Stain on the Sidewalk *Re-edited!!*

Just so you know, nothing like this has happened to me. It needs serious help!! Thanks guys!!

The moment he looked at me I knew something was terribly wrong. Fear sparkled in his green eyes and his lips were drawn into a mournful frown. He looked dazed, like he wasn’t fully with us. The birthday party was in full swing, but he began to turn slowly and head out the front door. I followed him with my eyes, unsure of what to do. I turned to my best friend, Maria, frowning.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, brow furrowed in concern.

I sighed and glanced around her basement. She always had the best birthday parties, and this was her fifteenth. The decor was brilliant, the food better. Everybody was surprised that she wasn’t turning sixteen like most of us were. I really didn’t want to leave, but something inside of me was screaming that if I didn’t, we would all face a tragedy come tomorrow. “I don’t feel very good. Can I run home quickly and grab some meds?” I lied. I hated lying to her, but something was terribly wrong and I knew it.

“Oh. We have Tylenol if you want it,” she offered, taking my hand.

“No, Tylenol makes me sick most of the time,” I lied again. I felt dirty.

She sighed, nodding and let me go. I raced up her stairs, trying to take them two at a time. The attempt failed desperately, I never could do that. Finally I hit the top, thankful for Lady Gaga music for once in my life. Nobody even gave me a second glance. I pried open the front door and a small slip of paper fell out. My name was scrawled across the front in purple gel-pen, my favourite. I flipped it over and skimmed it. My eyes widened in horror.

I panicked. "Maria! Maria!" I yelled, running down the stairs, frantic. I nearly tripped and fell down them, but she caught me halfway.

"What? What's that?" She asked concerned, eyeing the little sheet of paper. I shoved it at her, biting my nails mercilessly. Her mouth gaped and her eyes widened with fright. She grabbed my arm and dragged me up the stairs, followed by about four or five others. They were all freaking out, demanding to know what was wrong. We ignored all of them.

My heart was screaming at me. I had to do something! Nobody really cared much for Mark other than myself and his grandparents. He would fall into sudden and random depressed slumps and talk to nobody. His mother had shot herself when Mark was only seven. I seemed to be the only one he would ever open up to. I told him I loved him, and I assumed he knew I meant as a brother. Well, that’s what I thought I loved him as. Maria didn’t like him much, but she had invited him to the party on my demand. Even her eyes were fearful now.

“Get your dad! We need a ride, and fast!” I ordered. No way was I letting him fall through on this!

Maria ran screaming for her father through the doorway to the living room. The others stared at me silently, eyes filled with horror. They ran back down to the party to tell everybody and start a panic. I wanted to yell at them to keep quiet, but thought better of it. I recalled memories, the first time he had come to my house a week after we met; my ninth birthday party; all of the days that we spent together laughing and crying; the country fair. I was being strangled by my fear. I made myself gain some control.

Maria arrived, towing her dad behind her. He was yelling at her to tell him what was wrong. She made a high-pitched groaning noise and shoved the note at his face. He skimmed it quickly and handed it back, forcing the door open with one hand and gesturing for us to hurry up with the other. We piled into the car, me in the front and Maria in the back. “Where to?” he asked shakily.

I thought for a moment. The deeper our friendship became, the more personal our conversations got. We’d had discussions about suicide before and our most in-depth was at the top of his apartment building. “Apartment thirty-three,” I squeaked. I prayed that I was right. He nodded and pinned it. A police car pulled in behind us and Maria's dad swore loudly. No time to stop, he just kept driving. Maria’s father was automatically my new hero.

We arrived at the building just in time. Mark was already standing at the top, hands in his pockets. "How the heck did he get up there so fast?" Maria shouted. I ignored her, Mark had taken his old pickup truck, it was parked in front of the building. I screamed and saw his silhouette look down at me. I darted into the building and slammed the elevator button. To my relief, it came down almost immediately. I pushed the button marked with a big R on the front. I was sweating and trembling, tears streaming down my face. I prayed that he wouldn’t be flat on the ground when I got to the top.

For a moment I wondered if I should have taken the stairs; I thought I would be too late. Finally I heard the little ‘ding’ and the doors spread open, exposing me to the cold and rain. Mark’s knees were bent on the edge and I heard him crying. “Mark! Stop!” I screamed.

He looked back at me, eyes sad. He backed off the edge and I heard cheering from below. He made his way towards me, wrapping his arms around my body. “Do you love me Tali?” he whispered, burying his head into my shoulder.

I put my arms around him. “Of course I do Mark.” I was trembling from cold and fear. I held him tightly, praying that he would reconsider.

“But are you in love with me?” he sounded so afraid and unsure. I knew then that I had made a mistake. I could have sworn that moment that I was, indeed, in love with him. I decided that I really must have been all along; I just didn’t want to admit it to myself that I was.

“I guess I am,” I whispered.

He pulled away, grinning. “Thank you,” he murmured. He leaned over and kissed me hard on the lips before taking a step back. “But I can’t let myself live. You deserve so much better than an abused, motherless, ugly, horrible boy. If I let myself live, you’ll never be happy. ‘Cause when you move on, I won’t let you go. I’m sorry, Tali. Please, just let me do this. Let me be happy.”

“No!” I screamed. I hated the long string of words he used to describe himself. “No! No! No!” Who cared if he didn’t have a mother? Lots of kids didn’t! He wasn’t ugly in the slightest bit, not to me. He nodded at me and made his way back to the ledge. I wanted to run to him and tackle him to the ground, but my legs were wobbly and slow. He stepped up onto, looked back and blew me a kiss, mouthing the words good-bye. “Mark! Don’t!” His eyes saddened again and he waved. I stumbled a few steps towards the ledge, but he jumped before I could reach him. I let out the loudest, most high-pitched scream I ever had in my whole life. My throat was burning and I had to let my scream fade. I heard the thud and the screams of the people below. I couldn’t believe it. I fell backwards, dazed. He didn’t! I lowered myself to a laying position and stared blankly at the sky. Rain pelted my face and my eyes, but I refused to let them close. It stung, and I didn’t care. The cement was cold and wet, but I didn’t notice. My hair and clothes were drenched, but I didn’t still care.

Eventually, Maria and her father came up to see me, followed by a police officer. Maria sat down beside me and I rose to a sitting position. She put her arms around me and we cried together. Never had I wept like this. Not once. The police officer pulled me up gently, leading me back towards the elevator. Everything else was a blur. I remember being shoved into the cruiser; a blanket was draped around my shoulders. The officer asked me a few questions and I answered. People offered me words of comfort but I didn’t hear them. “Please, just let me do this. Let me be happy.” That was the only thing I heard for days, for weeks. His voice haunted me.

I stayed in bed for weeks, not going to school or out shopping. The only time I got out of bed for more than twenty minutes was for Mark's funeral. I don't remember all of it, just a few details here and there. I can remember is the feeling of helplessness that had washed over me when I watched them lower his coffin into the ground. I can remember my mother and father giving me lots of hugs, trying in vain to make me stop crying. The most vivid part of the memory was when I had placed a small bouquet of daisies onto the top of his coffin. I whispered my goodbye and stepped back. People buzzed and there was laughter. I hated the laughter. His father didn’t even stay through the whole thing; he claimed it was too hard. He was abusive, but he still loved his son.

I hardly even got out of my bed to eat; my mother brought everything to me. All of that seemed to slip by slowly, and eventually I found strength to get up and walk around. Nobody was home that day, so I opened the front door and made my way into the garage. My dad had put some of Mark’s things in there for me. His dad had dropped them off, saying that he didn’t want to look at them anymore, couldn't bare it. He had now lost both his wife and his son and I could feel his pain. I searched through the papers, uncovering poems and other such things. Love poems, poems of despair, and poems of happiness. I dried a tear from my cheek and rose up, exiting the garage. I thought I would die if I read anymore. I couldn't breathe, couldn't think.

I shoved my hands in my pockets. It was raining today, just like the day he had jumped. I made my way slowly to his apartment building. The cement where he fell had been cleaned, but I could have sworn that I saw the faintest bit of a crimson tint. My stomach lurched. That was his blood, had to be his blood. Unless I was just seeing things. I fell to my knees and placed a shaking hand on it. I ignored the confused and concerned glances from passer-bys and let myself weep. I recalled the day I had first met Mark under the oak tree at school. He had been sitting in it, head in his knees, weeping. I had been concerned and excused myself from the game of hopscotch that we were playing to ask him what was wrong. He looked up and told me that everybody hated him and he had no friends. I invited him over to my house that day, and we've been friends ever since. I could remember the resteraunts, the movies, the evenings we sat in his living room playing silly games like Truth Or Dare and 20 Questions. I wept for hours before finally going back home again.

I turned it into a tradition. Every single time it rained, I went to that spot and cried. I still do and it’s been almost fifteen years. I did marry, but my husband doesn’t understand me the way Mark did. Nobody ever can and nobody ever will. We had something special, something totally different. His mother was gone and my mother was still living. He was depressed and I was optimistic. His daddy went to the bar once a week, and once a week he came home drunk. He would hit Mark every Saturday, and on Sunday Mark would come and I would comfort him. I told my husband about Mark, but not the way I still feel. I only have one thing left to say to him now and that is my last goodbye and that I still love him.