Still With Me

ONE

May 8, 2001—Paris, France

Pills. Whiskey. A little pot. I’m lying down. I know what I’m doing. I’m thinking about how I’m going to do it and nothing else. Thinking about the movements—that’s it. Thinking only about myself, right here in the living room. About the bottle, the pills. Just me. The cap. The pipe. Opening my mouth, placing the pills on my tongue, bringing the bottle to my lips. Swallowing. Thinking about how to do it. Nothing else. Not about Dad, not about Mom. Especially not them. About my shame. All alone, right here. Me and my shame. I know what I’m doing. Mom and Dad will understand. Maybe. I don’t care whether they understand. No, don’t think about them. Think about no one.

Today it’s my choice. I don’t want this life anymore. It’s torture, an insult. It’s my choice. And I choose to end it. Today I’m in control.

If I’m not brave enough, if I’m tempted to get up, to stop everything, I’ll think of her. The one who is life itself and who rejected me. Not about the others, who love me, but about the one who doesn’t, doesn’t want to love me. Who won’t even try. Her satin skin, her emerald eyes, her smile. Her smile. Her beauty’s embrace, given so freely to those who come near. Now it’s agony. But it’s not just her beauty. Everything about her destroyed me, dragging me into oblivion. The oblivion of death or the emptiness of my life. What’s the difference?

God, my head is spinning. God…Why am I talking to you? Are you there? Have you been there all along? Did you hear my prayers? Come on, God, let’s be honest. How can a God of mercy put such a creature so close to me and at the same time keep her from me? What’s the point? To make me suffer? You won. I’m suffering. I don’t even want to live. Are you proud of yourself? I’m handing you my future. Give it to someone else. You’ve shown me nothing but the abyss, so that’s where I’m going.

I’m not afraid.

I’m thinking about how to do it. Nothing else. The rolling papers are still smoking. I can get a little higher. Get away from myself so I can get away from her. There, my spirit feels light, lulled by the smoke, the alcohol, and soon enough the pills. That’s how to do it. I’m sweating. Not from fear.

Just a few more seconds. Thinking of her.

I decided to tell her everything. Today, on my twentieth birthday. Cast off my doubts and finally know. I practiced…Did I need to practice? I had no shortage of words for her. But she didn’t hear me. She didn’t want to hear me. I reminded her of our childhood romance. The first pages of the story.

“But we were nine, Jeremy,” she said, smiling.

Ten, actually. That’s not too young, ten years old. I was madly in love with her. And she liked me too. For her, it was nothing more than make-believe. A few innocent kisses, just a tender allegiance, a sweet melody. A distant memory, colors fading. But for me, that’s when life began. A warm glow, stronger than the light of our last summer together.

“We were friends. I confided in you.”

What torture, the role I had to play all those years just to be near her. Watching all those little show-offs strut their beauty, their physiques. She liked making them happy.

So I pulled away. I tried to forget her. In vain. The pain, the hope. Like I was suffocating. I needed everything to end. On my twentieth birthday. An ultimatum I’d set when the wait became unbearable.

I would confess my love. Try to convince her. With words like pearls, polished by their time beside my wounds.

I saw her falter, touched by my words.

For a few seconds, she was mine.

Or did I imagine it?

That was when he appeared and everything fell apart.

“I want you to meet Hugo. My fiancé.”

With these words, my spirit froze. The pain, my old friend, lying in wait somewhere between my heart and my stomach, suddenly resurfaced, stronger than ever. Like the last brave battle before inevitable defeat. She’s mine. She was made for me. She belongs to me!

I thought these words so loudly they left my mouth. Loudly.

He hit me. I fell, pitiful. She held him back. Her eyes were full of tenderness. Her mouth, pity.

“I love him. And I don’t love you, Jeremy. I never loved you. I never will love you. I’m sorry.”

The words were meant to ease her passion, to butcher my love. Like arrows in my heart.

Then they left.

And everything ended.

I finish my joint. I lie down. Pills in one hand, bottle in the other. The only way out.