Ashes Of Youth

Ashes Of Youth

Lex Silvas

03/01/26

Don’t jump. That was the advice Russ, my friend, gave me, his voice a little shaky, before I decided to throw myself off the bridge. The thing is, I’m fifteen and have this ridiculous urge to prove I’m not just “the kid” of the group. Eight meters high didn’t seem like anything when the older boys were watching me, waiting to see if I had the guts.

The wind hit my face, cold and sharp, and down below the lake looked like a dark mouth ready to swallow any fool who dared to challenge it. I knew it was stupid, but the feeling of being watched burned stronger than fear. So I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped.

The fall was fast, but long enough for me to realize I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. The impact against the icy water was like hitting liquid concrete. I felt a sharp pain shoot through my chest, my arm bend at an impossible angle, and for a moment I thought I wouldn’t make it back to the surface.

When I finally surfaced, coughing and swallowing water, I heard my friends’ shouts mixed with shock and nervousness. Russ was running along the bank, desperate, and all I could think was that I should have listened to that simple piece of advice: don’t jump.

Today, if someone tells me I’m about to do a huge stupid thing — one of those that leaves scars on your body and in your memory — my answer will be short and firm: no need to ask twice. Because knowing myself, if I survived that time, it was by luck — and luck isn’t something you should count on twice. But I’m counting on it to save me again.

***

Now here I am in the hospital, after hearing a billion things from my moms — yes, I have two, and yes, they were equally furious and also felt sorry for me — I narrowly escaped getting a beating that would have finished the job the bridge started: breaking the rest of my body.

I’m lying in a bed that feels like it’s made of padded cardboard, my arm bandaged, my rib throbbing, and my dignity in a coma. Janice, one of my moms, went to get coffee. Selma, the other one, is at work, which means I’m under the supervision of the maternal version of the good cop, acting on strict orders from the bad cop. No TV, no phone, no peace. Just boredom, the annoying beep-beep of the heart monitor, and the smell of disinfectant that seems determined to scrub me clean from the inside out.

So since I can’t move, can’t run away, and can’t die (apparently), I’ve decided to fill this time by writing down who I am. But know this: I’m only doing this because boredom runs so deep that even talking to myself has become entertainment.

My name is Cooper Owen.

I’m fifteen, but sometimes I sound like I’m forty — mostly when I’m being judged by adults who think jumping off a bridge is something only a psychopath would do. I have dark, curly hair — half rebellious, half good-looking, depending on the light and the mood of whoever’s looking. My eyes are green, but not the “charming emerald” kind. More like “cat eyes that just knocked over a glass because they could.”

I dress however I feel like — usually a dark jacket, a shirt with some ironic print, and an air of someone who’s always about to reply with sarcasm. If you saw me in one of those event photos, you might think: “That boy looks like he knows something no one else does.” And you’d be right. I know life is a badly told joke, and the audience doesn’t always laugh.

At school, I’m the type who sits at the back — not out of rebellion, but because it’s the only spot where I can watch everyone without being watched. I have friends, but not many. I have ideas, though not always good ones. And I have a special talent for pulling off epic stupidities — like jumping off a bridge just to impress people who can’t even get my name right. But it’s fine. Because I survived — and from what I’ve seen in videos, it was way too much.

So this is what I get for wanting a little fun: boredom. Why did God — or whoever was in charge of putting me together — make me so fragile? That jump would’ve been perfect if I hadn’t crashed and cried like a little girl. Now I can’t show my face at school for the rest of my ordinary life without hearing jokes about “Cooper Owen’s epic dive.”

Two weeks stuck at home, loads of physical therapy (which wasn’t cheap — as my mom Janice likes to remind me every five minutes), and I’m finally back home. As soon as I settled into my room, surrounded by my things, I thought: now I can just relax. (Pause for you all to laugh, because if I truly believed my actions would go unpunished, I was sorely mistaken. End of parenthesis. Pretend again that I’m not ridiculous and naive.)

I’m lying in bed, trying not to move too much, when I hear my mom Selma calling me from the living room. And that can only mean one thing: time to be punished.

There’s no point looking like a lost puppy — that crap stopped working when I was ten. So, with not many options, I decide to go downstairs and face the consequences of my actions like the “man” they expect me to be. Who knows — if I look mature, maybe they’ll go easy on me.

Don’t shake, don’t cry. Steady. Keep it together. They’ll go easy on me. (I repeat this to myself like someone reciting a mantra, but deep down I know believing in unicorns is more realistic than believing my moms will go easy on me.)

I head toward the living room at a slow pace, every rib complaining, every muscle reminding me I’m a certified idiot.

And there they are: Janice holding a mug, Selma with her arms crossed. Two judges ready to deliver the verdict.

I step forward with what I hope looks like confidence, stop before them, clear my throat, and begin: — Before either of you says anything, I just want to say I’m sorry. Truly, deeply sorry. And this isn’t an overstatement. I am profoundly regretful of my reckless actions, and I want to make it clear that this absolutely deserves both a lesson and punishment. And let me tell you, I’ve already learned the lesson: I will never, ever again accept any dare that puts my life at risk from this day forward…

I’m cut off by my mom Selma, who raises a hand like a judge calling for silence.

— Are you sure about that? — I ask. — Because I’ve prepared an entire speech about responsibility and consequences that I’m certain you two will love.

— Sit down, honey — says Janice, in that calm tone that always terrifies me. — We need to talk to you about something important.

— Oh my God — I cry out, desperate. — Is it cancer? Is one of you dying of cancer?

— No — Selma replies, flatly. — It’s not cancer.

— Good Lord, it must be a baby — I say. — One of you got pregnant. Moms, how could you do this to me?

— Just sit down, boy — Selma shoots back. — And stop talking nonsense.

I sit down, heart pounding in my throat. The last time we had “the talk” was about sex — and trust me: that was more awkward than walking in on them having sex — which, yes, actually happened when I was five. That image still burns into my eyes like some kind of cursed tattoo.

— Your mom and I have talked, because… — Janice begins.

— Oh Jesus, not my game console — I say, already panicking.

— We already took it out of your room earlier — Selma replies.

— I’d forgotten about that — I say, defeated.

— Your mom and I have talked… — Janice insists, her voice solemn.

— A divorce — I say, interrupting again. — Because of me? You two look so beautiful together.

— Boy, shut your mouth — Selma orders. — Your mom and I are trying to say that we’re deeply disappointed in your behavior these past few months.

— That was all made up — I say. — There’s no way I started that fire in the classroom, I wasn’t even there.

— What fire? — Selma asks.

— Fire… did I say fire? I didn’t say anything about a fire — I stammer. — Please, go right back to talking about my cruel punishment. I won’t interrupt again.

— We’ve discussed this and reached a decision — Janice continues. — You need… let’s say, a father figure in your life.

— What does that mean exactly? — I ask, confused. — Which one of you is going to grow a dick and be my dad?

— Neither of us, you little rascal — Selma says, patience already wearing thin. — We’re trying to raise you to be a responsible young man, but all you do is play video games, watch porn all day long, and jump into rivers without adult supervision.

— In my defense, I don’t watch porn all day — I say. — I have to go to school, and you can’t exactly watch porn on the school computers. I’ve tried.

— We believe having a man in your life could teach you the value of things — Janice says.

— Which is why we’ve decided to send you to this camp — Selma finishes, holding up a cheap-looking brochure showing an old man smiling next to a small child.

— What’s this? — I ask, already suspicious.

— The Paternus Institute — Selma replies. — It’s a camp for fathers who want to improve their parenting skills and become better men for their kids.

— You’re sending me off to a place crawling with potential child molesters. Are you serious? — I say. — This is the cruelest punishment you’ve ever come up with. And mind you, you’ve once cut off my phone access for a whole week.

— Don’t be dramatic — Janice says. — The facility has been thoroughly vetted, and every father is carefully screened before being admitted.

— Wow, I feel so much safer now — I say. — Great to know. So if one of them asks to touch my private parts, I should just go along with it? Because they’ve been carefully screened while I’m being groped?

— You’re going, and that’s final — Selma decrees.

— Can I at least say no? — I ask.

— You can try — Janice replies. — But I’m telling you right now: I’m not changing my mind.

— What if I cry? — I persist. — Remember how good I used to be at that at the grocery store? I’d always come home with a chocolate bar.

— Son, just go upstairs and pack — Selma says. — You’re leaving early tomorrow morning.

— Just give me one minute before that — I say. — You’ve already decided, and nothing I do — I don’t know — throw myself on the floor holding a knife to my throat — is going to change either of your minds.

Selma grips Janice’s arm before she can speak, signaling her to stay quiet.

— We’ve made our decision — Selma says. — This will be good for you.

I raise my hand for one more question.

— Go ahead, son — Janice says.

— Can I have my breakdown now? — I ask. — Is that too much to ask?

— Thirty seconds. And only one swear word — Selma concedes.

— Thank you — I say.

I take a deep breath and yell at the top of my lungs: — YOU TWO HAVE LOST YOUR MINDS! I’M JUST A KID! YOU’RE SENDING ME OFF TO SOME PLACE WHERE I’LL UNDOUBTEDLY BE TIED UP AND RAPED BY SOME FIFTY-YEAR-OLD PERVERT WHO LIKES LITTLE BOYS, WHILE YOU TWO STAY HERE DRINKING WINE AND FUCKING IN EVERY ROOM IN THE HOUSE! I’LL RUN AWAY IN YOUR SLEEP, AND BEFORE I GO I’LL BURN THIS GODDAMN HOUSE TO THE GROUND THE SECOND YOU FALL ASLEEP!

My moms look at me, dead serious.

— Finished? — Selma asks.

— Yes — I say, breathing heavily, ready to storm out of the room. But then I turn right back around and face them. — Moms?

— Yes? — Janice replies. — What is it, honey?

— Do you know where my suitcase with wheels is? The one where the zipper always gets stuck? — I ask.

— In the hall closet, dear — Janice says.

— Thanks — I say. — And please, never speak to me again.

— Consider it done — Selma says.

I stomp up the stairs, grab the suitcase from the closet, and walk into my room — not before slamming the door with all my might.

And that’s it. That’s the shit consequence for a decision I thought would make me popular with Timmy Tool and Zack Bratt — both seventh graders. Now I’m completely screwed.