“Go away.” xe says “Go away. Go away.”
“Nah,” says xir friend “you seem sad.”
“I want to be left alone.”
“I brought, uhh, ice cream. And shitty movies!”
“[Y], please.” xe says- sobs, really “Go away. I need to be alone.”
“You know, I tried to commit suicide once. Once. A few times, really.” ze says “I didn’t want to be alone, I genuinely thought I was. So this is me. Not leaving you alone.”
“I wanna die, I want to die, I want to die, but i want to live more. There’s so much I want to do and you, god, you are killing me. If you love me, if you really care for me, you’ll stop erasing my existence because I am here and I need to live or I-. Don’t know what to do.”
There are only a few rules to this game. The first is: Never. Ever. Talk about it.
There’s demons in the sewers calling out to cats and lost children, mermaids swimming in muck with song like grief and hatred, angels over by the bus stations offering peace to the ill and eating the fever warmed marrow.
There are those who can see, the young and curious and old and unlucky, those who know, but you must never talk about it.
The second rule is: There are a lot of things worse than death. Be ready to get it over with if one of those things turns it’s eyes on you.
It’s not as fancy as war spies with their false teeth- knives hidden in the folds of your jeans or a syringe of contaminate drugs in the lining of your bra will do just as well, really. It’s better. And if you’re in the know, you should be beyond fear, anyway.
The third is: that kid over on fifth street should not exist.