Saving Quinton (Nova #2)(27)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

“You can do this, Nova,” I say as back down the driveway and turn onto the road. I continue to repeat the mantra in my head all the way to the coffee shop. I order two coffees, not even sure if Quinton drinks coffee or how he takes it, but I make a guess. Then I crank up a little “Help Me” by Alkaline Trio and drive to Quinton’s apartment, trying not to get too upset at the sight of it in broad daylight. But I can’t help it. The sun only makes it look more tragic and fills me with even more hopelessness, but I still park the car. Then I take my phone out of my pocket, flip the video recorder on, and let out a deep breath before I aim the screen at myself.

“Why am I talking to you…I really have no idea, other than that I find it therapeutic,” I say to the camera. “Because when I’m talking to you, I can say what I’m really feeling…and what I’m really feeling is…well, it’s a lot of things. Like for starters, I’m scared, not just for myself, but for Quinton. That place he’s in…it’s horrible. I knew people lived like this in movies and stuff, but seeing it with my own eyes…it’s terrifying.” I pause, glancing at the building. “And I also feel hurt…I mean, he was so, so upset with me last night for being here and all I want to do is help him…the only thing that can get me past that is remembering…remembering how much my mom wanted to help me and how much I shut her out. I didn’t want help, but looking back I think deep down I really did want it, I just couldn’t see past all the dark stuff…until I watched Landon’s video…the one he made right before he committed suicide…in a way, that video woke me up. I’m hoping that Quinton is the same way—that there’s something to wake him up. I have to believe there is, otherwise there’s no hope left. And I’m not ready to accept that yet.” I pause, taking a deep breath before I add, “So here goes. I’m going back in.” I stop talking and click off the camera, putting the phone back into my pocket. Then I get out of the car, making sure to grab the coffees and lock the doors.

The area is eerily silent, like everyone sleeps during the day and only comes out at night. I’m sort of glad, though. It makes walking to the stairs, going up them, and walking to the door so much easier. The hard part comes when I get to the door. I stare at the cracks in it, breathing in the stale air. I’m not sure what to do next, or if I even want to do anything next.

What do I do?

Finally I knock on the door, softly at first, but then I hit it a little harder when no one answers. All I get in return is more silence and I glance back at my car, growing nervous. Should I go? But when I look back at the door, all I can picture is Quinton on the other side, bruised and broken—lost. Just like I was at one point in my life.

I’m not sure what to do and my legs start to feel like rubber as I stand there. Finally I sit down on the ground and lean against the railing, knowing it’s probably filthy. But filth doesn’t matter at the moment and I can handle getting the backside of my shorts dirty. I set the coffees down beside me, read no regrets written on the back of my hand, then touch my exposed scar.

Remember.

I float back into the memory of how bad things were when I fell toward rock bottom, leaning my head back against the railing and staring up at the sky through a hole in the canopy roof above me.

I can’t feel my body. I think I’ve drunk so much that I’ve managed to drown myself. Because that’s what I feel like. Submerged in water, only it’s hot, scorching, yet at the same time my body is connected to the heat so I can’t do anything but let it burn my skin. Slowly.

I want out of it. My body. My thoughts. I want to be above water again or maybe at the bottom. I’m not sure. I’m not sure what I want anymore. What I’m supposed to be doing. So I keep wandering around helplessly, kissing guys I shouldn’t be kissing, not focusing past anything but taking the next step and even that seems difficult.

Maybe I should just stop walking.

I go into the bathroom at my house and don’t lock the door because Landon didn’t lock the door and I want to figure out why he didn’t. Did he want me to walk in or did he just forget…was he just too out of it? I don’t know.

I don’t know anything anymore.

I sink down on the cold tile floor, tears staining my eyes and cheeks. I’ve been crying all night, feeling guilty, aching from the inside, but now suddenly I feel nothing. Emptied. Like all my emotions were drained out through those tears and I’m not sure any feelings are ever going to come back. Maybe I’m broken. Maybe Landon took what was inside me with him. Maybe I don’t even have blood left in my veins.

God, I miss him. Is this what he was thinking right before he left? That he missed someone? Or that he didn’t have life in him? That he felt broken?

I have to know—need to understand—what he felt like when he decided it was time to go forever. Because sometimes it feels like I’m heading to that same place, where giving up seems easier than taking any more steps.

I reach up toward the counter and feel around until I find the drawer handle. I pull it open and without looking in it, I feel around until I find a razor. My fingers don’t shake when I take it out. I kind of expected them to, like they would freak out over the fact that I’m going to do this.

I am.

I bring my hand back toward me and stare at the razor in my hand. I’m not even sure how sharp it is or how exactly to do this. It doesn’t look very sharp and the pink handle makes it look almost harmless. I dare touch my fingertip to the edge of the razor and press down. Nothing. So I slide it up and it slowly splits the skin of my finger open. Dots of blood trickle out and onto the floor around my feet. I stare at them, feeling the burn in my finger, but not really feeling it, which makes me think I might be able to go through with this. Is that what Landon did, too? Did he test what the rope felt like around his neck? Did it burn? Was he afraid? Was he thinking about how he was going to miss me? How much I’d miss him? How much it’d hurt for me to see him like that? Was he thinking at all? I’m not sure. I’m not sure about anything anymore.

I stretch my arm out in front of me, see the vein. It’s faint and small so I pump my fist repeatedly until it’s purple and bulging like it’s angry. Like it’s shouting at me to stop. Don’t do it. I can’t stop. Not until I understand.

I bring my knee up and rest my arm on top of it, my forearm up. I pump my fist over and over again as I move the razor closer, feeling nothing, not until the blade comes into contact with my skin. I feel a hint of cold and I shiver, but I shove the sensation aside and press the blade down. It stings as the skin tears open. I feel it, along with the warmth of the blood dripping out, but I still don’t understand what he was thinking…what made him go through with it—what made him end his life.