Prologue
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Prologue
When you ask someone to tell you something, you assume that they’re going to tell you the truth. And although nobody believed them, Greyson Murphy and Christian Michaelson were both telling the truth.
Christian Michaelson is a straight A’s and B’s student. He’s a junior at Fairview Heights High School. His parents love him more than anything in the world and he has a younger sister, Brielle, who is four. He loves her more than anything in the world. Christian works hard. He’s on the soccer team, and even though he’s not the best player on the team, he works the hardest and is the most honest. Christian keeps his promises and he’s never told a lie, except for when his mom asked if she was having a birthday party, and Chris said no. It was supposed to be a surprise, but Brielle spoiled it anyways. It was okay to Chris, though. He had everything that he wanted.
Greyson Murphy is struggling. He is struggling in a way that not many people can understand. He has an abusive step dad and a mom with cancer. His dad hurts both him and his mom, and his little step brother, Ethan LaRue. Greyson stopped putting an effort in his schoolwork, at Wilson High, and he walks through the hallway with his hood up, his mouth closed, and his eyes down on the ground, looking ahead of him, often wincing in pain. But, the scars from his various cuts, bruises, and burns aren’t only from his father. His own father had even told him, “I would be happy if you were dead.” Greyson has it all planned out. He is going to die on August 16th, and no one is going to stop him. Not that anyone would try.
On the afternoon of August 14th, Christian Michaelson was walking downtown to meet Mara LaRue, the mom of the ten year old he had been tutoring over the summer. Ethan LaRue was really sweet and Christian loved helping younger kids like Ethan. Christian was listening to Dire Straits, looking both ways to cross the street. He saw a black SUV rushing down the road blinking its left turn signal. They’re going to take a u-turn, Christian thought. I can cross, I have nothing to worry about. Christian stepped out onto the road and locked eyes with the driver. They’re not gonna turn, he thought. I’m going to get hit by a car. Christian was about to run but he saw the headlights, and froze for a second. This is all a dream, he thought. The car came careening to a stop.
“Oh hon, I’m so sorry!” the woman said. She started to cry. “You should thank the Lord, sweetie. I’m here to help you. People love you, I swear. Now let me make a phone call, you stay here, honey, I’ll talk to you in a second.”
Christian started at the woman dumbfounded. “I’m fine, ma’am. You don’t need to call anyone. Thank you for the offer.”
The woman was already on the phone. “Yes, sir,” she said, her eyes laced with worry. “Yes, I was driving, sir, and this young man was about to cross the street, sir, and he saw that I was coming fast, and he stepped in front of my car.” The woman let out a strangled cry. “He was trying to take his life!” The woman looked astonished at her sudden outburst and added as an afterthought, one word: “sir.”
“What!? No, ma’am, I thought you were going to turn!” How had she jumped to that conclusion?
That was when everything turned. Christian Michaelson, an honest kid with everything he could ask for, attempted suicide. No matter what he said, no one wanted to hear the truth, because all that mattered was that Christian needed help. So, his parents, being as caring as they are, brought him to Jeffrey Newman Hospital. The thing about this was, on his first day of therapy, everyone looked at him weirdly. Mark Angelo, the supervisor of the area of the hospital where Christian would stay, had asked everyone in his wing what they were thankful for.
“I’m thankful for my family and everything I love,” Christian had said, without skipping a beat. He knew he didn’t belong there. Everyone there actually needed help. Chris was wasting their time.
Lisa Quimbly would soon be considered a hero. Lisa saved a life. She was delivering mail, making her rounds, when she stopped by what she called the mystery house. It wasn’t actually that mysterious to anyone else, but she had, in the past, heard yelling and crying and the sound of things breaking and a hand hitting someone. When she leaned to the door to put mail into the slot, she discovered the door was wide open and fell in through the house. “My bad,” she called out. “I’m terribly sorry.” Expecting to hear a response, Lisa Quimbly waited politely at the door. Instead, all she heard were muffled sobs coming from down the hall.
Tentatively, Lisa walked down the hallway and pressed her ear again the door from which she heard the crying boy. She slowly opened the door and could not have been more shocked by what she found.
Lying in the claw-footed bathtub was a Greyson Murphy, sobbing, almost passed out. He was wearing sweatpants and no shirt, so Lisa saw all the scars and burns on his pale body. Scattered in and around the bathtub were forty or fifty of the little orange prescription medicine containers, all empty.
Lisa unwillingly let out a quiet gasp, looking at the sight in front of her. Greyson hadn’t noticed her, he seemed to be in his own world. Panicking, she took out her old flip phone, the only one she could afford, and with shaking hands, typed in 911.
Grayson wouldn’t realize that he was alive until one week later in the Jeffrey Newman Hospital.
