This is my story, of what happened to me and what drove me to attempt suicide, but it is my friend's and my brother's story, and it could be anyone else's as well. I have decided to relate it in two parts, this being the first.
Please note that this is adapted (some changes for clarity) from my posts on the now-extinct www.maximumrideforum.com.
One and a half years ago, I was a happy, relatively normal teenager. I’ve always been somewhat of an introvert, but at that point I still had both of the two people whom I loved more than the world: my friend Eva (this is not her real name, but I am going to call her that for security purposes) and my brother Martin.
Eva and I had been best friends since we were toddlers. Hardly an hour could go by without one of us calling, emailing, or IM'ing the other. I don’t know how to describe the depth of our friendship, but I have never made another friend like Eva, and I doubt I ever will be able to in the future.
About Martin- he’s my brother, so he’s bound to get on my nerves. Us being the exact same age doesn’t exactly help. Yes, you’ve got it- we’re twins. The truth is, Martin and I are very close. We tell each other everything. And I do mean EVERYTHING. This is going to sound weird to all of you people out there who have siblings you fight with all the time (I know what it’s like, I fight with my other siblings a lot.), but even at that time Martin knew as many, if not more, of my secrets as did Eva.
All right, I’ve set the stage. That itself was more emotional than I thought it would be, so I’m really going to have to steel myself for the next part.
It was a gorgeous summer day, just like any other, until Eva’s mom called. I was unloading the dishwasher; my mother picked up the phone. I don’t know exactly what passed between them, but the next thing I know, my mother’s handing me the phone with a solemn look on her face.
Mrs. Smythe (Eva’s mom) sounded like she had been crying. Right away, I knew something had happened to Eva.
“Are you all right?” I asked, even though I knew “no” was the answer.
“Mariah, honey,” Mrs. Smythe sobbed, “your friend Eva has gone to heaven.” (The Smythes are Catholic.)
“NO!” Eva couldn’t have died; she was only fourteen! I had spoken with her scarcely five hours before. She had sounded just like her regular self; we had make plans to go to the movies together the next day. (Which of course didn’t rule out a freak accident, but I wasn’t thinking that straight at the time.) The last words she had said to me over the phone were, “Got to go.” I was in denial. Nothing was wrong whatsoever.
Over the rest of the evening and into the night, I learned the details of Eva’s apparent suicide. Mrs. Smythe had come home from work to find Eva dead in her room. She had strangled herself using a leather belt. There was no note or anything to suggest why she had killed herself.
I will repeat this again: I was in denial. It was all like a nightmare I could wake up from or a movie I could turn away from.
Eva’s funeral was a few days later. I don’t really remember getting ready or driving to the funeral home. Those last few days had passed in such a haze.
I filed with the rest of my family past Eva’s casket. Her long blonde hair was neatly combed, and she was wearing a nice skirt and collared shirt, neither of which she would ever wear in life.
It was then that the realization hit. Eva was GONE; gone forever. This shell, this fragment, lying before me wasn’t Eva. A torrent of conflicting emotions raged inside me. Why, I wanted to scream to her wherever she might be; why did you do this to me? Why did you leave me stranded like this? Eva, you lived a happy life (or so I thought) and brought joy into so many others’. I loved you. Why did you have to go?
I could not bear to stick around for the funeral. Some friend I turned out to be.