THE JOURNAL OF LUCAS BROWN. PART 8

Then I was sat on my bed with a razor against my wrist.

A scene I remember clearly.
I pushed the metal against the flesh in silent desire, searching my brain for a reason to the flow that burnt like fire.

I found none.
I pushed harder and clipped through the first thin layer of skin, in no time at all a slow crimson cascade calmly erupted out of the small crack. I was surprised at how little the pain bothered me. I had decided to end my life, but a small part of me was still scared of the process of actually bringing this about. Now that I had tested the waters though, I realised that there was nothing to fear in the depths.

As I pressed the razor in deeper the door to my room was kicked down. My father burst in, his face more red than any I had ever seen. He wrestled with me, and as it always had been he won the fight and it dropped to the floor.

The same scenes happening again.

He sobbed and held me tighter than I had ever been held, crushing both my arms into my sides. Amidst his cries the word ‘why’ kept parting his lips.

“Dad, I don’t want to live anymore.” I said in a toneless voice that conveyed I was serious and confident in my decision.

We sat in that position for a long time. Not once did his grip soften. We talked about why I wanted to do this. My reasons seemed hollow and lifeless, something I felt only contributed to showing that my decision was the right one. He didn’t agree and tried to tell me of all the things I had to live for. Love, obtainable happiness and opportunity all made an appearance.

Then he said something that I don’t remember him saying. No, that’s not it. It’s as if I remember him saying it but I don’t understand what he means by it. I feel like I once knew the meaning behind these words, but it has somehow escaped me.

“Someone saved your life once before Lucas, don’t you ever forget that. For as long as you live don’t you forget that for one second.”

I looked up at him.

“That person didn’t get to choose, but you are alive because of them. Don’t make that for nothing.”

Then I was back in the room, sat in front of the mirror again, the small lamp still humming a faint glow.

Why don’t I know what he meant? I know in my heart of hearts that he spoke those words, that is definitely part of my past. What is this hole in my memory?

And then, the most peculiar and absurd recollection entered my mind.

I remember not wanting to take off my t-shirt at a swimming pool. I anticipated stares and laughter.

Suddenly, before I could dedicate any more time to trying to piece together this obscure puzzle, a noise louder than anything I can recall reverberated around the room. It sounded like something between a piercing scream and shattering glass.

I jumped to my feet and realised the mirror was gone. Instead, behind where it had been, the wall had developed an opening.

It was a small hole. I scurried over to it, pressed my body against the wall and looked through it. It was like peering through a misshapen letterbox.

Through it I could see a young man in a room not unlike the one mine had been before this all started.

I moved my mouth up to the hole and screamed, shouted until my throat was raw. Not once did he even flinch. He just sat on the edge of his bed staring at the floor.

The he picked up a small black book and began reading.

I don’t know how, as me even writing these words on this paper discredits what my eyes are telling me, but the book he is still sitting there reading is my journal.