The Best of Friends

by Lucinda Berry

Self-inflicted gunshot wound. That’s what the doctors in the emergency room said when they told us about Jacob’s injuries.

Becoming a mom birthed my biggest fear—losing him. Sawyer marked my entrance into motherhood.

Every fear I’ve had over the years—each terrorizing thought, every agonizing image of something awful happening to one of my kids—doesn’t even touch the utter devastation in my being. And life will go on without him. That’s the part I hate the most. It can’t. It must stop. Waves of grief strip all concept of time as I disappear into their swirling abyss. And then I’m returned. Depleted and empty. Spent.

Suicide contagion is a real thing in teenagers. Having someone close to you attempt suicide increases your risk.

Alcohol turns him into a special kind of monster—a perfectly articulate and well-poised monster. He doesn’t slur his words or stumble over his sentences. He walks straight and appears aware of himself and his surroundings. You’d never guess he was drunk. It’s why they’ll give him his keys tonight, because they won’t see the darkness that’s taken over his insides.

“It’s like I’m a shadow getting sucked into darkness, but I don’t care. That’s the worst part. I want to disappear.

I always intended to go back and finish my degree, but fear stole my choices one at a time until I didn’t have any left.

The thing nobody tells you about grief is that time moves on. Or my personal favorite that nobody stops telling you—time heals all wounds. As if I want time to go anywhere. I want the world to stop. For every person to quit moving around me. For the screens to quit flashing and the zombies to stop walking so slowly down the streets that they almost get hit by cars. I don’t want the cars to drive or the buses to come, because every minute feels like I’m leaving Sawyer behind and living the life he was supposed to have.