Chapter 2 – “I Always Wanna Die （Sometimes）” - The 1975
VIOLET
Sometimes, I daydream about killing myself.
Not even because I want to. I don’t think I ever would. Maybe I should and I’m a coward, or maybe deep down I still believe there is something to live for, but regardless, I think about it.
I dream about it because I’d like to know that my last act was perpetual torment on my father.
I’d get satisfaction knowing that it’d likely destroy him, that maybe he’d follow me into the depths of hell too.
I’d hope that he would feel the pain, guilt, and hopelessness that he’s been causing me for the last four years.
Not that I don’t deserve it. I do.
But I fucking hate my father anyway.
Though, killing myself in spite of him would destroy my mother in all the same ways. It’d destroy my friends—the few people left in this world who still give a shit about me. And I love them more than I hate my dad. So, I won’t kill myself.
I can’t pretend I don’t sometimes think about it simply because I yearn for her reaction.
There are parts of me convinced she’d celebrate, other parts of me that think she’d curl up right beside me and die, too, because that’s how I feel about her.
The biggest fear I have—arguably the thing truly stopping me—is the undiluted fear that my death wouldn’t ruin her the way his did.
What a fucked up thing to envy.
If I died, I’d be freed from the shackles attached to her affections. It wouldn’t fucking matter who she loved most at the end of the day, because I’d be swallowed up by the darkness that I can’t help but sometimes feel would be a reprieve.
Yet, that fear pricks at my skin all the same. I can’t live with the possibility of confirmation that I meant nothing to her, even though she’s been confirming that sentiment herself with each passing day of silence since the morning she left my bed.
One thousand three hundred and sixty days of silence, to be exact.
Despite the fact that she’s been living four blocks from me the past six months, or that I have dinner with her family every Sunday. Dinners she never joins.
That day felt odd. Operations at work were normal. The weather was fine. But something was rattling my bones; something didn’t feel right. Or maybe it did, for the first time in a while, and that’s what felt wrong.
Nobody told me that Everett left town. I was none the wiser. Yet, somehow, when my two childhood friends showed up on my doorstep in the middle of the night, I wasn’t surprised. When Everett told me she’d returned to Pacific Shores, I wasn’t taken aback.
Because somehow, I already knew.
That bone-rattling awareness, that odd unease, it was her. She was coming home. Her ghost was descending upon my world—here to endlessly haunt me.
One thousand three hundred and sixty days of silence, and one hundred seventy-eight days of haunting me from half a mile away.
I’ve only seen her once in those one hundred seventy-eight days.
Sitting on the opposite side of the aisle at Darby and Leo’s wedding.
She arrived on her own not long before the ceremony started.
After taking a moment to herself with the bride and groom directly after, she was gone.
Like a goddamn apparition. Just a glimpse, a reminder that she’s real, that the reckoning and ruining and irreversible damage she’d caused my soul wasn’t something I made up inside my head—as I often attempt to convince myself—it was true.
But she disappeared too quickly for there to be any chance at closure.
I’ve yet to see her since. Not at the boardwalk her brother owns, and not at family dinners. Not on her birthday, and not on mine. I certainly don’t expect today—of all days—to be any different. I don’t expect she’ll get out of bed today, if I still know her the way I used to.
I’m surprised I got out of bed today, too. But I wanted to work. I’ve found that being at the shop is better than being all alone.
But leaving the house led me to the room I sit in now, daydreaming about killing myself again. It doesn’t happen all that often, but if there is any date I’m going to sit around and ponder death, I suppose October second makes the most sense.
“I’m doing fine,” I tell Kelsey, my therapist, shifting uncomfortably on the leather couch.
She stares at me over her glasses, unconvinced. “I know what today is, August.”
I sigh, looking down at my hands, trapping them between my thighs. “Yeah.”
Except I don’t really want to talk about it.
About that day, or about him. I’ve gotten to a point where I can think of my brother fondly.
I hyperfocus on the positive memories and our childhood together, and I don’t allow my mind to wander past that.
I don’t want to address that day. I don’t want to think about what I saw, or the call I had to make to my mother—my friends.
I don’t think it serves me, and I know it won’t change a goddamn thing.
Kelsey told me I can’t reverse my trauma, but I can learn to process it and move forward. In my opinion, thinking deeply—visualizing—that day on repeat until it’s processed, whatever the fuck that means, only causes me more pain. I want to focus on the moving forward part.
“So, you don’t want to talk about your parents. How they’re spending today. How about yourself, and how you’re feeling?”
I don’t want to talk about my parents, because they don’t give a shit about me, but I don’t want to tell her that, either.
When I don’t answer, she continues. “We can talk about that day, or everything that came after. Or, we don’t have to talk about it at all. If you need this hour to sit in silence, or to talk about something completely unrelated, I’m here for that. Whatever makes today feel less heavy.”
I let out a breath of relief, settling into the couch and expanding my lungs.
This is only my third time seeing Kelsey, and I keep having this fear that she’s going to force me to talk about all the emotions I know I hold in. In our first session she said it’s not healthy to hold back the way I do, and that’s why I’m having trouble finding closure.
I want to tell her that I can’t get closure, because my brother is dead, and the last thing I ever said to him was awful.
I want to tell her that my parents fucking hate me for it.
I want to tell her that I can’t get closure, because the love of my life cried in my arms just hours before she moved three thousand miles away and never spoke to me again.
I want to tell her that thinking about those facts, and the little-to-no control I have over changing them, makes closure impossible.
Not thinking about it is what keeps me functioning.
Because I’m thinking about it right now and fuck, I’m shaking.
I swallow, looking up to my therapist. “Day-to-day I’m doing fine, really. Work is all right, fall and winter are pretty slow, but I’m getting by. I’ve decided not to sell my house.”
Kelsey nods attentively, listening to everything I say.
She doesn’t seem disappointed that I refuse to talk about the real reasons I’m here.
Our conversation drifts into my childhood, and I realize she only asks basic questions about my brother and family, not diving deep enough to trigger me.
By the end of the session, I’m laughing, telling stories about my brother as a kid.
Fine. Whatever. Darby was right, as per usual. Therapy isn’t that bad.
I head down the stairs from her office and out onto Main Street in downtown Pacific Shores, where Darby’s blue Mustang is parked against the curb. She insists on driving me to make sure I actually attend, and grabs us lunch while I’m in my session.
She’s been asking me to start therapy for months now, claiming that it was immensely helpful to her and her sister, Dahlia, when they began going at the start of the summer.
After that conversation, Leo, Darby’s husband, admitted he’d been seeing a therapist since he was twelve.
Then, Everett, Leo’s brother and Dahlia’s boyfriend, agreed to go to therapy too.
He told me that he had the least reason to seek counseling out of all of us, and I had the most, which meant if he was going to do it, I had to do it too.
“Hi! How was it?” Darby asks before taking another bite of her food as I open the passenger door and slip inside.
“Sorry, I tried to wait but I’m fucking starving.
” She holds a paper bag out to me. “I got you a sandwich. Turkey and cranberry with bacon, which is disgusting, by the way. Please eat it before I vomit.”
“It was good.” I snort. “And I only say this because, unlike your husband, you’re not one to gloat.
You were right. I think it could be helpful.
” She opens her mouth, but I cut her off before she can say anything.
“And, no, I don’t want to talk about today.
I got it all out during that appointment, and I’m going to return to work, eat my sandwich, and then go home and watch Dazed And Confused. ” My brother’s favorite movie.
She nods slowly, turns on the ignition, and takes off toward the boardwalk at the end of Pacific Shores’ main drag as I eat. We’re quiet, the roar of the wind and the smell of the ocean taking over as we make the short drive.
There were times I thought about moving away.
There are memories here that will always be painful to bear, but I can’t imagine not living near the sea.
I can’t imagine not looking up at palm tree-clad sidewalks or smelling salt in the air at all times.
I can’t imagine life without the pier, the surf, and the sprawling cliffs along the ocean’s edge.
The world-famous sunsets that we residents have the privilege of witnessing nightly.
My brother ran away from Pacific Shores once, too, and he came home because he realized there was no place else he’d rather be.
I think he’d be disappointed in me for a lot of things, but most of all, he’d be disappointed in me if I left the place he loved most. So, I refuse to do that.