He looks at me then, and it feels like I can actually see some kind of love in his eyes or a parody of it at least. “I might’ve ruined you,” he says, almost fondly, “butthey’ll always make you the villain in my story. I’ve made sure of it.”
“What does that mean? Eli—what did you do?”
He doesn’t answer. He just gives me a look like we’re on a roller coaster, at the top of the biggest drop…and he’s ready for the fall. “I reallydidlove you, Lydia…but I slowly started to hate myself so much, and even hate you more than the love could ever cover up.”
I move before I know I’m moving. My hand finally finds the lock, I press it, and the door gives. I fall backward into cold air. The gravel slams into my spine. The night caves in around me, the wetness of the ground, the iron smell in the air, the grit on my palms, the taste of dirt from it being kicked up.
I fold into myself and cover my ears just as the shot rings out. It’s so loud but also somehow so far away, like it’s tearing a hole in my heart, and I’m falling through it into the darkness. The ringing is everywhere. It swallows the engine, the rush of my blood, the buzz from the distant city. It hurts everywhere—my ears, my head, my heart, my fucking soul. I don’t look up, I can’t look up, I refuse to look up. I can’t see what’s left…I can’t let what he just did be real. It’s not real.
Wake the fuck up, Lydia. FUCK…Please!
Time stops, and the ringing won’t let up. My mouth is open, but I don’t know if I’m actually screaming or if the screams are only in my head. My brain throws images at me I can’t force away—the last look he gave me, his body slumped in the driver’s seat, blood everywhere.
I don’t know how long I stay like that, wrapped so tightly into myself. I don’t move, not even an inch. I hear the sirens before I feel my body again. Red-blue-red-blue flashing behind my eyelids. Tires on gravel, doors opening, voices. The ringing makes them all sound underwater, though. I still don’t move. If I move, I’ll see. If I see, I’ll never be ableto unsee, and I’m not sure my mind can survive one more forever image like that.
“Miss?” a voice says near me, too close. I flinch so hard it hurts my neck. A hand hovers over my shoulder, doesn’t touch me at first, and then does cautiously. “Can you hear me? Don’t try to get up yet.”
I shake my head. No. No, I can’t. I squeeze my eyes tighter. I want to crawl back into the house, lock the door, rewind the last hour, and stay there, safe…not completely ruined yet.
Another voice, staticky, behind me. Someone speaking into a radio. More footsteps.
“Possible suicide. Handgun. Deceased male. Late teens.”
A voice gets closer. “Stay with me, sweetheart.”
I hate all the words for making this real.
They lift me, and I can’t help. My limbs are just numb and heavy. I try to lift my head, but my vision swims, and I let it drop again. The dissociation starts setting in. I keep my eyes shut, clamp my jaw, hold in the scream. If I don’t let it out, maybe I can keep tonight from seeping all the way in.
“What’s your name?” the voice asks, close to my ear.
I want to tell her. I want to say, Lydia. I just…can’t.
“That’s okay,” the voice says. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
They’re lying, but I’m too tired to tell them.
26
Lydia
It’s been exactly fourteen days since my life was shattered, fourteen days since my world turned upside down, fourteen days since Eli killed himself and broke me worse than he ever could have with his hands.
But that was his goal.
It’s been fourteen days since I had to sit in a cold room and explain everything I went through with Eli to two police officers who just stared back at me in complete horror and sadness. At first I was being questioned to rule out homicide, but after the forensics came back, it was confirmed to be a suicide. Then they had to question me about everything Eli said before he took his own life.
Eli left this world telling people that I was the one who hurt him, leaving posts online and texts that detailed all the waysIbrokehim. But the worst blow…was him telling the world that I pushed him to this, that I told him he should kill himself, that I said he should just do what my sister did and leave me and this world for good, that the world would be a better place without him in it. He wrote how he would tell me that he was hurting, and that I would always brush him off, never caring about what he was feeling or if he was okay, that he told me he was suicidalseveral times, and I didn’t bat an eye or tell anyone. He told the world that this was what I wanted. I didn’t want him to get any help.
To the officers’ credit, they seemed to see the lies in his story and accusations pretty quickly. There were no texts, no voicemails, no letters, no proof of anything he was saying. Only his words. Yet they saw the truth of it all. Even when his parents were angry and demanding justice for their son, and wanting the officers to look into everything and into me more.
I saw the expressions they had when they were talking to me, and the pity in their voices when they handed me a card with resources to talk to someone for my own mental health and well-being. They never doubted my side of the story like everyone else did. They’ve seen too many cases, just like mine.
Apparently, the world and people know no bounds when it comes to other people’s pain and trauma, because as soon as I walked out of the station, I heard voices and flashes from across the street, people trying to get pictures and be the first to post any sighting of me online after Eli’s death. And of course, that came with more gossip, more lies, and more hateful comments.
“They should have locked her up. She’s basically a murderer.”
“How can they let a psycho bitch like that go? She’s like a danger to other people, isn’t she? This is crazy!”
