An Essay on Death

I don’t know if he’s going to use pills or a shotgun or anything at all. Maybe he’ll just fall asleep and never wake up. Aaron tried a knife against his bare chest. He stopped there, of course. Too much to live for, he said. Exactly how I felt when I took my clammy hands off of my windpipe. Almost there, but not quite. Too much to live for.
         Does he feel that way? I’m not sure. “Please don’t do this,” he said. Code for “please don’t care.”
         What do I do now? I can’t not care. He’s too important. Too much would be gone if he was. But he doesn’t want me. He doesn’t want to talk to me. He wants me out of his life.
         Can Erica help? I don’t know. Does he care enough about her for her to help? Does he care too much?
         Should I call 911? It’s not an emergency. Or is it? Will he go through with it? Can I call them for advice? The suicide hotline was no help. They told me to call 911. But what if…what if?
         Life is taxing. What if he has nothing to live for? Or too much? Does he care about me? Does he want to live for me? Does he have anything else to live for? He’s such a bright, handsome young man…does he know?
         Us teenagers live for sleep. But this boy may never want to wake up. And I don’t know what to do anymore.