Sans titre

***WARNING***

Be carefull before reading, very graphic scenes of self-mutilation, drugs use and death.

Who would’ve thought I’d grow so attached to an old woman. Well… maybe not that old — she’s only fifty-seven, but still. For the past twenty-two years, it’s been just the two of us against the wind.

We watched her plants turn yellow despite all our attempts to bring them back to life. We cried while watching Brokeback Mountain and swore under our breath while hanging Christmas lights through all the knickknacks cluttering on every somewhat horizontal surface.

Sitting on the couch , the last piece of furniture left in the living room (aside from the lamp, but that doesn’t count as a furniture) I stare at the floor marked with faint scratches from her midlife crisis, when she bought a rabbit very determined to reach the basement through the living room.

“Grab your end.”

Two teenagers each take a side of the couch, getting ready to lift it, completely ignoring me.

“Hey!”

I jump down in one swift motion.

“At least have the decency to pretend you noticed I was here.”

Unsurprisingly, the two workers walk away without answering, leaving me alone and lost in an empty living room.

Jane is leaving. She was offered a new job in another city. She has a few friends here, but they all have families, and they only see each other once every month or two. Her sister and parents live two hours away; she finally has the opportunity to be closer to them.

A shadow on the floor pulls me out of my thoughts. She stands in the doorway, the sun behind her making her hair glow like a halo. Hands on her hips, she looks at the empty house with nostalgia.

Seeing her like that breaks my heart. She was my whole life for years. I went where she went, did what she did — I lived through her. I have very few memories from before her, and I don’t try to remember more. What little I have is enough.

I know that one day, I was sitting on the floor, staring at an orange wall. I don’t know how long I’d been there, but it’s my oldest clear memory. She walked in carrying a mushroom lamp, her face set with determination. Jane swept her gaze across the room, already seeing the future she would build here. She placed the lamp beside me, then gently tapped it. A soft purple glow lit up my face at the same moment she said:

“Now it’s you and me against the wind, Boo.”

She walks toward me slowly. Our eyes don’t meet — I don’t have the strength to look into hers. I don’t have her freedom. She can let herself be carried by the wind. Me… it avoids me, looks away, and sighs in relief whenever it manages to pass me by

At my feet, the mushroom glows, tinting her freckled face a pale violet as she bends down to tap it once, picks it up in her arms, and takes three steps toward the door.

Twenty-two years… and I remember the day I met her like it was yesterday. Jane must share my memory.

Before leaving, she turns around one last time and sweeps her gaze across the room, not quite stopping on me.

“They were good years… but sometimes you have to follow the wind. Goodbye, Boo.”

The wall hasn’t been orange for years. If you scratch a little, bamboo green gives way to sunflower yellow, then bright red. But what I see is sky blue, speckled with faint white stars.

I sit down on the floor and stare at the wall. After all… what else is there to do when you’re dead?

◯◯◯

A noise outside catches my attention. People are talking in front of the door. A muffled male voice reaches me, louder than before:

“Yeah, I’ve got the key. I’m not that out of it, Eddie.”

A dull thud, like something heavy hitting the ground.

“Hold on, I think I put it here.”

A few seconds later, the sound of a lock turning echoes through the empty house.

I lost my sense of time when I died. Maybe Jane left this morning or maybe a year ago, for all I know. But if I judge by the dust that glitters in the air when the door opens and the sun shines in, I would say that several months have passed.

“Damn, Buck! We’re gonna have to air this place out!”

Two men walk in, coughing. One is carrying a box, the other a lamp. The one with the lamp steps further into the room, waving the air in front of him, then turns to the mustached man and says:

“Put that down there. I’ll open the windows while you grab the rest of the boxes.”

“10-4, chief.”

His friend gives him a mock salute with a grin before stepping back outside, still coughing.

I turn toward the man with the lamp. Sitting on the floor, he looks gigantic to me. His plaid jacket barely hides his broad shoulders. My eyes drift to the red mark above his left eyebrow.

He walks toward me, sunlight catching in his short brown curls. He sets his dinosaur lamp down right in front of me and taps the T-Rex’s head, which lights up in a soft green glow. Once he straightens up, a bright, hopeful smile spreads across his face. He looks around the room, taking it all in.

“No more drifting away. We start over, Boo.”

///

“Not convinced about your project, bro.”

I shoot a doubtful look at his attempt at caramel bread. The sticky substance seems determined to resist all efforts to rise.

“Fuck… I used the exact same recipe as usual. I can’t believe caramel can mess it up this bad.”

Sitting at the island for a good hour and a half, I'm trying to help my poor, bewildered Buck succeed in baking his bread. Well… I criticize, and he cooks, that’s what makes us a good team; I think, he works.

Over the past few months, we’ve slowly gotten used to living together. His irregular schedule made it hard to build a routine at first, but we figured it out quickly.

I like him. We have a lot in common — two guys in their thirties with too much free time and a love for documentaries. He also has a lot of friends and family. It’s nice meeting so many new people. I think they like me. At least, no one’s complained.

“Where the hell did I put that damn recipe?”

“It fell on the stool next to me. I’ve told you four times.”

I answer, flat, my head resting in my hand. He finally walks around the counter, leaving a trail of flour behind him.

“Ah! Found it!”

“Only took you four tries. Congrats.”

He ignores me, scanning the recipe with a frown, failing to find any mistake other than the obvious fact that caramel doesn’t belong in bread. With a sigh, he drops the paper and stares at the dense, lifeless dough sitting at the bottom of the big blue bowl.

“Add sugar and make cookies?” I suggest.

After another sigh, my roommate nods.

“I’m about to make the least tasty cookies known to mankind.”

“That’s my boy. Make us cookies, we’ve already got bread anyway.”

The next morning, like every morning, I am woken up by the kitchen coffee maker which strives to spit out its coffee as unsubtly as possible so that everyone is aware of how painful the process is for it.

I stubbornly keep sleeping on the couch, even though there are two empty bedrooms in the house. I really need to invest in a bed.

I roll over with a groan just as the sun attacks me the moment Buck opens the living room curtains.

“It’s daytime.”

“Grnnnng, I reply with great elegance.”

He gets ready, whistling, while I rot on the couch, lamenting my existence. God, I hate mornings.

Within minutes, he’s dressed and ready to go.

“Have a good day. I’ll keep the couch company while you’re gone.”

“Time to go save the world.”

And with that, he leaves. I roll over and go back to sleep.

Four hours later, I’m watching birds through the window facing the backyard when the sound of the front door opening pulls me out of my thoughts. Buck doesn’t get off work for another eight hours… so who the hell is that?

I hurry toward the front of the house, moving as quietly as I can. If we’re being robbed, I fully intend to surprise them.

But it’s not thieves who just walked in.

“Buck?”

He’s standing in the entryway, his bag at his feet, his gaze empty. We’re at opposite ends of the hallway, staring at each other, but his eyes are hollow.

“Buck? What’s going on?”

Without a word, he drops to his knees beside his bag with a heavy thud that must’ve echoed through his skull.

I have no idea what happened, but it has to be bad for him to be like this. Without thinking, I rush to him and drop to the floor, pulling him into my arms.

I don’t know how long we stayed there, gently rocking back and forth, the silence broken only by Buck’s sobs. My legs had gone numb long before we finally stood so he could go straight to his bed.

◔◔◔

The days that followed were all the same.

Buck comes out of his room around noon, eyes swollen and red. He makes himself a coffee, eats a yogurt while staring at the wall. He shuts himself off completely, refuses to say a single word. His phone eventually dies from ringing nonstop, unanswered.

And he stares at the wall.

In the evening, he opens a can of whatever he finds, eats it cold half the time, then goes back to the living room.

And he stares at the wall.

I tried giving him space. I tried talking to him. I tried hugs. I tried distracting him. I tried finding out what happened.

But he stares at the wall.

At 7 p.m., he goes back to his room.

I have no doubt he doesn’t really sleep. The dark circles under his eyes are proof enough of his insomnia.

On the third day, someone knocks on the door. A woman’s voice reaches me, muffled by the distance.

“Buck, open up, it’s Maddie.

Buck doesn’t move. He’s watching the birds with me in the back room.

“Buck!”

I hesitate. If Buck wanted to see Maddie, he’d open the door himself. But at the same time… Buck needs help. More than I can give him.

As I head toward the front, the door opens and Maddie walks in.

“Buck, I’m coming in. Where are you? Your car’s in the driveway, don’t pretend you’re not here.”

“We’re in the back” I answer when Buck doesn’t react.

She comes into view and walks right past me to get to her brother. She pulls up the chair I’d been sitting on thirty seconds ago and drags it closer to him.

“What are you doing here, Maddie?’

His voice is rough, dull. He’s barely drunk water and hasn’t spoken in days, and it shows. Maddie doesn’t look much better.

“You gave me a key, remember?”

“Maddie.”

“You’re not answering calls or texts. Your team and I… we’re worried.”

She moves her chair even closer and places a hand on his forearm.

“Bobby is dead. He made his choice, and there’s nothing you could’ve done to change it. He died so you could live. Don’t waste that sacrifice. Live. Don’t let yourself die here.”

That evening, brother and sister spend it on the couch, eating sushi while watching Brooklyn Nine-Nine.

I can only imagine the pain of losing someone you love. His sister, Hen, and Chim come by one after another throughout the week. None of them want to be alone during the day while their families are at school or work.

Grief is different for everyone, but I don’t think Buck is on the right path.

Eddie has called him several times, and every time, Buck cuts the conversation short.

Chim invited him over for dinner with his niece. Buck said he was already eating with Hen. That night, he ran on his treadmill until his legs gave out and he collapsed.

I feel like I’m living with a ghost. When people are around, he comes alive, pretends to be there—but the moment silence returns, he goes back to wandering, wordless and aimless.

A week after Cap’s death, real life resumes. The coffee machine wakes me up again, but when I look into the kitchen, Buck isn’t there.

“Buck?”

I hear him talking in the bathroom, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. With a groan, I drag myself off the couch and head toward him.

“What’d you say?”

The rest dies in my throat.

He’s gripping the counter so hard his knuckles have turned white. I wouldn’t even be surprised if his fingers left marks in the wood.

A knot tightens in my chest when I see his eyes in the mirror—red, filled with tears.

“Come on, Buck… smile, lift your head, grit your teeth. You’ll get through it”.

He nods, like he’s trying to convince himself everything will be okay, even as his world has fallen apart.

I place my hand over his. My words won’t help him.

///

Getting back into a routine seems to help. He’s not okay—far from it—but he’s better. The dark circles under his eyes have faded, and at night, he turns on the TV.

Tonight, he made us fancy ramen with seaweed, meat, and vegetables. We’re watching The Addams Family, and Buck laughs. Not much—but it’s the first time in eleven days.

Then Bobby’s funeral comes. I’d hoped seeing Eddie would help, but their reunion doesn’t have the effect I expected. He’s found the strength to exist—but not to live.

He wakes up in a foul mood that none of my jokes can shake. The rain outside didn't help when he wanted to go out to train in the backyard.

“34, 35… come on, one more, one more—36!”

Sitting on the ground, I count his push-ups. For over an hour, I watch him sweat himself raw, alternating between planks, push-ups, burpees… It’s the phone ringing that finally pulls him out of his trance.

“Yeah?”

I can’t hear the other person, and honestly, I’m not even sure he can either, judging by how hard he’s breathing.

“Now?”

Silence. He wipes his forehead with his t-shirt, glancing around like he’s searching for an excuse not to go. Eventually, he gives in.

“Sure… yeah. Give me thirty minutes.”

He hangs up, irritated.

“Who was that?”

“Seriously, Eddie couldn’t wait until tomorrow at work to give me back a shirt I forgot four months ago?”

He rubs his face, then grabs at his neck, shoulders, ribs.

I’ve noticed that habit lately. I watch him walk toward the bathroom, fingers tangled tightly in his hair.

He comes back really late for someone who only went to pick up a shirt eight kilometers away—but the bright smile on his face tells me everything’s fine… even though he didn’t bring the shirt back.

◑◑◑

The months go by. Things will never be the same, but our routine stabilizes. We start having people over for dinner again. Buck goes out with Eddie, and sometimes Chris, at least once a week. New recipes appear in the recipe box.

I’ve even had the misfortune, on several occasions, of being interrupted mid-yoga session by my roommate and his unexpected conquests, who burst in and start undressing each other the moment they walk through the door.

I’ve wished more than once that the walls were thicker on those nights.

Today, Maddie came by. She and her brother are having coffee in the living room while I half-listen, watching a squirrel outside.

“Here?”

“Your house is big, and there aren’t two kids running around.”

I must’ve missed something. It’s perfect that there are no kids running around here—let’s keep it that way!

“Exactly, it’s quiet. I don’t need them dropping in. Mom’s going to want to rearrange everything and complain about it all.”

Whenever he’s with his sister, Buck seems eight years old again.

“They’ve got their own RV. They won’t live in the house—just nearby.”

Maddie looks way too proud of her logic. Buck, on the other hand, looks far less convinced.

“They better stay outside… and not for long” he mutters.

“Yeah! Thanks, little brother, love you sooo much”.

Looks like we’re getting two temporary roommates. I’ve never met his parents, but I get the feeling there’s a reason they don’t visit often.

Three days later, they show up. Buck is visibly uncomfortable—hugging the walls, laughing nervously, answering in short bursts.

“Your couch is soft. At least the color’s acceptable.”

His mother makes a face, sitting in my favorite spot, tapping the cushion.

“Honey…”

His father is quieter—criticizes less, but certainly doesn’t compliment. No shit, Buck makes sure to spend as little time as possible in their presence.

The announcement of their divorce affects him less than the fact that they won’t be occupying the guest room for the next two weeks.

The afternoon drags on, and I see Buck losing everything that makes him who he is. His parents aren't just unpleasant; they're literally draining their son's happiness.

After seeing them out, I find him leaning his forehead against the door.

“Buck?”

“I just want some peace. Can’t they just leave me the hell alone? I can’t do this anymore… »

I don’t know how to respond. I’ve always sucked with emotions. I barely understand my own—handling someone else’s leaves me completely lost. I see him falling apart and can’t do anything but watch.

Should I hug him? Give him space? Talk? But say what? Words are so complicated.

I step closer. The second my hand touches his shoulder, the tears he’d been holding back spill over. He collapses to the floor, and we stay there in silence.

Eventually, the tears stop.

“I thought the worst was over… but once you start sinking, three good months aren’t going to fix it.”

He wipes the salt tracks from his cheeks.

“You’re not alone. Everyone crashes sometimes. Your people are here for you.”

“It would’ve been so much easier if it had been me instead of him.”

What do you even say to that? Yeah, being dead would’ve been easier than dealing with Bobby’s death? He would’ve lost another son? I am really not built to be emotional support.

“Fuck…”

With one last groan, he gets up and heads outside to train.

The weeks that follow crawl by. The few days his parents spent in L.A. hit him hard. He spends all his free time pushing himself to exhaustion—lifting, running until his legs give out. Then doing it all over again the next day.

When people are around, he laughs, smiles, plays along—and I get my old roommate back.

But the moment they leave, the life drains out of him again. It’s like all the colours in the room disappears with them.

When I notice the constellation of small bruises scattered across his forearm and left hand, I frown. He ignores me when I ask how he managed to get so many.

Then I notice how he keeps pinching himself. When he’s stressed, when he’s worried, when he’s thinking, when he’s waiting.

Now it’s my turn to sit on the couch, staring at the wall. Those marks remind me of something… but I can’t quite place it.

Oh well. If I forgot, it probably wasn’t worth remembering.

Tomorrow, he’s leaving for the weekend. He and Eddie are going to a firefighter competition in Nashville. I can’t tell if he’s happy or not. He looked confused when he got the invitation, and today he’s packed and unpacked his bag four times.

It’s Monday. He’s not back.

◕◕◕

He’s sitting on the couch, staring at the wall, pinching his arm hard enough to leave crescent-shaped, bloodied marks where his nails dig into his skin.

His eyes are dry. His face is empty. He’s completely still, except for his hand searching for untouched skin.

I remember where I’ve seen marks like that before. Pressing my hand against the window, I look at my arm. Then the other. I find scars on my arms… then my chest… then my legs. I end up in my underwear, realizing Buck is drowning inside himself.

The next day, when I hear the front door open, I hurry to the kitchen to ask how his day went.

A pharmacy bag sits on the counter.

“How was your day?”

Instead of answering, he opens the bag and pulls out a bottle filled with small white pills. He turns his back and quickly takes two.

“That bad, huh.”

With his hands gripping his hair tightly, he begins to pace around the kitchen.

“Fuck!”

I lean over to read the label. I don’t recognize the name, but the word anxiolytic tells me everything I need to know.

“Did the job’s therapist prescribe those?”

“Fucking antidepressants. That’s where I’m at now.”

He drops to the floor, sitting, rocking slightly, still pinching without realizing it.

I might as well not exist—I’m useless right now. I don’t want to leave him alone, but standing here, silent and empty-handed… what’s the point?

So I go watch the birds.

Eventually, he appears in my field of vision, scaring off a robin perched on his bench press.

///

He only wears long sleeves to work now. He comes home looking drained, pale, exhausted. The moment the door closes, he goes straight for his pills.

He switched kinds. These knock him out. I talk to him, tap his shoulder, shout, hit the walls—nothing. He stares at the wall, head slumped, no muscle tone left.

The only sign he’s alive is his chest rising slowly. Ten breaths a minute. I counted.

Yesterday, he dropped to eight for twenty-seven minutes.

Tomorrow, it might six.

Eddie and Chris just left. He didn’t open the door, and I couldn’t bring myself to let them in—not when Buck was already having such a terrible day.

Without surprise, he rushes to his bag of pills and swallows a handful. Sitting on the floor, back against the couch, he scratches his thigh. Long, inflamed red cuts are clearly visible. With his other hand, he chews his nails.

From the armchair, I watch him. What else is there to do? I count. I don’t know anything about medicine, but you don’t need to be a genius to know his medication is going to kill him eventually.

Suddenly, he gets up and walks to the kitchen drawer where the small tools are. I don’t see what he grabs, but he comes back and sits down again.

There’s an X-Acto knife in his hand.

“Buck…” I murmur.

He removes the blade from the handle and presses it against his thigh.

“Please… don’t do this.”

His eyes are glassy, his mouth slightly open as he struggles to breathe. The opioids are flooding his system.

He drags the blade across his skin.

I close my eyes. It doesn’t stop me from hearing him let out a faint sound.

Then a second time. And a third.

When I open my eyes again, the first thing I see is red. The blade was new—sharp. Three deep lines, five or six centimeters long, mark his thigh. He pulled his shorts up to avoid staining them.

The pale skin of his thigh contrasts violently with the bright red blood pooling on either side of his leg. He needs stitches. That’s obvious.

By the fifth cut, I leave. I go watch the birds.

When I come back, the sun has long since set. The house is dark and silent. The oven reads 10:51 PM.

Buck is lying on the floor, lightly snoring. The dark stain beneath him says otherwise. In the dim light, I count thirteen lines. His thigh isn’t pale anymore. Neither is the blade.

I step around him carefully, avoiding the blood, and lie down on the couch.

Tomorrow he’ll do it again. And the day after.

It took him a year after Bobby’s death to fall this deep into depression. Deep enough that I don’t think he’ll come back.

He talks to me less and less, hardly cries anymore. Just stares at the wall, his mind drowned in opioids.

A movement beside me wakes me. Still half-asleep, still intoxicated, Buck tries to get up.

“Let me help you.”

Together, we make our way to the bathroom. He leans heavily on me, his steps unsteady. He drops more than sits into the bathtub. I help him out of his clothes, leaving him in his underwear, then he turns on the water. It immediately turns red.

With a cloth, I gently dab at his wounds. He grimaces with every touch. Clots have formed in his hair—I scrub a little harder. It pulls at his skin, and several cuts start bleeding again.

We wait for the blood to clot again, cleaning what keeps flowing. He leans back against the edge of the tub, eyes closed, lids trembling.

It’s eating me alive, but I need him awake to bandage him properly.

“Hey, Buck. Open your eyes.”

He blinks several times, looking around as if he’s forgotten how he got here. I notice him trying to stand and gently push him back down.

“Easy. We’re not done yet. Stay still. I’ll take care of it. Tell me if it hurts.”

I bend his leg to wrap the bandage around it. Gauze covers the cuts. I go around several times, careful not to make it too tight. He doesn’t make a sound. I take that as a good sign.

I consider leaving him in the tub. Hypothermia isn’t much of a risk in a house that’s twenty-six degrees, but with the blood loss and the drugs, better not take chances. Carefully—very, very slowly—we make our way to his bedroom.

The next morning, he winces putting on his pants, but he goes to work as if nothing happened.

The following week, Eddie and Chris come back. This time, he lets them in. Dinner goes perfectly. Buck is a warm host, attentive to his guests.

“Chris was starting to waste away without your cooking” Eddie jokes.

He doesn’t know both of Buck’s thighs are covered in wounds too deep to leave anything but scars.

“It’s true! Dad tried to make muffins like yours and they turned into little hard lumps that didn’t rise” Chris adds.

“Hey! We said we’d keep that between us.”

His father tries to flick him, but the teenager dodges easily.

They don’t see Buck’s pupils, too small. Only I notice from across the table.

“I’ll make you a whole batch, don’t worry” Buck whispers theatrically to Chris.

That night, he takes his pills—but he doesn’t hurt himself.

It’s when he comes back without his usual pharmacy bag and spends the night pale as a sheet, throwing up, that I realize how out of control his dependence has become.

As if he’d ever had control.

The next shift he comes back with vials. And needles.

It’s noon. A hummingbird is bathing in the bird bath outside.

I hear footsteps dragging down the hallway. They stop at the doorway of the room I’m in.

The chair beside me creaks as he sits. Together, we watch the bird splash around until two others join it, sending water everywhere.

“I thought I imagined you the other night. You were gone in the morning.”

First words he’s said to me in two days.

“Why are you in my house? Why did you help me?”

“I live here. You’re the one who showed up second.”

I turn toward him.

“I couldn’t leave you on the floor like that. You would’ve died.”

“What makes you say that?” He lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

For the first time, our eyes truly meet. Usually, it’s like he’s looking through me. At the same time… he didn’t see me before.

“Because you saw me”

●●●

Later that day, he tries to train, but the strain pulls at the wounds on his legs and biceps. Several reopen. He rarely bothers to bandage them, just washing off the dried blood.

He sits in the sun, watching a drop run down to his elbow. I sit in the doorway, watching him.

“Why don’t you go outside?”

“It’s my house.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“The yard comes with it.”

I have no argument. But it’s my house. I can’t leave it.

I stay in the doorway, and he washes the brownish stain on his arm with his hand wet from the birdbath.Sitting at opposite ends of the sofa, we're watching a fail show. I laugh, and Buck eats his cereal. Not a particularly nourishing supper, but who am I to judge? He's looked at the counter seven times already. I counted.

He finally gets up to carry his empty bowl. At the same time, he takes out a vial and needles like the ones used in hospitals. And pre-hospitals.

Feeling my gaze on him, he abruptly puts them in his sweatshirt pocket.

"What?" he snaps irritated.

"I didn't say anything."

I frown. I've been watching him do drugs and cut himself for months; why is it that today, only, does it bother him that I see him?

“You're looking at me. Don't you have anything better to do? Give me patience.”

“You must have noticed I don't go anywhere. When you're not here, I watch the birds, and when you're here, I watch you."

“Then go watch the birds!” He shouts, pointing to the back of the house.

“It's dark, I won't see them.”

I hesitate, then add:

“You shouldn't stay alone at night.”

“GO!”

Silence. I nod slowly and stand up. Just before leaving the room, I turn around one last time.

“I always pretend you're talking to me when you speak out loud... but that's all it is: pretending. I wouldn't be able to call 911.”

He looks at me, his eyes filled with tears, but his lips are pressed tightly together, forming a thin line. He doesn't ask me to stay, so I leave.

The moonlight, combined with the city's constant light pollution, allows me to see a cat chasing a small mouse. In the living room, the laughter from the television morphs into the serious voices of a police drama, then into those of actors who are probably long dead, judging by the awful sound quality. The monotonous voices of news anchors reporting the same story for the twelfth time today take over.

Going back in the living room, the television shows a man holding a large silver fish.

I walk over to the armchair in the corner of the living room.

Buck is lying on the sofa. Earlier this week, he started expending his cuts to his biceps; today, he's run out of space. His forearms reveal the tissue they're made of.

If he wakes up, he'll never regain full mobility, not even in one of his hands.

One of his arms is pressed against his stomach; his T-shirt and the sofa have absorbed all the blood. The second one hangs in mid-air; the puddle on the ground is an affront to life.

He is so pale I can hardly believe he's still alive. His breathing is labored. His chest barely rises. His lips are blue.

6 breaths

He’s working tomorrow. His absence won’t go unnoticed for long. Eddie will call, then Chim and Hen. When evening comes, Eddie will make a detour. No one will open the door, but the car in the driveway and Buck’s silence will push him to use his spare key.

Inside, there will be nothing but silence and darkness. A metallic smell will hit him the moment he steps into the house. His quick sweep of the place will end the instant he sets foot in the living room.

5 breaths.

He will find his best friend’s body. He will want to start resuscitation manoeuvres before realizing the body is cold and that rigor mortis has begun to take hold of the small and medium joints. He will scream, but I will be the only one to hear him.

Or maybe Athena will stop by during the day. Hen will call her to check in, since he’s not answering anyone. She will knock on the door, notice Buck’s car, and circle the house, peering through the windows. The curtain above the sink isn’t drawn; she will see him from there.

4 breaths.

She will run to the door, kick it in with her heel while calling for an ambulance on the radio. She will grab him by the shoulders to wake him, shake him while calling his name again and again, but will reach the same conclusion as Eddie. It’s over.

Right now, it’s 2:24 a.m. His shift starts at 8. For every minute that passes after a cardiac arrest without intervention, there is a 10% decrease in the chances of resuscitation.

3 breaths.

Opioids are extremely addictive substances. And deadly. The amount of ink needed to print a single “.” is equivalent to a lethal dose of Fentanyl. Morphine, Codeine, Fentanyl, Oxycodone, Hydromorphone.

They bind to mu, delta, and kappa receptors, dull sensations, alter consciousness, slow breathing, cause miosis (constriction of the pupils). Only the administration of Naloxone can stop the symptoms for about thirty minutes before a second dose is required.

2 breaths.

But he won’t have any Naloxone.

1 breath.

The human body contains an average of 5L of blood. Losing 2L is fatal. The amount he has lost is impossible to estimate, since the tissues have absorbed so much. If I double what’s on the floor, the 2L are easily reached.

Hemorrhagic shock would have killed him if the drug hadn’t.

.

.

.

.

.

His body tenses. The hollows of his clavicles sink in. His mouth opens and closes, trying to draw in whatever air it can. Agonal breathing is, unfortunately, not effective breathing. He is exhausting the little energy he has left.

His heart burns through all the oxygen in him, beating furiously, but the lack of blood also means a lack of oxygen, since it is what carries it.

He is short on blood, he is short on oxygen—his whole body is screaming in pain.

I move closer to my friend and take his hand. It is cold and sticky.

It’s the first time I’ve witnessed someone die; I probably looked like this too, 24 years ago. A dead mind in a body fighting for two, just to live a few seconds longer.

His fingers clenched around mine slowly loosen, one after the other. His face, betraying his pain, relaxes. He has stopped fighting.

We both failed.

///

I must have fallen asleep, because I wake with a start when Buck moves the arm I had been leaning against, sitting on the floor.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, grimacing at the sight of his ruined furniture. His T-shirt looks as good as new.

“Sorry about yesterday, I don’t know what came over me, I really wasn’t doing well.”

He smiles as he lifts his head.

“I’m better today.”

I smile back at him.

“I believe you.”

A comfortable silence settles in, undisturbed by any breathing.

Out of habit, he runs a hand over his arms; quickly, he lowers his gaze to note the absence of open wounds. Only wide white lines, long since healed.

“How…”

He starts, then stops. He looks up at me, questioning.

Before I can answer, three knocks echo against the door.

“Fuck, I was supposed to be at work at 8!”

He’s on his feet and at the door in four seconds flat. But he doesn’t open it.

“Buck! Open up, it’s Eddie!”

Three more knocks. I join him in the entryway. Standing in front of the closed door, he doesn’t make a move to open it.

“I can’t open it, can I."

“I’m sorry.”

The sound of keys jangling can be heard.

“I’m not supposed to be able to run like that—the lines hurt too much when I run.”

The door bursts open, Eddie rushing inside, his face set with worry and determination.

“Buck! I’m coming in, okay?”

He takes a step and enters, passing right by us. The house is dark, the curtains are still all drawn, and a metallic smell fills the air.

Panic seeps into Eddie as he begins to realize that something far worse has happened than any of the theories they’d been betting on today.

“He’s going to find me.”

Buck’s whisper is barely audible beneath the sound of Eddie’s rapid, ragged breathing. He heads straight for the bedroom, passing the living room where he catches a glimpse of a vaguely human shape on thecouch. He backtracks, more slowly this time.

As long as he doesn’t see him, Buck is alive. It’s like the cat in the box—he’ll stay alive as long as Eddie holds himself back from looking.

“Eddie…”

Buck starts walking toward his best friend, but I grab his arm, shaking my head.

“This is his moment. He has to go through it alone. There’s nothing you can do for him anymore.”

I see the tears in his eyes—they seem to say this wasn’t how it was supposed to end.

The bubble of calm bursts. Eddie circles the couch in three strides and collapses to his knees beside the body.

He shakes him, checks his pulse, counts his breaths.

“No, no, no, no, no, you don’t get to do this to me.”

With a powerful motion, he pulls Buck onto the floor and starts compressions.

“Siri, call 911.”

It’s ringing.

He’s crying—he can see the elbows are locked, that the head doesn’t move.

It’s ringing.

The body is as cold as the floor and white as plaster.

It’s ringing.

The facial muscles are frozen in that grimace all the dead wear.

“911, what is your emergency?”

He stops compressions.

“Hello? Can you hear me?

He wipes his tears, sniffles as he pulls his phone from his pocket.

“Paramedic Eddie Diaz. I have a 9-E-1 at 144 McGuire Street. Male, 34 years old. Rigor and lividity present. No RCR in progress.”

“An ambulance is being dispatched.”

He doesn’t listen to the rest and hangs up.

We stand at the entrance to the living room and silently watch him lean over and press his forehead against Buck's cold one.

So faint we can barely hear him, Eddie speaks again:

“I’m so sorry… I should have known, I should have pushed you to talk. You would’ve hated me, but you’d still be alive. I need you, Buck. I can’t raise Chris without your help… and how am I supposed to work without you?”

He straightens, noticing the state of the body for the first time since he arrived. Seeing the thick pink lines that had time to heal, intertwined with the more recent reddish-brown ones. And the needle marks in

the crook of his elbow.

“It’s been months and I didn’t see anything. We all failed you. No one ever bothered to ask the right questions… I hope you’ve found peace. Rest well, my friend.”

He leans down again, this time to place a chaste kiss on his forehead.

Buck follows him with his eyes as he takes the blanket from the armchair and spreads it over the body. I watch him instead—his posture relaxed for the first time in I don’t even know how long. His eyes holding grief, relief, and helplessness.

“What now?”

He asks me without taking his eyes off Eddie, who has just noticed the opioids on the counter.

“We wait. They’ll come for your body, the house will be cleared out and sold, and someone else will move in. We can watch the birds together.”

“No.”

“Then I’ll watch them alone.”

He finally looks away, turning toward me. A Buck I haven’t seen in a very long time stands before me, a cocky smile on his face.

“I’m dead. Who can stop me from doing anything?”

With determined steps, he heads for the door. On the other side, the ambulance is pulling up. The body is cold; nothing is urgent anymore.

Buck places his hand on the handle. He turns back, his smile lighting up his whole face.

“Do you really think I never tried? We can’t get out.”

“Stop fighting the wind. Let it carry you, Boo.”

I have no one to say so I’ll say it here.

In 24h I’ll be dead for 6 years now.

The 14th October 2019 at 21h I’ve swallowed so many pills someone smaller would have died, but I wasn’t smaller. I’ve kissed all my family members, my mom, my dad, both of my sisters and my brother. I’ve told all of them I love you and went in the bathroom. They weren’t worried, I’ve been doing it for years now, knowing one day I’ll be gone and wanted our last words to be I love you. I took twice the dose I planned and spend the worst night ever. Felt my pulse roaming in my body, my breath shortening. I was hot then cold. I was 16 and never planned to be 17.

Then my alarm rang. I woke up threw up and said to my sister I would not go to school that day. I was already planning to go walking on the train tracks but didn’t, I was so weak. I called 811, it’s a number in Canada to talk to a nurse, I wanted to know if I waited would I died. She said no, if I didn’t died in the first hours then I would live. She asked my adress and I gave her after a long pause. 2 minutes later an ambulance was puling in my driveway.

I saw the look in both of my parents’ eyes when they learned their first born tried to kill themself and had been cutting themself for years without them or anyone for that matter ever knowing. I spend 3 days in paediatric then 3 weeks in child psychiatry. I’ve thought about those 3 weeks for 2 years straight, every single day that passed I thought about it and feared of being locked again. Every time I closed my eyes I was in that shower with no lock. Every night I was back in that bed with someone coming to check me every hour. I remembered sitting in my chamber not having the permission to get out of said chamber or even opening the door. Just sitting on that bed waiting. Waiting all day long. The only activities were eating. They tried to speak to me but I was unable. No word were coming out so I sat, I listened them talking till they gave up.

I planned to died that day for a week. I thought last math class, last bus trip, last time seeing my friends. I chosed a long weekend, my sister took nice pictures of us in the back yard with the oranges leaves. I thought it was a good idea, they will have recent pictures where I’m smiling for my funeral. We went to a hunted village for Halloween that weekend. It was a nice weekend. I had plan to died that day at 16 but when I woke up it was the 15th October and I was 17.

At this day my birthday is always tainted with the fact that I wanted to died 1,2,3,4,5 and now 6 years ago day for day. It took 3 more years before looking at me in the mirror thinking I want to live. For 6 years I’ve been cutting myself so deep the scars will never leave, so deep I scared myself many times.

I’ve made a friend and she forced me to be happy. She didn’t care I wasn’t talking, didn’t care I was a bitch wanting to be left alone. No one had ever succeed to get words from me about what was going on in my head cause I never had been able to. I was 20 and told her she saved my life, we both cried that day.

Tomorrow I should have been dead for 6 years. In 2 days I’ll be 23. I don’t want to die even if the idea of my death doesn’t spook me, I still wouldn’t be sad if I died but don’t pursue killing myself anymore. I’ve cut myself for 6 years and haven’t touched a blade in that purpose in 3 years. I’ve always told myself “ not today, not tomorrow, clearly not next week and probably not next month either but one day, ont day I’ll be better”.

Today I feel way better, you don’t realize of much it drowns you, how everything small feels like the end of the world. A bad day doesn’t even last a day now. I can fail and not feel like a failure, I can break things and I still be happy. Breathing is easier, talking is easier, everything is. It’s not perfect and never will be, every years at my birthday the memories come back and I ask myself what if.

I see what I’ve achieved and I’d like to say I wouldn’t have wanted to miss any of it but it would be a lie. My life is good don’t get me wrong.I have a good job, money is good, I have many close friends and relatives I would gave my life for, but I wouldn’t be sad if I died live in the spot. It’s one of the reason I can’t tell them what I tell you, they would worry and I’m a paramedic I know very well how locking someone up is easy if they show any signs of dark thoughts.

Writing it down helped a lot thru my journey in and post depression, I haven’t done it since last year same date in my blue Canada notebook. I hope this post helps someone even if it’s a bit dark and doesn’t give as much hope that everything will eventually by okay but I don’t want to lie. I did for so long, I have to at least be honest here.