I stepped outside into the cool, humid summer night air. A slight and bitterly cold wind nipped at my pale, exposed skin. I wrapped my green sweater more tightly around my body as I walked out into the grass. I stood on top of the tall hill that our house sat on. I stared absently at the zillions of bright stars that were so apparent this night. They were white paint on a dark black canvas, put there by a true genius. They made me think, they made we regret, they made me wondered how there could be something, or someone up there waiting for me. What would they want me for? Why would anyone care about useless old me? The words of self doubt echoed in my mind, destroying my confidence and making my decision harder to accept.
I turned my attention to the glint of light in the corner of my curious brown eyes. Gazing at the tall, black lamp post that had kept me awake so many nights before, I felt a pang of longing, knowing that what I was about to do would take me far away from here and all the sleepless nights spent in my room. The light that the rusting pole gave off in waves hit the object I was holding in my hands.
The long, silver object glinted at this hint of light. I quickly looked around; making sure no one saw the object trying to send out an SOS. I stared that the 12¾ inch blade, surprisingly clean after years of use. I wasn’t shocked that I was able to steal it under my mother’s watchful eye; the task was simple when you were left home alone as much as I was. Mom always working, Dad never home, brother never caring where he was as long as he was away from us.
I knew that my thoughts were trying to stall, knowing my choice was silly and childish. But I knew I couldn’t let my thoughts take over and overrule my decision by force. I let go, and tried to forget everything. Before I did my terrible deed, I looked at the stars, begging for forgiveness. I lifted the knife, getting ready to make the plunge. But as I did, I felt like I split into two people.
I was now floating somewhere in the dark mysterious sky. I was looking at myself standing there in the dead grass, holding a knife over my heart. I looked pale, flushed and inhuman. My usually cheery face full of sorrow and anguish. My bright, lively eyes dampened by dark circles etched on my face. The smile that normally danced across my face was nowhere to be seen, as if it had been stolen. I didn’t feel like she could be me. Then I heard her give off a whimper of distress that sounded way too familiar and I glided down to comfort her.
“You don’t need to do this.” I said to her in my faded, ghostly voice. She let the knife fall to her side and she sobbed. She managed to form some words in between her heavy chest falls. “I have to…. nobody… loves me… he doesn’t love me… it’s not worth it… not anymore…” I could hardly believe the words that came out of the 15-year-old girl’s mouth. “This is about a boy?” I sneered in disgust. She nodded feebly in response, the knife still clutched in her pale trembling hand.
She looked into my eyes that must have seemed translucent and I looked into hers and they were bloodshot, an apparent sign of wasted tears. In her eyes, I could see and feel the pain that he inflicted on her. He built her up, he practically worshipped the ground she walked on, and he carried her high as a prize to be seen by all. But then he let her fall. He dropped her and she fell down deeper than she’s ever been before. He made her feel worthless, as if she was a piece of garbage that wasn’t disposed of properly.
I gazed deep into her eyes and I said with the most confidence I’d ever had, “Women are like apples; the best apples that are shining, red and unbelievably sweet, are at the top of the tree, and the cruddy ones that are bruised, pale and forgotten lay on the ground. So, when a man comes along, he picks the not-so-good ones off the ground beside the old, wise tree instead of climbing to the top. They pick the cruddy ones because they are selfish, having their childish fears of falling from the top of the tree. So, the good apples think that something is wrong with them, when really it's the man. Thus, the apples at the top just need to be patient for the right guy to come along and climb to the top of the tree because they value quality. That boy climbed to the top of the tree, he had the apple, but he just threw it away. He left you lay on the ground when you deserved to be to the top of the tree. But you can’t do this over him. He will always be sorry for that mistake he made, and if and when you are ready, you could tell him that ‘everybody makes mistakes’.”
She looked back at me with the intensity of a thousand full moons and she said, “Thank you.” I leaned in and held her in a tight and comforting embrace. As we stood wrapped in each other’s arms, I melted back into her, and we became one again.
I stood in the same spot in the front yard, dazed and confused, thinking that what just happened was a dream. Then I looked down and I saw the knife hanging in my limp hand and I almost screamed. Knowing what I almost did disoriented me. I looked up and smiled, knowing that there was someone up in the stars looking after me. They sent her to me to stop it, to end it, to kill it before it killed me. And I will always be grateful.