• As hot, wet tears streamed down his shivering face, he fancied he could hear each drop strike the water’s surface; he could not, for the bridge he stood upon dangled hundreds of yards above the lake. The regularly bustling city street was amiss tonight, for not a single car drove past the lonely, quiet young man. He did not notice; he had not the extra space in his mind to give it a second thought. The only thought pulsating throughout his head was the constant desire for a sudden gust of wind, one that would cost him his balance just enough to cause a simple, quick, easy fall and crash. The all-too-familiar voice and face came into his mind, and that second he pushed himself and felt nothing more.

    Four days later.

    Mae felt himself with all eyes upon him, although he could look no one in the eye. Everyone knew what event had passed four days ago, but no one dared mention it–not yet. He certainly was not the first student to attempt suicide, but definitely the only to fail. In no way could he appreciate the fact that, in only four days, each teacher and student in every one of his classes already knew of this situation; the reason for this remorse would come only moments after he took his seat. Mae distinctly heard the same voice that caused his brash decision, this time aloud rather than in his imagination.

    “You stupid emo f*****t! What the hell is your problem, anyway?” This overly blunt statement was followed by a hideous laughter, one that Mae used to find beautiful. He ignored it and refused to look up from his desk. “Didn’t you hear me? Whatever dude. You’re an idiot. I wish you would’ve just died but you can’t even do that right.” The boy from whom this statement came walked vainly to his desk, on the other side of the room from Mae.

    Mae held his breath to restrict the tears swelling up behind his forced sangfroid, almost audibly choking in the attempt. He opened his eyes wide and looked around to assure himself no one could witness his crying; everyone had already bored of his entrance, and had returned to their usual pre-class activities. He let his head rest in his arms upon his desk until the teacher entered the room, with a horrendously fake cheer toward his presence.

    “Oh, Mae! I’ve been so worried, I’m so glad you’re back! Oh, are you okay baby? Are you hurt?” The inquiries came awkwardly and insincerely from a bitter, corpulent woman of fifty-two. Each student was blatantly repressing his or her laughter from the teacher.

    “I’m fine,” Mae replied shortly, avoiding eye contact so she could not see his annoyed glare. He remained quiet for a few moments; eventually the teacher had no choice but to begin her lecture and forget about the boy.

    Hours passed before Mae had to confront anyone on the matter. It was, nevertheless, an inevitable fact that someone would ask him about it. As he sat at an empty table during lunch hour, he felt a presence approach him; he held his breath. Why can’t he just leave me alone? He thought to himself. His presumption was correct–for it was the same rude boy from earlier.

    “You know you aren’t going to make me feel bad, so cut your s**t. You’re pathetic,” he said, taking the liberty of sitting across from Mae. “When are you gonna just stop and move on? I’m never gonna get with you again, especially if you go all emo-suicidal-bullshit.”

    Mae, refusing to look up, simply remarked, “I know, Jake.” He angled his head down and allowed his long, dark brown hair to cover his eyes just enough to block his view of his surroundings.

    “Really now? I’m seriously never gonna talk to you again if you do that again. And you already blew your chances with me.”

    “That’s all I have to do to make you leave me alone?” Mae asked, faking sarcasm but still meaning his hatred-laced words.

    “Whatever dude. I hate you.” Jake walked away with this remark, going pompously in the direction of his newfound girlfriend and grabbing her hand. Mae felt a mixture of relief and terror as the boy left. He felt the tears coming again, and dug his fingernails deeply into the flesh of his arm to stifle them. If there was one phrase he was tired of hearing, it was ‘whatever dude’. With Jake’s voice reverberating throughout his brain, Mae’s nails did not suffice as buffers for the tears. He rose from the table, and quickly scurried out of the lunchroom, into the bathroom.

    Mae fumbled to remove his wallet from the pocket of his pants, tears leaking through the emotional dam he had attempted to create. Simultaneously he locked himself within the largest stall; having removed the wallet, he lifelessly collapsed against the wall and continued fiddling with his wallet. After a few moments, he removed a large straight razor from an inner pocket. Without any hesitation, he reached under his shirt and pushed the razor deeply into his side, quickly ripping across his entire stomach. At a gradually slower pace, he retraced pre-existing scars until blood drenched his torso.

    In his haste, Mae had forgotten that he was wearing a white shirt; realizing this, he quickly removed it and stared at his small, bloody form in the mirror. His empty tears had ceased falling, and he could now clearly see his damage. Fearing the blood may stain his clothing, he wiped it off with a handful of tissue paper–he didn’t care that it smeared–and returned to examining his reflection. Mae was already naturally short and small-structured, but his current diet (or lack thereof) made his bones clearly visible, giving him a sickening paleness. The fresh wounds added to the discoloration of his skin, and he appeared diseased. The thought disturbed him so, and he brashly punched the mirror before him with unnecessary force.

    Shattered glass ejected from the wall, and a cacophony reverberated throughout the bathroom. As if only to spite Mae’s current feelings of abandonment and loneliness, no one answered the noise with as much as a concern. He fell to the floor and sobbed until he passed out; the bell declaring the end of lunch returned him to consciousness, and he simply put on his shirt and walked out of the stall to his class.

    Before Mae could go home and forget all of the chaos and teasing, it was inevitable he would have to endure something more. Expecting it as he was, he felt a tinge of anxiety when the intercom alerted the entire classroom that he was wanted in the counselor’s office. With, yet again, all eyes upon him, he gathered his things and left the room speechlessly.

    When he arrived at the counselor’s office, he felt something was amiss; there were several unfamiliar faces in the room, all seemingly interested solely in him. Staring at them confusedly, he felt the awkwardness douse the room until one of the men spoke.

    “Excuse me, are you Mae Jaing?” The man retorted, with a resonant and almost barbaric voice.

    “Yes… Yessir,” Mae replied, waiting for some kind of explanation. He feared he was going to be institutionalized.

    “I’m going to need you to come with me.” The man walked authoritatively to an empty office room, followed by the rest of the strangers, the counselor, and lastly, Mae. He sat himself at the head of a long table, waiting for the rest to follow suit. Mae reluctantly sat at the other end of the table.

    “I’ve been informed by your counselor, Ms. Burstein”–the man gave her a glance–“of your recent activities. I am from the Department of Mental Assistance, and it is my duty to convey to you that you are legally obliged to either spend an undecided amount of time in an institution, or attend a biweekly meeting relevant to your issue. Should you decide upon the latter, I might recommend to you a local program called ‘Hands of Hope’. The group meets on Tuesday and Thursday nights, each week, free of charge. Would you be interested?”

    Not entirely sure what he was doing, but feeling obligated to do so, he replied, “Yessir.” As if he foresaw this answer, the man immediately pulled an envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to Mae. It was addressed personally to him, and the envelope was of formal design and thickness.

    “This is enclosed with all information you will need to join our program. Thank you for your time, and the best of luck to you.” The man looked at his watch, and rose from his seat. “I believe it will be time for you to leave soon, so please gather your things and return to class.”

    Mae did not speak to the man again before leaving the room. Chills ran down his spine as he tried to fathom what he had just agreed to. After obtaining safe distance from the office from whence he came, he opened the envelope and read the letter through several times. He quickly came to understand that he had just agreed to attend a support group; Damnit, isn’t this great? He asked himself.

    That night was, coincidentally, the first night Mae was scheduled to attend. He feared that, should he refuse to go, he would be sent to an asylum; therefore, after a long and anxious walk home, he simply handed the letter to his step-mother (or so he referred to her–in reality, she had adopted him,) and left again. The meeting was held at the public library at six, and Mae felt he could pass the time until then by reading. It was, as a matter of fact, what he had recently resorted to doing during fits of mild depression.

    It was five o’clock when Mae entered the library; he went down only three aisles before he decided to reread Catcher in the Rye, partly because it was his favorite book, but mostly because he could easily escape reality whilst reading it. He brought it into the deserted room in which the meeting would be held, sat on the floor against a wall, and began reading.

    Nearly one hundred pages in, Mae heard a door squeak and footsteps against the tiles. Curious as he was, he did not look up from the book before him; that is, until he felt a presence before him and saw a figure coming in his direction. When he heard himself spoken to, he stopped fighting the urge and allowed himself to look up.

    “Hi. Are you here for that stupid meeting? It’s awful early.” Mae saw that these words had come from a tall, thin boy of about his own age. He had long dirty-blonde hair and blue eyes, and was quite a beautiful creature. Mae looked at his watch after registering the boy’s words in his head; it was five forty-five.

    “Uh, yeah. I am,” He replied, suddenly wishing he had the courage to be friendlier. For the first time ashamed of his own introverted nature, he blushed and looked back down at his book.

    “That’s cool, I guess. It really sucks. At least, I think so. Maybe you’ll like it, but I doubt it,” The boy said as if Mae were welcoming, rather than shunning, him. “I’m Tyler. You?”

    “I… I’m Mae,” he responded, fully aware of the reddening of his face. He heard Tyler chuckle at his anxiousness. “What?”

    Tyler kneeled on the floor beside him, making complete eye contact with Mae. “Nothing, don’t worry about it,” Tyler said, “But if you really want to know,”–Mae gave a perplexed nod in reply–“You’re really cute.” He placed Mae’s free hand in his own, then interlaced their fingers.

    Mae felt his heart skip a beat.