Young Writers Society

When I was twelve years old, my big sister killed herself.

I'll spare you the gruesome details. I won't tell you about the blood that soaked into the carpet, or the brain pieces that splattered on the walls. I won't tell you about the gun clutched in her left hand, or the suicide note in her other, that of which I had to pry from her stiff fingers. I won't tell you how my screams wouldn't come out at first, and how I stood there like a fish out of water, mouth gaping and chest heaving for what felt like eternity but was, in reality, only a minute.

The neighbors said that, once my voice box finally started to work, my screams of terror were heard all the way down the street, scaring the children playing on the streets.

I don't remember much, but from what they tell me, I collapsed, falling into the blood to curl against my sister, sobbing so hard that they couldn't understand what I was saying.

They said the paramedics had to pry me off of her, my ragged nails tearing into her shirt and nipping her pale skin.

---

"Why are you telling me this?"

I was never the best storyteller. Across the street from where we stood, a hummingbird was flying amongst the leaves of a cherry blossom tree, one that was finally blooming. It was early March and we were slowly transitioning from a harsh winter into a rainy spring, and the flowers were taking their slow sweet time, hiding inside their buds. Now that the sun was shining and had been shining for a week straight, they were starting to surface, stretching their petals and bending backward to accept those bright rays.

I, too, leaned back and mimicked the sunflowers beside Grace, eyes closed against the harshness of the sun. "Spring was her favorite season."

I heard her shift her weight from one foot to the other and knew without looking that her eyes were focused on the corner, waiting impatiently for the transit bus. My presence made her uncomfortable and she wanted nothing more than to leave.

After a moment of silence, she angrily snapped her attention back to me and spoke, "I asked you a question! Why did you tell me about your sister killing herself?"

My head lowered and I turned away from the sun, away from the other side of the street, meeting her dark blue eyes. Against her will, they were quivering with tears, tears she was trying to fight back but was rapidly failing.

"Because I've seen the cuts on your arms during P.E. The ones you try to hide, the ones you unconsciously rub whenever you're worried or nervous. I've seen how you pretend to eat your food and throw it away whenever you think no one is looking. I've seen the way your clothes sag and your eyes droop, as if you can't sleep at night. A few weeks ago, I left third period to use the restroom and I heard you crying, then throwing up, then crying harder. You thought you were alone but you weren't."

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the bus approach the corner and wait for traffic to part so it could turn.

"Grace, you aren't alone. My sister was alone. She was alone and dying a little each day and she tried, she tried like hell to make my parents see the signs, to call for help without outright asking for it. She was alone because my mother worked from seven to ten and my father took on a second job to make ends meet. She was alone because her boyfriend had raped her at a party and then told her friends that she was easy and soon she had no friends. Everyone at school turned against her. Her grades dropped, her social life disappeared, and suddenly she was skipping meals and her body melted away to skin and bones. No one heard her pleas, and now she's gone."

Grace was silent the entire time I talked, her eyes focused on the bus. I see a tear fall down her cheek and she made no effort to stop it. Soon, it was joined by more, and when she finally spoke, her voice is shaky. "I'm not going to kill myself."

"Bullshit."

More tears fall and her blonde hair whipped the air and she shook her head frantically. "I'm not!"

"But you're considering it. Don't fucking lie to me."

Her lips part to argue, but nothing comes from them. After a moment, she closes it and lets her eyes fall to the ground in defeat.

Why ever would you be so stupid? I want to ask, but instead, I go with a soft and quiet "Please. Don't."

"Why do you care?" she whispered.

"Because life gets better."

"Bullshit."

The bus enters the intersection and makes a turn. I take her hand and hold it against my heart.

"It does, Grace. I swear to you. You will get through this. Don't make your sister find you like I found mine. Live for your family and friends. Live for the books you love to read and the TV shows you love to watch and the stories you love to write and the poems you lose yourself in and the music that takes you away. Live for the husband or wife you will marry one day and for the children you will raise. Live for yourself, because you are stronger than you think you are."

I can see her wavering, torn between hope and defeat. The bus has rolled in front of us and the doors have opened, but we don't board. Instead, I force her to look at me, my hand curled along her slender cheekbone. Her swollen eyes meet mine.

"I hear the new Marvel movie looks amazing."

A smile breaks across her lips, brighter than the sun that beats down upon us, and I know that I may have not saved her yet, but I've given her something to battle the darkness with, something to hold against her chest when the monsters in her mind are overwhelming her, something to shield her when she needs it most.

Hope.

---

"And that, my dear, is how you got your name."

Across the table, my fifteen year old son rolls his eyes. "Right, so Hope gets a cool backstory to her name. What about me? Why'd you name me James?"

"After Mr. Dean, of course," my wife smiles, reaching out to pinch his cheek.

In my lap, twelve year old Hope squirms, clapping her hands together. "But Mommy, why did you want to die?"

Grace's smile twists a little, a grimace quickly crossing her face as the memories from her past surfaced. "Mommy was in a dark place at the time. But your papa, he saved me," she says, her gaze once more filling with warmth as she focuses on me. "He gave me something to live for."

"Hope?" James asks, his eyes flickering from his mother to his father, a crease between his brows.

Grace reaches across the mahogany table and grasps my hand, staring at me with those dark blue eyes.

"Hope," we echo.