TW: This story contains swearing, drug use, sex, references to suicide and other mental health issues, as well as the relationship between two boys.
I don’t remember much about what happened. I remember how it felt, waking up. How I had all these wires and tubes coming out of my chest and arms and how, as I looked around the room, there was no one there. I also recall being tied to the bed--that, I remember quite well. I dozed off shortly after noticing it.
When I woke up, Doctor Foster was standing next to me, smiling kindly as she waited for me come to. We talked for a bit. You know how it goes, if your brain is deprived of oxygen for an x amount of time things have a tendency of getting... messy. So we went through the usual questions. I told her my name, my age, where I lived and who my parents were - stuff like that.
Then she asked if I remembered how I got there.
I didn’t answer.
Not because I didn’t know, which I didn’t, but rather because I knew she’d tell me eventually, which she did. We’d both done this before, so I knew she must’ve had a good reason for not smiling like she usually did whenever we found ourselves in this particular situation. It was then that she told me Noah was the one who found me. It was also then that I began feeling like complete and utter shit and started sweating pretty profusely.
Who lets their kid brother witness something like that?
I know I didn’t. I fucking wouldn’t. He was supposed to be out. There was a party or a birthday or whatever it was that made him all but beg our dad to let him spend the night at Joe’s. He was supposed to be out.
She handed me her scarf, which I readily took, even though I had no idea what she was trying to do. It was pretty; black and blood red with this sort of English pattern printed on it. She untied my left hand and touched her own face, as if showing me something. I mimicked her. Turns out I wasn’t sweating. I had started to cry and the fact that I didn’t even recognize it immediately should be enough to illustrate just how fucked up a person I really am.
I stopped answering after that. I didn’t say another word, except for when I told Dr. Foster I wasn’t going to repeat my behavior anytime soon. She looked pleased with the words that floated out of my mouth, most of which were actual truths this time.
One of Doctor Foster’s biggest talents had always been how good she was at discerning between truths, half-truths and lies; one of my biggest talents is knowing just how much information to supply in order to keep our relationship well balanced. Basically, I know when to shut up.
My name is Thomas Hart. I’m seventeen years old and I live in New York City, NY. My parents are Jane and Lucius Hart and I have a kid brother called Noah. This was my second suicide attempt in just as many years, and it earned me a seventy-two hour hold in the psych ward of St. Yve’s hospital. It was also my last one - at least for the foreseeable future. I don’t want to break anyone’s heart. I don’t want my brother or anyone else to suffer too much. So, I’ll wait. At least until I can be sure Noah will be okay.