A/N: This is the prequel to my story "Wilson & Taylor."
This was my chance. I was going to be home alone for the first time in months. Being in a family of six, it's rare that I have the house to myself. Who knows when I'd get another opportunity like this? So I decided to go for it.
Admittedly, I was scared. Terrified. But I didn't think I could stand it for much longer. I'd already had a panic attack today. I couldn't take even one more.
My two sisters were safe and sound at their friend's house, my brother was at lacrosse practice, and my parents were leaving to see a movie. I'd already told them that I didn't feel like going.
"You sure you don't wanna come, Wilson?" Dad asked.
"No, I have a headache." I lied.
My dad shrugged and put on his coat. It was a cold January day, and the dark clouds outside threatened to rain. I watched as Mom picked up her purse and Dad took the car keys from the hook on the wall.
I realized with extreme sadness that this would be the last time I'd ever see them. My eyes started welling up, but I fought to hide my tears. I loved my parents more than anything. They'd always been there for all of us, and had loved us all unconditionally. They'd raised us well. I would truly miss them.
Unable to stop myself, I threw myself at my mother and gave her a giant bear hug. She returned the hug, laughing.
"I love you, Mommy." I told her, trying to sound playful instead of sentimental. But my eyes threatened to tear up again nonetheless.
"Love you, too." She laughed casually.
I turned to my father and gave him a hug as well. This wasn't our usual routine, hugging whenever anyone left the house. And they probably sensed that I was acting strange. But I didn't care. This would be the last time I would hug them, touch them, speak to them, see them.
"Bye, Dad." I said. Little did he know that I was saying goodbye forever.
"See ya." He chuckled, patting me on the back.
I backed out of our hug and watched them walk out the door.
"I love you!" I called from the doorway while they got into the car. They needed to know.
Dad furrowed his brow at me, but still smiled. They both murmured a "love you too" and got in the car.
I watched them drive away, this time letting the tears form and escape. They had given birth to me, they had spent every single day with me throughout my entire fifteen years of living. And now the next time they would see me would be in heaven.
If I make it there.
Even though they were already out of sight and long gone on their way to a fun day at the movies, I waved. I sobbed, my face soaked.
"Goodbye." I whispered, "I love you."
I stood at the doorway for another fifteen minutes or so, just thinking. It had been hard to say goodbye to my parents, but it had been much harder to say goodbye to Taylor earlier today.
We'd last seen each other at school. I'd met him at his locker after class. We'd casually chatted about the days events. And then I'd said goodbye. I don't think he noticed the tears welling up in my eyes. He probably just assumed that I was saying goodbye for now, as in "see you later." But I wouldn't be seeing him later. I would never get to see him again.
Taylor was my best friend. I'd known him for eight years. We were extremely close. Yet he still had no idea what I was about to do. He still had no idea that I was even sad at all. He thought everything was fine and dandy.
I wish he was right.
And even though we were extremely close, he had no idea how I really felt about him. He had no idea that I was gay. Granted, I'd only figured it out a month or two ago, so it wasn't like I'd been keeping secrets from him for years. But still, my best friend in the entire world didn't know. Nobody did.
And that's the way I wanted to die. I'd take my secret to the grave.
Part of me wanted to tell Taylor how much I loved him. Perhaps I'd write him a note and leave it in my pocket for everyone to find after I was already gone. But I thought that was a little too dramatic.
Finally closing the front door, I deemed myself ready. I turned to face my empty, quiet house. I was so used to it being filled with noises and people. But I was alone, and I liked it that way. It was refreshing to hear dead silence, the kind that makes your ears ring. I took a deep breath, and decided to go through with my plan before I had the chance to back out.
I walked quickly to the kitchen and up to the countertop. A block of knives was sitting next to the sink. I looked through each of them and picked out the sharpest, biggest one. It would get the job done, certainly.
I turned around and froze. Did I really want to do this on the kitchen floor? Probably not. In a daze, I walked through the kitchen, up the stairs, and down the hall. I walked directly into my bedroom. I'd cleaned it up, not wanting to leave a mess behind. It looked nice. I cried again, knowing that this was the last time I'd ever be in this room.
This was my room, the place where I could be alone when I needed to. It was the place where I let out all my emotions when no one was looking. That bed, so warm and inviting, was the place where I shed all my tears.
I decided I couldn't do it in here. I wanted this room to stay perfect, the way it was. I wouldn't dare mess up it's serenity by dying in here. I turned instead to my bathroom. I walked in confidently with my shoulders back and chest out. I held the knife firmly. As soon as I entered the bathroom, for some reason I slammed the door shut, loud enough to disrupt all the calm in the empty house. I sank to the floor and started crying again.
This is where I'll die. I'll never go anywhere else ever again.
Although I held the knife firmly, practically squeezing it, I shook with emotion. I sobbed hysterically and felt another panic attack coming on.
No. I can't handle one more.
But it came anyway, pushing through all the walls I'd put up to fight it. It broke through every corner of my mind, bringing up memories and thoughts that made me scream with agony.
Unknowingly, I laid down on the freezing cold white tile floor. Several spasms erupted from my body, but I still kept a firm grip on that knife. My lungs threatened to clench themselves closed, giving me an asthma attack. But the feeling passed, and although my breathing was strained, I didn't need my inhaler.
My eyes were so sore, my body was so tired, my mind was so exhausted. I couldn't wait for it to be over. I was so sick of all this misery. I'd cried too many tears, suffered too many attacks. I couldn't handle it anymore. This was the right decision.
For a long while, I'm not sure how long, I simply lay there. My attack subsided and left me broken and spent. My mind wandered and I started thinking about all my lasts. The last movie I saw, the last thing I ate, the last song I heard. It was heartbreaking, but I felt I needed to remember these things in my last moments. I thought they were important for some reason, even though I wouldn't be around to remember them tomorrow.
I started rethinking my decision. Was this really the right thing? Did I really need to die? I'd been contemplating it for weeks now, and I had come to this decision a few days ago. But what if I was wrong?
Then I thought, what was there left to live for? Taylor would never love me. I was so terrified of coming out that I refused to do it. And if I never came out, I would have to live a lie. That seemed to be worse than death. And coming out would be too big of a risk. What if my parents hated me? What if my friends hated me? I wouldn't be able to handle that, and I'd just end up right back here. The only difference would be that everyone would know my secret, and that's how they'd remember me.
I couldn't let that happen.
After perhaps an hour of contemplating all of this, I couldn't take it anymore. My emotions and thoughts were so confusing and terrifying. I had been trying to untangle my thoughts for so long, but now I was giving up.
This was it. I was going to die. My pathetic, miserable life was about to be over. I just hoped I could die with some dignity. At least no one would ever know that I'm gay.
I sat up again, shivering from laying on the cold tile for so long. I held the knife in my left hand and held up my right wrist. I thought that cutting my non-dominant hand first would be beneficial for some reason. Since I was left-handed, I went with my right arm.
I steadied the knife. I took a deep breath.
"It's gonna be okay." I told myself, "You'll be fine."
I started crying again.
"You'll go to heaven." I tried to convince myself.
I was sobbing violently now.
"It'll be okay." I whispered.
After gathering my courage, I placed the tip of the blade on my right wrist. The metal was freezing against my skin.
I decided on a plan. I was going to cut vertically. I'd heard somewhere that that was the quickest way to bleed out. I knew it had to be deep, really deep. It would be disturbing, but it would work.
I slowly dug the knife into my flesh, penetrating my white skin. Blood oozed out immediately, and it hurt like hell. But I didn't stop. I dragged the sharp blade down my arm, as deep as I could go. It was an eerie feeling, having that cold metal blade cutting through my flesh. It was sickeningly painful.
I groaned and screamed, tears running down my face again, but this time with physical pain. I refrained from cursing, not wanting to soil my last few moments with words like that. For some reason, I thought that was important.
Once I'd cut through my entire right arm, one long deep slice that was about seven inches long, I collapsed to the floor in agony. Blood covered my shirt, the floor, the knife, my hand. It was everywhere, turning the clean white tiles red. It was so painful that I had to squeeze my eyes shut for at least a full minute. My body shook violently. And while it was unbearably painful, it was almost enjoyable. It was like releasing everything. Like cutting out a tumor.
Through my screams I started laughing. It was incredible how much better my mind and heart felt. Although my body was shaking in pain, my soul was relieved.
After a few minutes, I decided that I needed to finish the job. I sat up again and took the knife weakly in my right hand. Without preparing myself in any way, I sliced through the flesh of my left wrist.
It didn't hurt a bit.
Throughout all the pain and torment and agony I'd gone through the last few months, especially in the last hour or so, that was the thing that frightened me the most. I was so used to pain, that cutting my left wrist didn't hurt at all.
It released even more emotions, like all the poison was being sucked out of my body. I smiled.
I fell to the floor again, and caught my breath. I lay there while my arms bled. My shirt, which was once white, was now completely covered in red.
I now knew that this was without a doubt the best decision I had ever made. I was certain. I was going to die, and that was okay. The poisonous feelings I'd kept inside the last few months were spilling out in the form of blood, all over the bathroom floor. I felt free. And with each passing second that I got closer to death, it became more and more liberating.
I lay there for what seemed like just a few minutes, but I was losing track of time. It could've been an hour, maybe even two. I wasn't sure. It felt fast to me, mostly because I was able to let my conscious drift. I thought about the short fifteen years I'd lived. My life had once been great, back when I was just an ignorant kid without a care in the world. How I wished I could go back. But I couldn't, and dying seemed to be the next best thing.
I remembered when I met Taylor, back in 2nd grade. That memory had always stuck out to me, even before I loved him. We had been so young and naive. It seemed incredible that our friendship had lasted so long. But I couldn't take it anymore. I couldn't look at him anymore without wanting to cry. I loved him so much, and he'd never understand if I told him.
This was the right choice.
Things started getting a bit fuzzy and confusing, like when you haven't slept in days. I knew that these were my last few moments, and I smiled and cried at the same time. It was a relief, but it was also the most terrifying thing in the world. Who knows where I'd end up next? All I knew was I could hardly wait to find out.
But during this fuzzy, confusing period, I started hearing things. I heard a door slam, I heard footsteps. I couldn't tell if it was real or just in my imagination. And then I heard something that convinced me that it was real.
Someone was calling my name. And that couldn't have been in my imagination. It was a deep, male voice. My father? My brother? Or, dear god, Taylor? Someone was home, and they were looking for me. For a moment, I actually prayed that I would die before they had a chance to rescue me.
Don't find me. Don't find me. Don't find me.
"Will, are you in here?"
That time, I was sure it was my dad's voice. He was right outside the bathroom door, in my bedroom.
I was shaken out of my confusion. I was much more alert now, as if someone had poured cold water on my face. I tried to sit up, but I was weak. The tile floor was slippery with blood.
I heard a knock on the bathroom door.
"Will?" Dad called.
I didn't respond, hoping he'd give up looking for me.
Let me die, let me die, let me die.
The door was opening now.
No no no.
There was a moment where time seemed to freeze. I looked at my father, and he looked at me. One second lasted a lifetime. I watched him take in my appearance, covered in blood with bleeding gashes in both my arms, still holding a knife. I watched his face turn from shock to horror to panic.
And in that lifetime of a second, I realized something.
Before my father walked in, I had been so sure of my decision to kill myself. It was for my own good. But that's just it. My own good. I hadn't taken into account how anyone else would feel about my death. And it wouldn't be just a death, it would be a suicide. I didn't think about how my father would feel after I died, or how my mother would feel. Or my brother, my sisters, my friends. Taylor. I never considered how any of them would feel about it. I'd been so selfish.
That's when I started regretting it.
My father screamed my name and his eyes immediately flooded with tears. He rushed over to me, screaming and crying. He held me in his arms and tried to stop the bleeding. I was feeling lightheaded by now, and could barely keep my eyes open. But I stayed awake.
My dad squeezed me as tightly as possible, holding onto not just my body but the remains of my life. And then, I heard a terrifying scream. My mother had seen me. I couldn't see her, because my face was buried in my father's chest. But I could hear her cries quite clearly.
In a vague rush, the two of them decided to take me to the emergency room. My father picked me up, which must've been easy because I'd lost so much weight in the last few months. He carried me through the house, down the stairs and out the front door.
On the way out of the house, my older brother saw me. By now, my eyes were closed but I could hear him.
"What happened?" He asked my dad. His voice was full of fear. "Is that blood?"
"Clayton, get in the car." My father said, hurrying to carry me out the door.
"Dad..." Clay said, confused.
"Just get in the car. We have to go now." Dad cried.
I heard Clayton asking my mother what happened.
"I think he hurt himself." Mom cried, barely speaking at all.
Before I had a chance to process anything, I was being loaded into the car. My father got into the driver's seat, my mother in the passenger's, and Clayton in the backseat with me. He let me rest my head on his lap and he squeezed my shoulder, crying.
The three of them conversed frantically, but I didn't really care what they were talking about. I felt my brother holding a towel or something to my arms, trying to stop the bleeding. I heard them crying.
I hate myself.
Why, why did I have to be so selfish? I'd hurt my family so much. Why didn't I think of how they might react to this? And my little sisters still didn't know. They were so young... just preteens. This would scare them so much.
I realized the consequences of my actions. The three members of my family sitting in the car with me would be scarred for life. Especially my father, since he had been the first one to discover what I'd done. My parents would probably be keeping a very close watch on me for an unforeseeable amount of time. They would always be extremely worried about me. My little sisters might even be afraid of me. And my parents would waste their valuable time and money to take me to the hospital, to get me some psychiatric help, and to get me some kind of anti-depressant. I felt as though I didn't deserve for them to waste all that money on me.
I was feeling extremely weak and lightheaded by the time we reached the hospital. I don't quite remember the exact events as my father carried me out of the car and inside the building. I don't quite remember my family handing me over to the doctors. It was all a vague blur, and I might've passed out for a while.
The next thing I knew, I was lying in a hospital bed. My forearms were completely wrapped in white bandages. They didn't hurt, but I assumed I'd been given some kind of drug to help with that. I felt dizzy and unsure of what was real. I wasn't sure if that was from blood loss, drugs, or just my overwhelming emotions.
I turned my head and saw my mother sitting on a couch near my bed. She was flipping through a magazine, unaware that I was awake. My father walked into the room holding a styrofoam cup of steaming coffee. His eyes looked so tired and worn. He looked so much older. And his hands were shaking, as if he was on his third or fourth cup of coffee.
"Daddy...?" I croaked.
He rushed to my side and set his cup down to grip my upper arm with both hands. It wasn't rough, it was comforting.
"Hey, buddy." He said in a high-pitched yet quiet voice, as if he were speaking to a young child in a library, "How're you feeling?"
My mother was now on my other side. She placed a hand on my face, and I leaned into her warm touch.
I didn't want to answer my dad's question. I refused to lie to them, but I couldn't hurt them with the truth. So I just stayed quiet, as if his question had been rhetorical.
Later that night, my mom left to pick up my sisters so that they could visit me. I expected that Carly and Sara would be afraid of me, but as soon as they saw me, they crawled right into bed with me without any hesitation. And somehow, Clayton found a way to fit on the bed as well.
The four of us, who were all different in age and appearance and character, were all snuggled up together on the same bed. The blood that I'd shed on the bathroom floor was the blood I shared with the three of them. We'd all lived in the same womb at one time or another, and we were all sharing the same bed now.
It was a moment to be engraved in my heart eternally. My family has always meant the world to me, and after a terrible ordeal such as this, it's always nice to be hugged and comforted by the people you love. Even if it's without words.
I spent the night in the hospital. The doctors talked in private with my parents several times, but I didn't know or care what they were talking about. They were probably recommending a therapist for me, or maybe some kind of drug. Maybe they wanted to put me in the nut house. I didn't really care at the moment.
The next morning I left the hospital, excited to be back in the comforts of my own home. My family wouldn't stop touching me, rubbing my back or hugging me or squeezing my shoulder. I loved it and hated it at the same time. Several times, my mom tried to get me to talk to her about my intentions the previous night, but my dad scolded her each time.
Once I had settled back into my home, my mother asked me, "Is there anything in the world that I can get for you to make you feel better?"
I didn't really have to think about it at all.
"Taylor." I whispered, "Call Taylor."
So she did.
A/N: So there you have it. I know it's short, just one chapter long. But I hope it conveys some form of understanding of what Wilson was thinking during his first suicide attempt. Please submit reviews! I love to hear from each and every one of you guys. Any feedback is good feedback.
And just so you all know, I'm having second thoughts about doing a sequel. I had some ideas for it, but now I've realized that doing a sequel would be kind of pointless. Idk... it just doesn't feel right. But you never know, maybe I'll change my mind again.
But I will most definitely be doing another slash story! I've started writing the first chapter, so we'll see! It might be a while before I post it. Or maybe it'll be tomorrow. You never know with me... Love you all!