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One Minute From Bliss

A story of ignorance and loss

By Seth HondaPublished 5 years ago 11 min read
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Most days start out like every other day; an alarm clock goes off, a person rolls out of bed, gets dressed, goes to school, the day begins. This is exactly how the day started for Jason Kline. It was especially cold that Wednesday morning, and Jason had been wearing his grey University of Berkeley sweater to stay warm, bundled up, standing at the bus stop.

Jason did not notice the spring chill, nor the light drizzle or dark clouds in the sky, and even if he did, he didn’t think much of it. Actually, it was quite the contrary, he enjoyed the cold weather, and had been in a decent mood that morning, nothing particularly bothersome on his mind. Perhaps, the homework he did not finish, or the chemistry test that he would get back today. Otherwise Jason’s mind was at ease, and he was ready for the day that lay ahead. Or at least, he thought he was.

Jason got off the number three bus and started walking to his school up the street, El Dorado High School. Approaching the gates he stopped and rolled up his sweater sleeve, looking at the watch face illuminating 6:17, he was two hours early. In light of his premature arrival to school Jason decided to sit on the bench, and finish his homework from the night before.

Jason sat down and opened a folder to retrieve his Japanese worksheets, and as Jason cracked the blue cover his eyes laid on an envelope that had the words “a hard day's night” scrawled across the flap. Well aware of its contents, Jason opened the envelope, and slid a bundle of pictures, letters, and postcards out of the opening. He smiled. Jason began sifting through the letters and pictures, stopping every so often to read one. The postcard in his hand read “I love you” in seven different languages, signed Sarah. The next piece of stationary was a photo of two people in the middle of a laugh, looking deep into each other’s eyes. They had a look of love on their faces; and if not love then the two people in the picture did not want to find love, because they had each other. Jason was one of the people, his messy black hair sat atop his head, as fingers ran through them. At the center of the photo, looking deep into Jason’s deep brown eyes, was a girl, a few inches shorter than he, in a dress matching the light blue of his tie. She radiated beauty, and confidence. Together, Sarah and Jason radiated love.

Happily ever after is a term used at the end of many fairy tales about princesses and fairies, this time it can be used to tell the ending of happiness between Sarah and Jason. Slipping the folder back into his bag Jason took out a bright pink sweater, he brought the cloth up to his nose and took a deep breath in. It smelled like Sarah. Jason closed his eyes, and he was taken to his happily ever after. The warm smell of popcorn and cotton candy wafted through the air as he looked over at his smiling angel. Jason reached out his hand and placed it on her cheek, framing her face perfectly. Slowly he leaned in for a kiss and was met by a face full of ice cream. With bright strobing lights of blue and red around every corner, the two lovers ran and chased each other around that carnival all night. Jason was at rest that day, and so was Sarah. Her nagging thoughts had ceased, the cuts on her wrists were fading scars, she had even eaten three meals that day. That day was the last time Sarah was ever happy, and that night, Jason could tell. There was something about her. Something different. Something good. That something made a knot tie itself up in his throat every time he saw her smile. They walked hand in hand to Jason’s truck, swinging their arms dramatically, much more than they needed to. This memory was something out of a fairy tale, part of a romance novel you read as a teenager, and that day was just that; happily ever after. When they arrived back at the rusty beige truck, Sarah took Jason’s hand and dragged him to the bed, flinging open the hatch with elation. What happened in the next few moments I have decided to let Jason keep between them. As to why he had the pink sweater from that night in his backpack, I am obligated to tell you, she left the sweater there on accident. Perhaps she got hot, or maybe she had taken it off for some other reason. With confidence I will tell you that Jason and Sarah connected that night, and that it was also a chilling 40 degrees.

Snapping back to reality, Jason sat there, smiling wider than he had in a long time, anticipating seeing his girl again, having missed her these past few days. She had been sick at home with the flu. He clutched her sweater and sniffed it one more time. He was excited to get to hold her again, to touch their lips to one another’s, to intertwine their fingers.

Again, I could tell you that Jason knew better, that he knew something was wrong, that he thought it was strange she hadn’t talked to him since Saturday night, and that even then she had not been feeling right, but this is not that kind of story. Jason had no reason to think he would never hold her hand again, never kiss her pink lips. Jason had no reason to think Sarah had caught anything other than the flu, because what else could it have been? At 7:34, the only evidence of how deep in the dark he was that morning was the sweet smile of ignorance that still sat upon his face.

I wish our story ended here, with Jason sitting at a bench smiling at the pictures and postcards in his hand. I wish I could tell you that Jason finished high school the next year, and went to Berkeley as planned. I wish I could tell you those things, but I would be lying.

In fact, the story does not end, but rather begins a short minute later as the numbers on Jason’s watch changed ever so subtly to 7:35.

The difference a minute can make can be gargantuan. Take, for example, Hiroshima. At 8:15 AM in Hiroshima, Japan, life was going about as normal, people were waking up and getting dressed. Then, at 8:16 that same morning, there was a bright flash, and then, for many, darkness. Similarly, as the minute passed and 7:34 became 7:35, Jason’s life came crashing down, to contrast however, Jason was not plunged into darkness, but was finally brought into light.

At exactly 7:35 the bell rang and immediately following the bell came an announcement. This announcement was different though, there were about ten seconds of silence before the wavery voice began talking. I can confidently tell you that it is in these ten seconds, as Sarah’s best friend stumbled down the hall crying, that Jason finally became aware of the situation, and the sweet bliss of ignorance slipped from his hands, just as the memorabilia did.

Many of you have gathered what had happened, but for those of you who do not understand, whether you are confused, or in denial, I will repeat the essential words of the chilling announcement that rang over the loud speakers of the school PA system, “Sarah Peters… three days ago… suicide… sorry.” Time seemed to stand still on that , their conversations halted, the worrying about homework ceased, and trains of thought could be heard braking and crashing into each other all throughout El Dorado High.

Amongst this deathly silence, down the halls of E building rushed a blood curdling wail. The kind of wail that made hearts jump and hairs stand on end. This was the kind of wail that horror movie directors dream about. And this grade A wail came from Jason Kline, whose train of thought crashed so loudly that it was vocalized and heard throughout the school.

There is nothing I would like to do more than tell you that this poor 18 year old boy would be okay; but that would be a lie, I would also like to tell you that Jason lived through this tragedy, but that too would be a lie. Jason Kline did not live through this tragedy, Jason Kline merely survived.

That evening Jason got in his car and drove north. He drove north and only stopped for gas twice. Then finally, after a sleepless night of driving, Jason arrived in front of an apartment building, ten minutes from the University of Berkeley, the college that Sarah and Jason had planned to attend together. Jason dragged his feet to the lobby of the apartment building and got in the elevator, pressing the number 18 and climbing to the eighteenth floor of the building.

A quick note about something going up, it must also come down. However, usually you only go down once after going up. However, in the two hours after going up that elevator Jason Kline would fall twice, once when he arrived to the apartment, and again when he went back to the lobby.

For all those faint of heart I urge you to move to the next paragraph because this section is ironically one of the darkest parts of the story, ironic because Jason was just let out of the dark. As Jason placed his shaking key into the lock and turned it, a feeling he had never felt boiled within him. This boiling was only made worse as pictures of him and Sarah were hung amuck in the apartment they had planned on sharing. As he got closer to the wall of pictures and packed boxes the feeling boiled over, and he swiped his hand across the wall with unimaginable force. Photographs were scattered everywhere, and glass shards flew through the air as picture frame, after plate, after cup, after vase, after picture frame was thrown throughout the room. When the walls were bare, furniture all turned, and boxes all broken, Jason began flinging his fists into the drywall, exacerbating the wounds on his hands from the shards of glass. He did not care, Jason reveled in the pain in his hands and head, “How could you leave me?!” he began screaming at the top of his lungs to no one in particular, “Look what you’ve done!” He shouted, continuing to batter his knuckles against the walls of the apartment. This was the first fall.

After an hour of violence, Jason was spent. He crossed the floor of the apartment, ignoring the stabbing pain of glass in his bare feet. Jason hastily grabbed the bottle of whiskey he and Sarah were saving for their first day living together, and, as tears streamed down his face and a scream left his throat, he raised the bottle above his head, ready to throw it across the room, but he could not. Instead, he rummaged through the cabinets looking for two glasses untouched by his pain. After rinsing his hands in the sink and putting his shoes on, Jason walked over to the one room that he refused to touch; their room. He placed his aching hand on the door knob, and with everything in him, turned the knob, opening the door.

The scene before him was divine. With a background of destruction and blood and pain, this room remained untouched, similar to how in the mess and rage that consumed his mind, his love for his Sarah Peters remained unscathed; the bed was made, pictures all in tact, her smile haunted every corner of this room and yet—Jason wandered in. Two glasses and bottle in hand, he sat at the bed, and his throat raw from screaming, he began talking “Sarah,” his voice was faint and scratchy, “I’m sorry… I just never thought you would leave me, we almost had it all.”

Tears still falling, Jason poured two glasses of whiskey, he placed one down on the bed, and held the other one in the air, “To us!” He toasted, as loud as his worn out voice would allow. Jason drank the cup and stood up, leaving the bottle and filled cup on the left side of the bed, her side.

Just as two hours passed, Jason walked out of the apartment, glass crunching under his shoes, pain searing through his whole body. But at least he knew, if he was not alive, then he was surviving. He closed and locked the door to the apartment for the first and last time, walking to the elevator, and he got in. He pressed the L button and descended. This was the second fall.

It is unclear what kind of life Jason Kline led after that day, but as he left that apartment building, Jason Kline died. I would like to say he was born anew, but he was not. Plain and simple Jason Kline left his soul among the broken plates and shattered picture frames in apartment 809. He went through life merely surviving. Jason Kline never loved again, he never vowed to save anyone else, and frankly… Jason Kline was a broken man, if even a man at all. And this, sadly, is where the story ends. Not with rejoice in death, not with redemption, not with a guardian angel, but with despair, and pain. That day, Jason chose to not jump eight floors, to not join his love in death, but in turn he chose to live a meaningless life from that day on. A life void of love, of happiness... I wish I could tell you differently, but that would only be a lie.

trauma
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