Chapter 6
Looking back, I wasn’t sure how I’d seen Carter’s message amongst the thousands of notifications that were bombarding my phone every day since my videos had gone viral but somehow, I had.
The irony wasn’t lost on me that the boy who had never gotten attention until now was suddenly the internet’s latest sensation.
His message said,
I remember I stared at that message for a good twenty minutes, unsure if I was hallucinating from sleep deprivation or if someone had, genuinely said something kind to me.
It took me a few days to respond, and I had to scroll back quite a few times since it was buried under a mountain of unread DMs, interview requests, sponsorship offers, and just a multitude of messages from people who didn’t know me beyond my thumbnails.
It was all noise to me. They didn’t matter.
The messages made me feel like the world thought I was trying to build something versus trying to undo it.
Like the companies messaging me didn’t realize that they were watching a potential funeral procession, not a rebrand.
And it made me sick to my stomach that my mental health issues were getting mistaken for a call to be an influencer.
That I was being offered product sponsorships instead of help.
But something about the tone of his message felt different.
“You’re onto something.”
Like he believed in it. Like he saw a purpose in what I was doing that I didn’t.
I worried if I said yes, I’d owe him something more than money.
Vulnerability, maybe. Or, worse, honesty.
That’s what kindness did. It poked holes in the darkness.
Made you squint because you weren’t ready to look at something so bright.
And yeah, maybe that messed with my head a little. I wasn’t supposed to be making something. I was supposed to be testing fate until fate finally tested back.
But I let him do it. Not because I trusted him or cared to, but because I was tired. And it was easier than trying to pretend I gave a shit about color grading or captions that would clickbait people into watching me almost die.
So, I messaged back:
And then I headed to the next attempt on my life.
Utah.
Not the first place that would usually come to mind when you thought of the usual death traps around the country. But out in Grantsville, tucked behind flat roads and faded red dust, there was a research facility that ran live Tesla coil demonstrations.
Most people went to take pictures or see the amazing scene in person. I went to stand under it.
The coil itself looked like something ripped out of a Frankenstein fever dream—metallic, humming, shooting blue arcs into the sky.
It was beautiful in an almost unworldly way.
I’d emailed ahead, pretending to be a science influencer who wanted to film some B-roll shots for an upcoming video on electromagnetic fields.
Which wasn’t technically untrue. I was planning to record. I was also planning to stand close enough to get singed if it misfired. I obviously didn’t tell them that part.
I suddenly had money to take any flight I wanted and book a nice hotel room. If my good luck so far was an indication of anything, maybe today would finally be my day.
I rigged the GoPro to my chest, strapped tight to a fire-retardant hoodie—a safety protocol that they ironically insisted on. And then I walked into the zone.
The sound hit me first.
It wasn’t the static buzz you’d expect. No.
This was deeper. Almost… alive. The crackling was thick, like the sky was splitting open, and the electricity danced in jagged halos above my head.
It roared like it was a godly thing trapped in a cage.
Arcs snapped up like lightning coming from the ground, not the sky. My molars buzzed. My skin prickled.
And for a moment, I felt it again. That flicker. The one I hated. The one that whispered, maybe I could do more with this than just disappear. But I quickly shoved it down and stepped closer.
The heat rolled in waves across my arms, tiny hairs sizzling at the edges.
The coil flared, the surge fired toward the air, and I felt the impact not just on my skin, but in my chest. It was like the world was trying to reach inside me, rearrange my atoms, and decide whether or not I deserved to come away with it.
One second. Two. Three. My hands began to shake.
I willed myself to stay. My brain screamed at me to back up.
Just a step. Just enough for it to know that I acknowledged that I was a fragile human, not a lightning rod.
But my feet stayed planted, defying instinct.
I was either going to leave this place as ash or live through it like I always did. Half-changed, half-ruined.
Four. Five. I kept counting.
My knee buckled slightly, and I thought maybe, just maybe, this would be it. But then the operator saw what I was doing, panicked, and shut it down.
The field collapsed. The air went dead.
And I was still fucking alive.
Again.
I walked back to the parking lot with my not so fire-safe hoodie scorched at the sleeves, one palm stinging from where I’d instinctively reached for balance and scraped across hot metal.
It wasn’t enough to be considered a real injury that needed to be documented or looked at, but it hurt just enough to piss me off.
I sat in my car and stared out at the horizon where the land bled into the sky. When I got done with my moping, I played the footage back. The arc. The sparks. The crackle of electricity kissing air. My face lit up blue and pale. The moment my leg gave out.
It looked… incredible. It looked like I was fearless. Which was a lie.
I wasn’t fearless. I was actually tired of living in fear all the time.
Now every time I survived, I felt like I was being punished.
Like the universe was holding me hostage.
Making me sit in the aftermath of my failed plans, watching the reruns of my pain, just to prove a point.
No matter how close I got to the edge, fate pulled me back by the collar.
Not yet, it whispered in my ear. When? I wanted to roar back. But I stayed silent.
I sent the footage to Carter without a message, letting the files speak for themselves.
He sent it back a few hours later, perfectly edited, better than I could have ever done myself.
I opened YouTube and uploaded it. No explanation. No long caption. I didn’t give a shit. The views exploded, and the comments came in fast.
“This dude’s got a death wish fr.”
“I hope we get to see it happen. That would be sick.”
“Hot AF. (Fire emoji) Who is he???”
“He’s kinda cute tho.”
“New favorite channel. This guy is nuts.”
“I’d let him electrocute ME (winking emoji).”
And just like that, I hated everything again.
I didn’t know what it was about those kinds of comments that made me sick to my stomach and uncomfortable in my body.
Maybe it was the way they made something dangerous into something sexy.
Maybe it was the way they made me into a joke, a fantasy, a screenshot for their group chats.
What was it about the world that a pretty cover distracted people enough that they didn’t see the pain screaming in my eyes?
Being tall, broad, and conventionally good-looking was more important to the viewers than the fact that they had now watched me try to commit suicide three times and hadn’t really noticed.
My defined jawline, pretty eyes, and pouty lips were more important than the fact that I was very clearly, very obviously not okay.
But as long as the masses were entertained, they didn’t care.
I imagined if I had died, they would have commented how good my hair looked mid sizzle.
That night, when I got to the point way beyond exhaustion, I finally let myself sleep. I literally passed out on the hotel bed, still smelling faintly of ozone and burnt cotton. Unfortunately, I wasn’t exhausted enough to keep the dreams away.
I was twelve.
Back in that room.
The one with peeling wallpaper and the door that never locked properly.
And he was there.
Smiling like this was normal. Like this was love.
“You’re so quiet, Danny boy,” he said, voice syrupy slow. “That’s how I know you want it.”
My chest froze. My feet wouldn’t move. The room was too warm, and his breath was too close.
“You’re a good boy, right?”
I wanted to scream. I wanted to disappear into the floor. But in the dream, like in real life, I just lay there.
Frozen.
Waiting.
Enduring.
I woke up drenched in sweat, my nails digging half-moons into my palms. I sat up with a gasp, and collapsed against the headboard, fists still clenched as I stared at the ceiling, heart hammering in my throat.
It was just a nightmare. It hadn’t been real in so long.
But the voice. The name. Danny boy. That felt real even now.
Even after I got up. Even after I showered. Even after I packed up my charger, checked out of the hotel, and started driving toward the next potential death, it followed me. Like a ghost I couldn’t bury. Like static that wouldn’t fade.