Sundays and Suicide

It's too early for this talk of suicide dear, what are you thinking? Going to make your poor mother suffer under the scorching sun as they whitewash your blood from the walls?

As we discuss death and dying in shorthand scratched-up text; planning for the end before we've even had lunch.

(I remember I spent most of that day pacing and wiping away tears because of you)

The phone rang later that night; your voice cracks worse than static across the other line, feelings still the same.
"But you're still here." I say.
"Not for long." you reply.
Silence now, for several minutes and then the line goes dead.

My hands are shaking SCREAMING

Well past midnight and the phone rings again, and I flip it open to see 'goodnight' written in times new roman across the screen. It's a strange kind of relief to see that you haven't written 'goodbye'… not this time anyway.

Tonight I sleep but not dream.

a/n: it's fractured I know... but if you knew the context you'd understand just how upset I was. I will never be able to describe it.