Noah
“Mr. Porter,” Noah’s therapist called out from the computer screen. Noah barely registered Dr. Navarro’s desperate pleas for his participation.
What was the point?
Noah had come to the realization his life would never be the same again after that night. He would never be the man he was two years ago. Noah had accepted that his life of solitude was the new normal and wished everyone who stuck around and was still in his life would accept it too.
Noah humorlessly chuckled to himself. He could count the number of people that still lingered in his life on one hand, and that was most likely due to their false sense of familial obligation. After the shooting, Noah learned some harsh but necessary truths; tragedy brings out the worst in people, friendships are conditional, and you’re replaceable.
“Mr. Porter?”
“Yes, Dr. Navarro?” Noah answered, anxiously ticking his eyes to the bottom right corner of the laptop screen. It was 3:47 PM, and Noah only had thirteen more minutes to go.
“Did you work on your assignment from our last appointment I tasked you with?”
Noah shook his head, causing his therapist of two years to release an exasperated sigh.
“Mr. Porter, how do you expect me to help you if you refuse to put in the work? We’ve been working together for two years, and as of six months ago, it seems you’ve all but given up. Your mind wanders during our session. You rarely speak, and it’s as if I’m talking to a brick wall most of the time. Have you given up?”
Noah nonchalantly shrugged his shoulders.
“Let me ask you a quest-”
“No, I’m not having any thoughts of suicidal ideation,” Noah lied.
Truthfully, thoughts of ending his own life consumed him. He would lay awake at night watching the dusty blades of his ceiling fan violently spin from above. The dangling gold metal chain would annoyingly clink against the glass lightbulb coverings, contributing to Noah’s raging insomnia.
It was the same song and dance. Noah would reminisce about the life he once had and compared it to the current state of his pitiful existence. From a young age, Noah was popular. He was a charismatic kid who was easy to get along with on the playground. He was his high school’s star quarterback, recognized for his prowess on the field and his boyish charm that would make the ladies swoon. Amongst his fraternity brothers, Noah was deemed the ‘playmaker’ or the ‘shot caller.’ He was known to always be down for a good time, resulting in countless drunken stories his frat brothers loved to regale the new pledges or women they hoped to convince to join them for a wild night out on the town. Noah was deemed a ‘winner’ because everything he wanted, he achieved. He wanted the girl? He got her. He wanted that coveted promotion? He landed it. The Ferrari with the 3.9-liter V8 he dreamed of owning as a teenager? It sat in his garage, collecting dust. None of it mattered anymore, not the false bonds of friendships he built, achievements, or material possessions. Happiness and joy were no longer words you’d find in Noah’s vocabulary. He was encumbered by grief, strife, and loneliness.
Noah couldn’t understand why he was still in the land of the living. He didn’t want to exist any longer, and no one would miss him. Noah contemplated ending his life several times, to the point where he often daydreamed about it. He had his demise all planned out. He’d take the revolver he squirreled away in a secret hiding spot unbeknownst to his family and venture to his garage. He’d sit in his Scuderia Red 2016 Ferrari 488 Spider for the last time and run his hands over the black leather seats with the counter-color red stitching, enjoying the feel of the fine leather against his skin for the final time. Noah considered leaving a note, but there was nothing left he had to say. He had survived a life-threatening gunshot wound to the chest and his two best friends did not. He lost his friends, dream job, and was too afraid to leave his property past the mailbox. To Noah, it was pretty cut and dry. Noah made it as far as pressing the muzzle of the loaded gun to his temple, but he found himself backing out at the very last second. He never understood his hesitancy. A simple pull of the trigger would end his pain and suffering, but there was always a tiny voice whispering in his ear, begging him not to follow through. The voice won all nine times.
“I’m going to ask a couple of questions, Noah, and I need you to be honest with me, okay?”
“Okay.”
“In the past few weeks, have you wished you were dead?”
“No,” Noah fibbed.
“Good. In the past few weeks, have you felt that you or your family would be better off if you were dead?”
Yes. They wouldn’t have to “check on me” and pretend to care.
“No,” Noah firmly answered.
“In the past week, have you been having thoughts about killing yourself?”
Every single day.
“Absolutely not.”
“Have you ever tried to kill yourself?”
Yes, I did try to hang myself once, but I fucked that up.
“No.”
“Are you having thoughts of killing yourself right now?”
“Negative.”
“Alright, Mr. Porter. You do have the phone number to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, correct?”
“Yeah, the phone number is on a nifty magnet on my fridge next to all of the other emergency numbers, including yours.”
“Good. It looks like our time is up, Mr. Porter. I will be assigning you the same homework. You need to reach out to a family member and invite them over for a minimum of two hours.”
“I’d rather not.”
“I know, but you need some sort of socialization. Do something simple like watching a movie together. We’ll meet up a month from now, okay?”
“That’s fine.”
“Remember, Mr. Porter. It always gets better,” he remarked before ending their chat.
“That’s what they all say,” Noah sighed, scrubbing his face with his palms.
Noah perked up when he heard the familiar sound of the mail truck pulling onto his street. He scrambled to his feet, shoved on a pair of tennis shoes that had seen better days, and rushed out of the house to meet the jovial mail carrier. Noah expectantly waited by the mailbox for his daily dose of socialization. Noah and Mr. Herbert swiftly became buddies over the years. They’d spend an average of fifteen minutes every working day conversing by the mailbox. Mr. Herbert kept Noah apprised of positive fun facts and current events. Noah’s anxiety prevented him from watching the news or reading the newspaper. Every time he clicked on the television, there was a breaking news story, and death was the subject. Noah’s mood would instantly crash, his heart would race, his chest would tighten, and he’d be only seconds away from experiencing a full-blown panic attack. Dr. Navarro acknowledged how stressful the news could be and recommended Noah steer clear. Noah especially loved when Mr. Herbert’s wife packed him leftovers of her delicious home-cooked meals. Mrs. Herbert extended plenty of invitations for Noah to join them for Sunday night dinner, but Noah politely refused. Knowing Noah’s story, Mr. Herbert didn’t take offense but instead reassured Noah that their doors were always open to him.
“You doing alright today, Noah? You’re looking a little worse for wear.”
“I’m okay. I just finished therapy moments before you pulled up.”
“Oh, say less. It was nice chatting with you as usual, but this old man gotta get on down the road now. Just remember, Noah. It always gets better.”
Noah blessed Mr. Herbert with a whisper of a smile, shoved his hands in his jeans pockets, and returned to the safety of his front porch.
“It always gets better. I’ll have to see it to believe it,” Noah scoffed before returning to the security and refuge of his home where no one could ever harm him.
