These last two chapters will be comprised of the POV’s from Eli and Isabel—their stories, their mental struggles, and their final moments.
Thank you for coming along on this journey with me as a writer. As someone who deals with mental health and who wants to shine a light on the struggles, the pain, and the light that can still come from it all, I hope this story reaches the ones it’s meant to reach.
One Tree Hill Season 1, Episode 5 (“All That You Can’t Leave Behind”)
Lucas Scott-
“John Steinbeck once wrote, ‘It seems to me that if you or I must choose between two courses of thought or action, we should remember our dying and try so to live, that our death brings no pleasure to the world.’”
82
Eli
I’ve never been enough. Not for my dad, not for my mom, not for anyone.
Sure, they gave me everything you’d think a kid would want—money-wise. We had a big house, I had a nice car, the best clothes, I was a part of the best sports programs, I had all the freedom and access to their money…but none of it ever made me feel wanted.
I still tried to earn their love anyway. I kept up with my grades, was the best at everything I did, pushed myself as far as I could go, and did anything I could to get more than their bare minimum attention.
They did just enough to look like they were great parents to everyone else…but me. I thought, if I brought home enough A’s, my mom would finally look up from her wine glass and phone to realize I existed. I thought, if I scored enough points in a game, my dad would call me a man instead of a disappointment. Tell me he was proud or something.
None of it made a difference.
My dad still only ever gave me false love and harsh words—“You’re too soft, Eli.”
“Too slow.”
“You’ll never be anything great if you can’t toughen up.”
He wanted a soldier, a machine, someone he could fulfill all the dreams he wasn’t good enough to reach. He didn’t want a son… he wanted a redo.
The silence in the house from their absences sometimes got louder than the fights when they were here. You start to drown in the silence. I did, over and over. I started to give up, begging for their attention, and started looking somewhere else.
Girls were the first thing that started to fill that void. Their attention was addicting. I never even had to chase or beg them to give it. They just handed it up on a platter. They were easy. They smiled at me; they touched me because they wanted to, not because I had to ask for it. They said all the right things to boost my head up. They made me feel like I was finally worth noticing, even if it was temporary. There was always another girl to take the last one’s spot. It became a high I chased—their attention, their bodies, their voices saying my name like I was finally the prize. It filled something inside me for a second…but never for much longer than that.
Then I met Lydia.
She didn’t chase me, didn’t hand me herself easily like everyone else did; she didn’t even look at me like she needed me. She made me feel likeIneededher. That’s what hooked me.
Her attention wasn’t cheap or easy. It was rare, pure. When she looked at me, I felt like her light shone on all my shadows.
I became addicted to only wanting her. I wasn’t addicted to the sex or her body…I was addicted to her light. I wanted to have all of it. I wanted to take it and keep it. I needed it. I needed it to always be mine. I neededherto always be mine. I didn’t care how I made that happen.
With the addiction to hercame the fear of losing her. I never felt that part before with a girl. Before, there was always someone to replace the last one.
I didn’t want to replaceher. I wouldn’t be able to let her go like all the other girls.
I started to spiral about the fear of losing her. What if she started looking at someone else? What if someone else came along and took her away? What if I lost the only thing I’ve found that really makes me feel alive? That fear lived inside of me, chewed on every thought. And when it got too loud, it started to come out as anger.
I didn’t know how to control it. I only knew how to controlher. She couldn’t leave if I didn’t let her leave. Sometimes it felt like I would black out. The anger would take over, and I’d lose sight of her as a person and only register her as all of my fears. Ones I wanted to destroy. She was my safe space and my punching bag. By the time I would realize how far my body went without my brain’s permission, she already had the bruises on her skin. When I came back to myself, when I would see her crying, scared of me, I hated who I was.
I started to beg, make promises I couldn’t keep, swore I’d change over and over and over and over. But then the cycle had such a hold on me that anything I ever told her was only a plea for her to stay, to put up with it a little longer, prove that no matter what I did, she would still stay, she would still want me.
People treated me like shit, and I still begged for them to love me…wouldn’t she do the same? Isn’t that the realest form of love?
The cycle was endless—anger, violence, regret, apologies, repeat.
I didn’t want to hurt her, but I didn’t know how else to quiet the storm in my head. I didn’t know how else to make sure she stayed.
