was sad. Two of his best friends left. One was still a good friend, but because of distance, he hardly saw her. The other got sick and sad just as he was now. She starved herself, got committed, got released, didn’t seem right after that. Too focused on her sad life to see anyone else’s. Too drawn towards sad and bad boys to fill that void that somehow keeps growing inside her. He too felt that void, and that scared him. His other friends were mere fillers in his life, he liked them, but didn’t. He was happy he had them, but wasn’t. He wished for some people who would be willing to lay with him on his bed and talk about God or space or aliens, like he used to so long ago. But times have changed, and all his friends seemed changed too. No one left to do that with. He was alone.  

The soap was pushed even further when he found no comfort in college. All his expectations were not fulfilled because he didn’t think enough about school. He didn’t look into it enough; he chose the wrong kind. And when he looks at his dark phone and waits for his texts, he feels bitter. Sitting in the cold dark and waiting for that artificial glow of his phone to signal someone talking to him. Someone he cared deeply about. Once again, he was happy with him, but not.

It wasn’t fair that he couldn’t see him as often as he wanted too, distance prohibited that. It wasn’t fair that his companion’s family didn’t want him known amongst their social circle. It was bullshit. So, so much bullshit that he trudged through all the fucking time. All this stinking material that went up his nose and lodged itself into his sinus. Nothing hurt him more than that fact that he was something that needed to be hidden, and that at the same time, hid himself away. It wasn’t fair that he hated things when he shouldn’t. How he just wants to be happy, but seemingly can’t be. He longed for a normal life, a better life than the one he had now.  An empty pit of waiting and longing that he was so tired of facing.

So as he sat in the camper, alone and in the dark, he decided to fucking kill himself. No longer could he watch other people live their lives while he slowly rotted into despair. No longer could he see examples of how he wanted to live. No longer could he face the heartbreak of not seeing his boyfriend. No longer could he see other long time friends stay close while his drifted farther from him. He reached out and tried to grasp them, but only found empty air.

But this time when he reached out, he did find something in the dark: a bottle of pills he was saving, and in one quick motion he emptied the contents into his gut where they would dissolve and leech their deadly powers into his veins. His organs would shut down, his brain would turn to mush and eventually stop thinking about all the sad things. As he lay in his last moments of consciousness, he heard people laughing. 

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