Dancing with Death

Hamlet said it best. “To be, or to not to be, that is the question,” the question of the hour, the week. In fact, it is the question of life. “To be or to not to be?” To live or to die? And there I was, in that moment. Would he chose life? Would he go on to make me feel awful another day? As it was, it was my fault. At least that’s what he said. It was my fault. I left him when he needed me most, but is it really my fault that that part in my life was over. I recognized that he was dragging me down. I had to get out of that relationship. He made me suicidal. He made me hurt. And yet, here I was. In this moment.

Call.

No answer.

Call again.

No answer.

Call again.

I wasn’t even sure what I was doing. I wasn’t sure I had heard him correctly. Did he actually say that? Did I hear him wrong? It was four in the morning. Maybe I was tired and misheard. He couldn’t possibly had said what I thought I heard. We had talked about this the week before. We went over all the reasons he should live, and he agreed. He had to live.

No answer.

Had he already done it? Was he lying on the floor in his room dead because of me? I had to do something. But what could I do? I didn’t drive. I didn’t even know where he lived. I knew the street, but not the house. I would never get to him in time. I had to do something. I dialed without even thinking.

“911 what’s your emergency?” I was silent.

“Hello?”

Why couldn’t I get the words out? If I said them, did that make them true? Stop. You have to say them. Come on, spit it out.

“H-hi. Uh-um I think…” My voice trailed off. I began to cry.

“Ma’am? What is your emergency?”

“I think my friend just killed himself.”

I should have gone to Vegas. That one decision to go to that damn dance.

It was the weekend of Homecoming, and conveniently, my seventeenth birthday. My family was going to Las Vegas to celebrate my uncles fortieth birthday. My parents wanted me to go, of course, but it was my first dance. I waited three years for this, to feel like a normal high school girl. In hindsight, I should have just realized that there would be other dances, I didn’t need to go to them all. Instead, I was stubborn.

My weekend began so well. I went to the homecoming football game. Not to sit in the crowd, of course, I was not a normal high school girl, remember? No, I went to that game for the same reason I went to every other home game for the past three years—film. I was flying the drone when I got a text.

“I am going to jump. You can’t stop me.”

What did he mean he was going to jump? He was sitting in the crowd, I had my eye on him the whole time. Right section, home side, three rows up, fifth person from the end. I looked up from my phone after reading the text. Looked to the right section, home side, three rows up… one, two, three, four… He wasn’t there. He knew I’d check my phone as soon as I saw it was him. I already had to take a blade away from him earlier that week.

I opened my phone as fast as I could.

"Where are you?!"

No answer.

"Please answer me!!"

Nothing. I tried calling. No answer. I had to think quickly. There are only three two story buildings on campus. He would not be dumb enough to jump from the stadium balcony. Or would he? No, he wouldn’t. He didn’t want anyone to know. That left the L building and the Science building. It had to be the L building. That was our spot. Where we ate lunch, where we would meet after school, The first place he kissed me. That building was our place. He had to be there.

By the time My brain had caught up and put the thoughts all together I was already running towards the building. When I got there, he wasn’t there. I ran up the stairs, all the way around the building, I even looked in the boys bathroom. No sign of him. I quickly ran down the stairs and across campus to the science building. Once I was there I stopped to catch my breath. I couldn’t run any more. I couldn’t breathe. I was having a panic attack right there in that hallway, and I was alone.

I took in as much air as I could, and in desperation I yelled. “Derek!” but there was no response.

I had to push through, I had to find him, but my body had a different idea. I fell to the ground, consumed by anxiety. I felt so helpless, so afraid. Then my phone buzzed.

“Got caught by security. Going home now.”

A wave of release hit me like a cool breeze on a hot summer day. I was starting to breathe normally. After ten minutes of trying to compose myself, I finally texted back.

"Are you alright?

I was so worried

"I'm Sorry I didn't find you sooner.

Please don’t do it.

Please don’t hurt yourself again”

“Why do you care? You don’t love me anymore.”

I now realize that he blamed me. He blamed me for our break up. He thought I didn’t love him, but it wasn’t true. I did love him, that’s why I ended things. He needed to learn to be happy without me, and so did I. While it took me a long time to do so, I know that I did, but I am not sure that he ever even tried to be happy without someone constantly trying to pull him back to reality.

I walked back to the game, where I had left the drone with my friend. When the game was over, I went home and tried to talk to him about what had happened, but he refused to talk about it, so I left him alone, but I couldn’t stop worrying.

Saturday morning, I woke up and tried to talk to him again, but he kept changing the subject. He seemed better. He seemed to be out of the dark moment he was in. He kept talking about Homecoming. He was going to film my first school dance. He told me he would make sure I was in the video. He had convinced me he was fine. Actually, I had convinced myself he was fine. Now I see that he was not fine. He was not out of the moment. I should have told someone what he told me. I should have told a teacher, or a counselor or someone who could tell his parents, someone to talk to him, but I didn’t. Instead, I got ready for my dance. I did my hair, and makeup, and I put on the dress and I acted like nothing had happened. I hung out with my friends. I had a good time.

How could I have done that? How could I just act like everything was fine? How could I have a good time after he tried to kill himself? I was a terrible person.

When I got home from the dance, I went back to reality. I was no longer the normal highschool girl going to school dances and hanging out with her friends, I was the girl whose ex boyfriend wanted to die. I took off the dress and the makeup, put on my ragged pajamas and Steve Urkel- like glasses and layed in bed. Then, the phone rang.

Derek is calling…

I didn't know what to expect. I didn’t know what to do. Should I answer? Should I pretend to be asleep? No time to think. I answered.

“H-hello,” his voice was soft, and cracking, like he had been crying for hours.

“Derek?” I’m sure I sounded slightly frantic to him, because he felt the need to tell me not to worry.

“I’m not worried,” I lied.

“Good. I know what will make me happy now. It isn’t you. It isn’t any one else.”

“What is it?” I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear his answer, but my mouth spit out the words before I could even decide.

“Death.” He said it like it was a normal thing to say. As if death and pizza were in the same category. Then he hung up.

I wished my family hadn’t gone to Vegas, my mom would have know what to do. My mom would have talked to him. She would have driven me to his street until I figured out which house was his from the picture I had of him and his mom in front of it. She could have helped. But it didn’t matter, they were there.

“Ma’am, what do you mean you think your friend killed himself?”

“What do you mean what do I mean. I mean just that. He said he would then he hung up.” I think that was rude. Oh well. She wasn’t understanding me. He could have been bleeding out.

She asked me to give her his information, and I did. Then she asked for mine and I gave it to her. Then she hung up too. People kept hanging up when I wasn’t done talking. I wanted to tell her that his parents didn’t know he was depressed or harming himself. I wanted to tell her not to hurt him. I wanted to tell her I was scared. It was the most scared I had been in my life. But most of all, I wanted to tell her it was my fault. He did it because He thought I didn’t care about him. The one person in his life he could trust had hurt him. It was my fault. I regretted breaking up with him, because at least when we were together he was alive. But she had hung up.

At some point, about an hour later, the police were at my house questioning me. Asking if I was feeling suicidal or like I was going to hurt myself. Asking about my parents and my living situation. It wasn’t until months later that I found out it was because he told them that he was not thinking of hurting himself, but I was. I had voicemails and text messages that proved he was planning to do something that night at the game, and the night after the dance. I could prove it. I should have showed them. If I had shown them, maybe he would have gotten help.

The thing was, how could I? How could I tell them when he obviously did not want me to? I had hurt him enough already. I had driven him to the point of almost ending his life. If I showed them these things, I would ruin him. So instead, I went under police investigation. My parents were analyzed and questioned the following monday, I was called in to talk to the police a few times in the office of my school, child protective services got involved, and my life was dramatically different for months. If I had just shown them the proof, I would have blown up his life instead of my own.

I still saw him in class and the hallways after that, but we didn’t talk. His life went on, while mine fell apart. It wasn’t fair, but at least I had saved his life. I regret not telling someone sooner, and I regret not going to Vegas with my family, because my mom could have talked to the police for me, but I don’t regret saving him.