High School Writing Project Anthology Short Story Collection

Yeah, sure, I tried to kill myself. What do you care? Why should you care? You don't even know me and the people who did know me didn't even care. John said that I was wrong. John said that everybody has at least one person who cares whether he or she lives or dies. Let me explain. John is well, my guardian angel. I never would have believed that guardian angels really exist. When I told John my theory, he looked hurt and said, "I'm here, am I not? Do you think you're talking to yourself? I'm as real as you are. Angels have feelings too, you know." Great, so maybe I really did have a guardian angel. He turns out to be a sensitive one and now I've insulted him. I can't even die right, I thought to myself. I still wasn't completely convinced. "If you're my guardian angel, where are your wings? Where's the flowing spotless white robe?" "Rick," John answered, "this isn't a movie. This is, rather was, your life." Then he paused and added with a wink, "I only use the robe and wings for pictures." Brilliant, I thought. This guys thinks he's a comedian. John continued, "Actually, I can take any form I need to." John stood before me as a man of about thirty-three years old. He was tall and muscular. His wavy black hair was brushed forward. He reminded me of one of those guys who has this really nice wife and four kids as well as tons of women chasing him, begging him to break his marriage vows. Of course, virtuous guy that he is, he always refuses the ladies and their advances. Anyway, I'm getting off the subject. I hope I'm not confusing you. Let me start from the beginning... It was a Friday afternoon. There was a half day at school. I got home around one o'clock. I had made up my mind that morning in Miss Johnston's English class. She was talking about Shakespeare and Queen Somebody or Other. If there was one adult I could have talked to about what was going on in my life, it would have been her. Miss Johnston was young, pretty, and really sweet. However, she was a teacher so what would she know about being a seventeen year old kid? When I got home from school, I had to decide HOW. There were lots of options: shooting myself, hanging, poisoning, prescription d**g overdose, jumping from a bridge, a car "accident," gassing myself with car exhaust in the garage, etc. There were probably dozens of other ways I hadn't even considered. Shooting myself was out since I didn't have access to a firearm. I didn't have my own car so that eliminated a number of possibilities right there. I'd have to think of something practical and readily available. Razor blades! I could slit my wrists. That seemed easy enough. I wanted to pay everyone back for the way they had made me feel. I also wanted to escape those feelings. I had alternate sentiments of anger and depression. At first, I thought I should die in my bedroom. I spent most of my time there trying to find the comfort when I was by myself that I couldn't find when I was with other people. Then I thought that the living room might be a better choice. At least there, I could be the center of attention in our family's Grand Central Station for once. I couldn't wait to see their reactions. Finally, I realized that I wouldn't see their reactions because I would be dead. Oh well, they wouldn't really care anyway. I walked into the bathroom and opened the medicine cabinet. A new package of razors had to be opened. The plastic casing broke easily. I picked up a razor blade. It got caught in a ray of sunlight coming through the window. The reflection of the sunlight blinded me for a second. Ever so carefully, I carried the blade into the living room. I think Miss Johnston would have called that an example of irony. What's the point of carrying a sharp object carefully so you don't cut yourself if your goal is to slice your body open with it when you get to your destination? The light in the center of the room shone directly above me. I pulled the shades down, looked around the room and inhaled deeply. This was the last time I would ever see my house or my furniture. I said, "Good-bye" out loud. I don't know why. It just seemed appropriate. I guess I thought that the furniture might miss me. As I stared at the razor blade, it became the brightest object in the room. Next, it was the only object in the room. I held it up in my right hand. I closed the fingers of my left hand and made a fist in order to push the veins closer to the surface of the skin and make them more visible. My last thought was that I'd be one of the 35,000 people per year, 96 per day, 4 per hour, one every 15 minutes who actually completes the act of suicide. This would be my 15 minutes in the imaginary spotlight. The cold metal touched my warm skin. I applied the pressure and a chill ran down my spine. A tear came to my eye and the blood started to drip. Damn, nobody told me this was going to hurt so much. It was the worst physical pain I ever felt in my life. I comforted myself with the thought that all my failures were over. My mistakes were behind me. They made no difference now. I took a deep breath, bit my lip, and pressed the blade harder. I moved it down my arm slowly. I repeated the procedure a little to the left, hoping to hit a better spot and bleed out faster. The bright blood began to stain the pale blue carpet. The clock chimed one-thirty as if it were my first funeral bell. I dropped from weakness. I never even felt my body hit the floor. Suddenly, I didn't know where I was, only that I was no longer in my own living room. A couple blue jays squawked as they flew past me and into a wooded area. I looked down when I felt tall grasses hitting me in the legs. I was standing on the edge of a field and the tall grasses were swaying in the wind. In the distance, beautiful mountains rose so high that they seemed to disappear into the clouds. That's when I saw John. He came from nowhere. One second I was standing there all alone among the natural splendor and the next second, John was there too. I felt his presence. It was almost, but not quite, overwhelming. He looked me in the eye. "Hello, I'm John. I'm your guardian angel," he said casually. "Oh, my God!" I blurted out. John grinned. "Not quite, but you've got the right idea." You already know what happened next. It was the part about me not being sure if I really believed in angels, guardian or otherwise. After John convinced me of his existence, he explained his mission to me. "Rick, you are very lucky," he began. I cut him off right away. "Lucky? Typical of adults, and adult angels too apparently. My life is so miserable that I just killed myself and you're standing here telling me how lucky I am! Yeah, right!" "You have been given a second chance to evaluate your life," John said. "Where am I?" I asked. "At the gates of heaven," he said simply like he told people that every day. Come to think of it, he probably did tell people that every day! "I don't see any gates," I observed. John explained patiently, "The gates are symbolic. They help humans comprehend something almost incomprehensible to them. This is the place that the "Big Boss" decides where each and every human must spend eternity. Heaven or hell – the place where each person's life has led him or her. You'll learn more about this when the time comes." "I just killed myself. Isn't this THE time?" "Maybe and maybe not. As I was saying before you interrupted earlier, you have been given a second chance. Very few people have this opportunity. God has asked me to show you that you have everything to live for." "I don't understand..." I said. "You will," John promised. He touched my sleeve and suddenly we were in the back of my parents' car. Mom was driving and Dad was in the passenger seat. John said that we could observe them, but we could neither be seen nor heard. "What are we doing here?" I questioned. "God has granted you the special grace of finding out what will happen to the people you care about after your own death." I didn't have time to react as I suddenly became aware that my parents were arguing. I sarcastically mumbled, "What a shock!" John shot a disapproving look my way. "What? You said they can't hear us so I can say whatever I want." "There's a reason God gave you two ears and one mouth," John said. Responding to my look of confusion, he continued in his angelic wisdom, "So you can listen twice as much as you talk." My parents continued to argue in the front seat. "Why can't you see that I love you?" my father screamed unexpectedly. "I haven't heard you say that in years," my mother responded while on the brink of tears. She went on courageously, "I wish Rick were here. I know it's been six months, but I want him to see us now. We drove him to it, you know. We knew that it was hurting him terribly, but we kept on talking about divorce. We kept insisting that he choose which one of us he wanted to live with. It's our fault. If he only knew that we still loved him – and each other." "I'm here, Mom. Don't cry," I whispered. John reminded me that we couldn't be seen or heard. I felt stupid. Obviously, I had already died so my words were inconsequential. All of a sudden, I realized that the car was moving down the street, but I wasn't. It was like John and I were floating above the scene instead of being part of it as we had been just moments earlier. The last thing I saw before the car disappeared in the distance was a tear on my father's cheek. I had never seen him cry before. My brother Alan is ten years older than I am. He hadn't lived at home since he left for the seminary when I was in middle school. He's a priest so naturally our next stop was at St. Joan's church. Alan walked around the church changing the seasonal missals in the pews. He was alone. He was thinking out loud and his deep voice echoed in the spacious area. "How could I not notice? God, why didn't You show me? I'm trained to deal with these things. Rick should have come to me; I would have helped him." Alan sat down in one of the pews. He had a sad, lost look in his eyes as he said, "Rick was my kid brother. He looked up to me. I hate to think of all the times I let him down over the years like when I wouldn't give him a ride to the mall or let him come with me and my friends to the movies. I didn't want to be seen with a little kid – I thought I was so cool. Actually, I was a real jerk." Alan put the kneeler down. He made the sign of the cross as he knelt. He stared at the large crucifix over the altar and said, "Dear God, I know my brother committed a grievous sin, but please, in Your infinite mercy, go easy on his soul. He was only seventeen." Why hadn't my big brother told me all this stuff when I was alive? I always thought that he hated me. OK, priests don't really hate people. I thought he disliked me – a lot. At the very least, I had always thought he looked at me as more of a burden or responsibility than a friend. Watching him there in the church, I didn't know what to think. I did resent him for being born first. I know that wasn't his fault, but he was older and he always made sure I knew it. It was hard to follow in his footsteps. My grades weren't too bad, mostly B's. Alan always earned straight A's. My parents and teachers never let me forget that fact. Alan removed the white Roman collar from his shirt and held it out in front of him. "Maybe I don't even deserve to wear this collar. If I couldn't take care of my own brother when he needed me most, how can I expect to take care of anyone else? Maybe I made a mistake thinking I could be an effective priest." I turned to my guardian angel and said, "He can't stop being a priest because of what I did. I need to talk to him, to tell him how much I admire him for what a good person he is. I want to tell him how much the people of the parish love him and depend on him." John just shook his head slowly. "I'm sorry. Our time here is finished."