Twenty years ago I used to sit in a classroom, barely learning, sleeping in class, and somehow getting good test grades. That's the part of our lives most can't see; twenty years later, I’m still trying to forget.

My dogs, Star and Scruffy, wake me up. They are medium-sized. Light enough to pick up, but too heavy to be purse dogs. It’s six o’clock in the morning. I flip the heavy covers off of me. I stayed up too late last night. I can't stay up till three and still be wide-awake like I used to. I feel my feet touch the thin, purple carpet lying on the floor.

I walk into the kitchen. My dogs follow. I give them their preferred ‘bacon’ flavored treats and start to prepare food for myself.

I take a pan off the wall and set it on the stove, start toasting two pieces of bread and cook three eggs scrambled, I add cheese to the eggs and pan fry three strips of bacon. This bacon smells more appetizing than the treats. My dogs wait at the door while I eat breakfast then I bring them outside.

I smell the freshly cut grass on my lawn in the crisp spring air. It's refreshing and brings me peace, if only for the moment. I bring the dogs inside and head to my office room. A black laptop sits on a desk melding into the murmuring darkness, invisible except for the bright green logo on the top glowing as if to direct the way to my desk.

I sit down in front of my computer and let out a gentle sigh. “Another day” I utter in a cynical tone. I log on to my computer and review my emails; four recent requests. Two of them for technical support, one for help with designing a website, one from my friend. I opened the email from my friend immediately. My friend emailed me a picture of him and me from high school. I saved the picture on my computer, then filed it away.

No matter how much I want to forget it, those were the best days of my life and the easiest too. I got to see my friends every day, the few I had, the classes were way too easy, and the teachers were… mostly nice. No one sees that until now, we took those years for granted. Now that we opened our eyes, it's too late to change what we did. The past is done and gone but will never be forgotten.

I never made it to college since I did not apply myself in school. Now, I do freelance work helping with designing websites, coding games, and on the side psychological help for people who need a person to talk to. Although I am not a therapist. What's the difference you ask? I don’t just spout off a script that makes people think they feel better. A therapist simply asks you how you feel and no matter the answer, they always just say what a shame take these pills while charging you a week's salary and-

Ding…

Another email; a person who merely wants to be heard. Hoping that someone will listen. A ragged voice with no one to hear it. I put my other emails aside for now. We talk for two hours about why they feel so empty and how life has treated them so harshly. They offer to compensate me for my time. I turn them down. I know how they feel, just wanting someone, anyone, who will listen for a while. I hear scratching coming from the corner of the room. I spin around in my chair quickly. It's just scruffy scratching at a box. He knows I just got a delivery of treats yesterday. I laugh quietly to myself and head to the kitchen to feed them each another treat. My dogs are always loyal, remaining by my side till they are dismissed to roam the dull halls of the house again.
I head back to my office, my computer dimly lighting up the darkroom.
I email the person who needs help with a website about where they want to start. They send me an essay stocked with spelling errors, a horror story to an English teacher but normal to me. They want a website about their restaurant.

“How original,” I say sarcastically while rolling my eyes. I ask if they can send me any pictures, another wall of text this time with images interlocked among the endless monotonous words and grammar mistakes. A restaurant opening in town needs this website done promptly. I contacted them on the business phone to make sure it was the appropriate number. It is picked up by an elderly man, clearly not the person who would care about a website, right?

“Good evening is this Harold” I say into my phone “I’m calling to make sure this is the right number for Harolds’ famil-”

“Why would I give you the wrong number?” He shouts back, cutting me off.

“All of you young people think we are all a lost cause. Just because we didn’t grow up as privileged as you, with fancy computers in our pockets, does not mean I can't even use a phone. You clearly can’t follow simple directions, so I'm going to take my business to someone competent.”

I sit in astonishment, thinking in disbelief about how people can be so rude to someone with only the best intentions. I promptly delete the email.
I check my emails again. I see that my friend sent me another message, a brief poem this time.

“Remember all the days we were young, sitting around blowing bubbles, on those memories we’ve clung.”

I think back to how life used to be. How much we had and how much we didn't. Blind to the spoilage of which any acknowledgment of fell upon a deaf ear. We did not desire anything material, just true friendship was more than enough and truly a blessing that we all take for granted. I think about who I was friends with, most of them were changing like the leaves on a tree in autumn, but others remain the same; as a broad stone, gradually eroded by the flow of time but always there. I set his email aside and continue to work.

One more new email has come in, a girl losing hope in her life. I get on as quickly as I can and call her. I hear nothing but silence for five minutes, I assume she is just scared, so I speak up.

“Hello, Abby?” nothing but silence again. I begin to worry till I read the email again. She is mute, people torment her for it, she has been accused of putting up gang signs in class when just trying to speak and sent to the office, her parents scream at her.
“Why can't you just be normal?!”

“Give up the act and speak already.”

“Do you want the kids to think you're retarded?”

Cruel words she has lived with for sixteen years. I read the last email she sent me a little more carefully.

“I got some rope from the hardware store, thanks for talking with me though.”
almost as if she knew I was done reading. I hear a sickening sound of a rope going taut then… silence again, nothing but deafening silence piercing through my ears. I waited for five minutes to reassure myself of what I heard before I hung up the call. Thoughts raced in my mind.

I close my email and try to think about what has happened. I start to think of all of what I could have done, what I should have said; I lock these thoughts away in my head. I start to cry. I’m not a suicide hotline, but I yearn to preserve lives and all I’ve repeatedly accomplished was see them end.

I wipe away my tears and check my email again. It's an email from my girlfriend Chloe, the most amazing girl, a man could hope for. Jet-black hair trimmed to just below her shoulder, eyes as blue as the brightest summer sky. She bears a deep scar across her left eye. There is a picture of her pinned to my bulletin board next to the bracelet I got from a concert I went to with my sister. Chloe emailed me about a date later tonight, but I grimaced internally, reminded of the horrific incident that had just unfolded, I email her wearily ‘I don’t know how late I'm staying up tonight.’ She simply emails back ’okay’. I helped both the other technical support emails, one needed help with connecting her headphones to her computer and the other was a prank. An hour of my time wasted, a common yet unwarranted occurrence. It's almost seven-thirty when I got a text from Chloe. She would rather come over and just hang out for a bit. I tell her that's fine. I need to be ready for eight.

I check my email one more time. It's an email from the old man who needed a website earlier. Every other word he writes seems to be sorry. Star starts to nudge my hand with her nose; she knows what time it is, I should not be working right now. I motion her away while I pick up the call from the old man.

“What now?” I think to myself, glancing at my clock, I've only got twenty minutes.

“Have you heard from my daughter?” He says feebly into the phone.

“I already have a girlfriend, sorry.” I say with a cheerful, almost flippant tone.

He remains stifled and speaks sternly.

“No, That's not it.” He says dully.

“What do you mean then sir?” I query, confused as to why he would call.

“You were the last call Abby made…” He whispers into his phone. I experience a sudden feeling of dread wash over me again.

“My daughter Abby, committed suicide earlier. I found her hanging in her room.” He says louder than before.

“I had no clue,” I mumbled under my breath.

“Can you say that again?” He says meekly.

“I had no clue,” I answered hastily.
He starts to cry, sobbing about how they merely wanted the best for her. They did not know how much pressure they put on her. I race to find an answer.

“Sir, I’m sorry for your loss, but I have to go.” I utter lamely while I hang up.

“Small world,” I say to my dog, through my tears.
I look at the clock. It's quarter to eight now. I need to get ready. I took a shower, walked both of my dogs for the last time tonight, and prepared two cups of hot chocolate. Just as I finish making the drinks the doorbell rings, almost as if she was waiting for me to be ready. Chloe is here and she is as beautiful as ever. She asks how my day has been and the usual banter. I don't burden her with the horrors I've dealt with today. I hand her a cup of hot chocolate and sit on the couch she follows and sits next to me. I instantly know what true bliss means. Sitting under the covers with Chloe, not a care in the world. Merely enjoying how it feels to just not be alone for once.

Both of my dogs have already gone upstairs. They are prepared for bed. Chloe went home at midnight. I glance at the clock. It’s already three in the morning. I stumble up the stairs and fall into my bed.

“Might as well get some sleep right?” I mumble to my dogs in a stupor.
They just stare at me blankly.

“Yeah, I might as well.” I say again as my eyes slam shut.
My dogs wake me up. It’s six o’clock in the morning. I flip the heavy covers off of me and feel my feet touch the thin purple carpet lying on the floor. My head drops into my hands, letting out a heavy sigh I weakly mutter to myself.

“Yet another day.”


© Kingchaos