She was living with me. I was driving her to work among countless other places because she didn’t have a car. I might have lent her money, I really don’t remember. I do remember listening to my boyfriend’s voicemail where she left a message saying, “I can’t stop thinking about you and last night.” She called to leave him the message 2-minutes after she finished having lunch with me.
I was devastated. I couldn’t breathe. I went home, waited on the sofa for her to appear. When she came in I told her to get the fuck out, and to never speak to me again. Without any drama, she left. Then that night, she tried to kill herself. She was rushed to the hospital and her stomach pumped. I saw her at work a couple of days later. “Next time you try to kill yourself, don’t fuck it up.”
What kind of demented, piece of shit, asshole says that to someone?
Me. I’m that fucking asshole.
I knew right away how wrong it was. I called my best friend’s mom and told her what I did. Ever caring, she called a suicide prevention team with the police and they went to where she was staying, to try and divert another attempt. She said she was fine. It was fine.
A handful of years later, I joined Facebook. I friended this girl, apologized for being a bag of shit and she accepted my apology. I felt a weight had been lifted. A year later I saw her at The Sand Dollar on Spring Mountain and she was on what I assumed was an incredible amount of cocaine. I couldn’t get a word in. I wanted to leave so badly but she just kept talking, about the old times. No mention of the horrible thing that I had done.
Fast-forward to a couple of months ago. She killed herself. The girl who I told not to fuck it up the next time she tried to commit suicide, successfully killed herself. Did she think about when I said those terrible, terrible words? I hope I wasn’t even a passing thought. That me telling her to get it right didn’t enter her head. I could feel the weight that had been lifted, seep back onto my shoulders.