"The Witnesses of Death" Revised Pt 1-2

Five more minutes and science class would be over. I looked around the room. At the head was my teacher, Mr. Bluett’s desk. It was off to the side, against the wall, and the whiteboard spanned the wall behind him. Mr. Bluett was casually going through all the papers thrown on his desk, attempting to organize them. He was a big, broad man, who exercised daily and was in every sport growing up. He had hazel eyes and a thin layer of black hair atop his head.

The walls in the classroom were all white, and my eyes fell on one of the many posters splattering the walls. It was the classic “Today is a great day to learn something new!” poster. Black cupboards with green trim lined the back wall. On the one farthest to the right, there was a sink and an eye-wash station. The brown tables we sat at were along the side and back walls, and there was a couple in the middle of the room as well.

Most people had finished their homework already, and a quiet murmur of voices fell over the room. My eyes drifted straight ahead of me, where a boy named Carter sat at one of the tables in the middle of the room. He was a normal teenager; rambunctious at times, yes, but nothing abnormal. Even his blonde hair and blue eyes were ordinary against his pale skin. He wasn’t extremely tall or muscly, and he had a thin but defined face that was splattered with freckles. He was and always had been one of the more popular and more outgoing people in our grade. He was a definite extrovert.

All of a sudden, but quietly, Mr. Bluett got up. Students were now too engrossed in their conversations to care that he stood. They paid him no mind when he strode across the white, tiled floor and kneeled in front of Carter.

“How’ve you been?” He asked Carter quietly.

“I’ve been thinking about it a lot,” was all Carter responded with.

“Have you changed your mind?”

Carter shook his head. “No. I don’t want to live anymore. Not like this.”

Mr. Bluett looked him in the eye and whispered back, “I trust you’ll make the right decision. And if your decision is what you say it is, know we’ll all miss you and that you’re loved.

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. The boy I had known since Kindergarten was going to kill himself. What could cause him to want this? Why would he even consider suicide? Why was Mr. Bluett letting him go through with it? Wasn’t a teacher supposed to stop that kind of thing? Tell the parents or a doctor and care enough to prevent something so horrible? …What was I going to do about it?

Without knowing what I was doing, I said, soft enough to not draw attention, “Carter? Do you wanna talk?” Mr. Bluett and Carter both turned their heads to me; I could tell when Carters expression changed from somber to shocked that he knew I heard. He looked at Mr. Bluett, who nodded slightly. Carter then nodded back. Our teacher went back to his desk, waited a few moments, and asked us casually if we would get some papers for him from the office. He went on to say that he would email our teachers we might be late.

Carter and I got up, and with shaky legs I walked towards the door. We walked out the door together, and once it closed behind us with a click, he asked me defensively, “What do you want to say?”

“How about we go to a practice room,” I suggested, “so no one hears.” The practice rooms were soundproof rooms that band and choir students could rehearse in privately.

He hesitated but then agreed.

The science room we just came from was only a short hallway down form the practice rooms. We walked without talking, seeing no one. The only sound was the echoing of our footsteps through the hall. Once we reached one of the two empty soundproof rooms, we opened the door and walked in. The band room was just around the corner, but no noise was coming from it. The rehearsal rooms were small and had an old piano against one of the all-grey walls. There was a piano bench sitting in front of the wooden instrument and a plastic chair was also in the room. Once we had the door shut all the way, the bell rang. We stayed, knowing Mr. Bluett had emailed our teachers our excusal.

I took a seat on the piano bench as he chose to sit on a chair. I had no clue what to say. So I said the first thing that came to mind. “Why?”

“Why do I want to?” Carter paused as he gathered his thoughts. “This world is too corrupt.”

“You’re allowing the bad things to be more powerful than the good,” I responded.

“It’s not like I can help it.”

“I understand that… I know what it’s like to want something to change but not be able to change it. Everyone does.” My voice cracked as I said ‘does,’ and I knew I didn’t have long before the tears came. I think he knew it, too. “I’ve seen death; I know suicide. Carter, surprisingly, I care about you. You’ve been my classmate for years. I’m not the only one, either. You have to know that.”

“It’s not a matter of people not caring about me. That’s not why.”

“Well, doesn’t it make you second guess doing it?”

“I don’t want a guilt trip,” he snapped back.

“Then why?!” I cried. Instantly, I took a deep breath to control myself. “I don’t want to see you dead, Carter. Especially not by choice, and especially if I know I can do something about it. I know I can’t keep that razor from your wrists or that rope from your neck, but I can try. I only want to help…,” I faded off, knowing I couldn’t talk if I wanted to stay calm.

We sat for a few minutes in silence.

“A couple weeks ago,” Carter spoke up, “I started thinking about when Dillon died.” Dillon was a classmate who died when we were in fourth grade. Carter and him were close friends. When he died… that was the first death of a loved one I’d ever experienced. And it was the worst thing I’ve ever gone through,” his voice cracked. “I lost my best friend.” I started thinking about Dillon now, too. I remembered the boy I hardly knew, knew only from other’s opinions. I remembered the girl whose last words to him were, “Go to hell,” because he bullied her so much. I remembered the Lego Ferris wheel they had on display at his funeral, made by his own hands. I’m glad I went to that—his—funeral because it gave me needed closure to the boy I never, not even once, spoke to.

When Carter continued, I looked up, and for the first time, I saw him cry. I knew he was reliving Dillon’s death. “When I saw him in that casket,” he paused, overcome by emotion, “it was like my life ended, too.” I imagined losing one of my friends, having to go the rest of my life not seeing them. The grief of the imagined brought tears to my eyes, as well. “When I thought about him a few weeks ago, I started thinking about that everyone I know and love is going to die. It’s a stupid and obvious thought, but I can’t go through that anymore. The fact that I can’t protect anyone or stop them from dying makes it even worse. I never want to go through the pain of death again. Ever.”