The Narrator And His Thoughts On Deserved Endings

I don't know if I can do his story justice. How can I sum up multiple lifetimes worth of misery in one book? The truth is, I can't. I'm not that good of a writer, nor did I experience any of it for myself. I never experienced those years of abuse and mental torture. I lived a privileged life only marred by my poor health. So, I'm not going to even try to write from his point of view, I'd only mess it up.

He loved to talk, and he must have thought I was a good person to talk to. I never had much to say, I was content to listen. Even in my youth, I was never much of a talker. I was a writer, though not a very good one.

My only time seeing him in person was when I was admitted to the hospital.

When I first entered the psych ward, I was immediately accosted by him.

His eyes were wide and manic, he looked like he was always a breath away from breaking out into a sprint and running away. He had a scratch on his face, it looked like it had been done with fingernails. It had scabbed up and you could tell that it would leave a scar.

"What are you in for?" he asked me as if we were in a prison. In some ways, we were. We couldn't leave, we were monitored at all times, and had to wear shitty paper clothing. Not to mention the strip search that took place beforehand where the nurses diligently marked down any scars I had before entering. Luckily, they let me keep my underwear on, I don't think I could have handled that indignity.

I was so shocked at the sudden interrogation that I didn't answer right away.

"So, what are you in for?" he asked again. He stuck his arm out, showing off the myriad of scars that lined his forearm. There were more scars than unblemished skin.

He peered down at my arm and grabbed it, inspecting the scars on my arm. There were considerably less scars than he had. I guess you could say I was a novice in a subject no one should become an expert in.

We started talking about why we were here. I kept it short and sweet.

"I’d like to keep that private." I'd told him, not meeting his gaze.

"It’s okay, you don’t need to tell me." he'd responded. I later learned that he took it upon herself to greet every new visitor, as she'd been there the longest. He'd show them the ropes and help them get situated. As this wasn't his first time, he knew the nurses by their first names and could walk around blindfolded.

Most people would have opened up and talked more. Talked about why there were there and all that jazz. Not me, I already told you that I wasn't a good speaker.

So, he talked to me. It was like talking to a brick wall that frowned and nodded.

I listened to his story from start to finish.

I imagined I was a ghost observing her life up until he got to the hospital, and I met him in person.

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He'd tried to kill himself three times.

That's right, three. Each time he'd take more and more pills, to the point he had seizures and passed out. But each time the doctors would bring him back from the brink of death. He hated doctors.

You could say he had a guardian angel watching over him. I've always thought he had a demon on his shoulder, making him suffer with no freedom in sight.

We kept in touch through text for a few months. We didn’t talk much -about once a week- but it was nice to talk to someone.

We both got into college. USF was the school of his dreams; USF was the only school I managed to get a scholarship for. We decided to share a dorm because neither of us knew anyone else.

He became my roommate and best friend. I majored in English because I wanted to become a writer. He majored in Mechanical Engineering because he was a genius who wanted to change the world. He could have done it too. He was just that smart.

We both went to therapy regularly. I got better and stopped being haunted by the ghosts of my past. My scars became faded and so did my memories. I wasn’t perfect, but I was doing alright.

He never got any better, he got worse. 1 year, 9 months, and 19 days after we first met, we talked for the last time.

It wasn’t anything deep or meaningful. I was complaining about an exam coming up in a few days that I’d completely forgotten about.

1 year, 9 months, and 20 days after we first met., I was in the USF library trying to study for a test.

1 year, 9 months, and 20 days after we met, he jumped off the skyway bridge.

There wasn’t a reading of a will, there wasn’t a funeral. His mom didn’t really care about him at all.

Maybe his life would have been better had those around him been more empathetic. There were people who tried to help, but they didn’t know everything that was going on with him, they only knew a few little snippets.

This story will be written from the perspectives of an outsider. We are all outsiders to the struggles of others. Some scenes will be from the perspective of someone I interviewed, some will be from my perspective, and some will be from slightly… stranger perspectives.

I was originally going to change the ending; I was going to change his ending. It wouldn’t have been a rags-to-riches story- more of a rags-to-middle class story- but it still would have been happy.

You, dear reader, deserve a happy ending.

However, why should I change his story? Did God change his story for the better?

John didn’t have a happy ending, so why should you? Why have you done to deserve a happy ending?

Why didn’t he deserve a happy ending?

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This story begins in an unconventional way.

It doesn't begin with the beginning of life or in the middle.

It doesn’t even begin chronologically from the past to the present. There is no clear beginning or middle. There is, however, a clear end. His end.

There will be many tangents, many what ifs, and many moments of self-incrimination. I’ll be a fly on the wall, a ghost in the machine.

I will -we will- be witnesses to his life.

Like all the best stories, this one begins at the end. Or rather, his third near end.