Content warning: suicide attempt, overdose, and references to self-harm.

This is a fictional short story. I’d appreciate feedback on the atmosphere, dialogue, and ending—especially whether the ambiguity of the encounter comes through.

The man sat there as the empty bottle of NyQuil, and his hand lay empty of the pills he had just consumed. He lay in his bed, and his neck ached from the awkward angle at which he had been having his head lie on the pillow. He pulled up the soft blanket over him and then, awkwardly shifting his body to not have the first blanket come loose, pulled the comforter over his body, creating the familiar sense of warmth he provided himself before he went to sleep. He threw the empty bottle onto the carpeted floor, making a simple thump, as the other noises from the bottle as it bounced away were too quiet to be heard. Five minutes had passed as he quietly lay there, not going on his phone, which was his normal nightly routine. He thought about sending a message, but at this point he was too tired to do it. Another minute passed as he closed his eyes, but when he tried to open them, he felt as if the weight of the world was holding them down. He felt his heart beating faster as thoughts raced through his head, and then he couldn’t feel his heart beating at all.

He opened his eyes and found himself lying in his bed still. The clock read midnight. Strangely, he didn't feel tired at all, and it seemed around four hours had passed. He rubbed his scar-covered wrist and forearms, a habit that had forced him into always wearing long sleeves. He thought to himself why he was awake, but every thought he made became a word out of his mouth. He tried thinking in his head, but it was no use, as each thought led to his words leaving his mouth into the dark room- the very dark room, which was strange for the moonless night, he said aloud, as he couldn’t think it to himself.

“Must be a dream,” he thought aloud. He then noticed a shadowy figure in the corner, causing his skin to crawl. “What the fuck,” he said aloud, meaning to say these words. The silhouette of a man with a trimmed, silvery beard walked out. The shadow outstretched his hand in a way only a dream-like state could comprehend. The man kept talking, and the thoughts raced through his head, unable to control his speech, keeping the room from silence. The shadow spoke in a voice which sounded clearer and more real than his own and asked the man where he was. The man replied instantly with thought before he could make his own crafted words out.

“Your room,” the shadow said in reply, stating what the man had claimed as an answer in an almost sad voice. “You spend a lot of time here.”

The man's thoughts replied yes for him, saying he spent most of his life here now. The shadow asked why he didn’t spend more time outside with his friends, who would constantly ask him to go.

“It doesn't matter,” the man thought. “I'd just be sad again.”

“Are you sad now?” the shadow asked.

“I'm afraid,” the man thought in return.

The shadow asked, “Of what?”

The man's thoughts answered him instantly, “Of being alone.”

“Then why do you force yourself to be?”

“I don't know,” the man thought aloud, and then, in his own voice, said, “It’s just hard.”

The shadow's hand raised up, causing the man to flinch in fear, wincing as it came closer to him as his thoughts screamed out how scared he was, and then the sound of his own uncontrollable voice ceased, and a sense of calm washed over him. He felt the shadow's hand on his shoulder as the room was finally quiet from his voice for once, and his mind became an empty void. And then a thought came, a quiet one that he could keep to himself. “You're okay.”

The shadow smiled at him; he couldn't see it but could feel that it was smiling.

“Who are you?” the man said as the shadow lifted his hand from the man's shoulder.

The shadow gestured to the bed which the man sat on, and the shadow sat behind him.

“Just a dream.”

The man paused for a moment.

“So this isn’t real?”

There was a long pause in the room before the shadow spoke.

“Go to bed, Michal,” the shadow said sincerely, which caused a sadness to wash over him.

Michal slowly made his way to the front of the bed, dreading every movement he was making, and laid himself down as the shadow tucked him in.

“I'm gonna die,” Michal said as his eyes teared up.

There was a long pause. The bed felt like nothing: no warmth, no pain in his neck, no beating of his heart, no relief from every breath, no pain from holding it. It felt like maybe a couple of minutes had passed before the shadow spoke again.

“It’s just a dream, Michal,” the shadow said calmly.

“Are you sure?” Michal said, crying now, not realizing, as he couldn’t feel the tears on his cheek. “And what will happen when the dream ends? Will I die?” Michal said.

“Why are you so afraid of dying?” said the shadow calmly, standing up from the bed to more directly face Michal.

“I don’t know… I just don’t know what's going to happen.”

The shadow smiled again, which calmed Michal.

“Michal, what usually happens when we die in our dreams?”

Michal paused for a moment and shakily responded, “I don't know.”

And in a smooth manner, without skipping a beat, the shadow said to Michal, “We wake up.”

Michal opened his eyes to the sound of a phone vibrating on his nightstand and his hands tightly clenching the full bottle of NyQuil, and the pills he had once had in his hand scattered around his bed near where his other hand lay. He sat up a little as he tried to rub his sore neck, which caused some relief, but not much. The room was silent besides the buzzing sound of his phone vibrating as someone was trying to call him. He looked to his right at the window, saw the moonlight floating in, and the clock reading 8:23 p.m. He felt his hand loosening on the bottle of NyQuil in his hand, which caused him to tighten his grip once more as he then explosively, while lying down, awkwardly threw it as hard as he could at the wall. The bottle exploded across the wall easily, as the cap had already been loosened and was barely sitting on the top of the bottle. He felt his adrenaline spike as he did it and the feeling of his beating heart. And with the same hand he threw the bottle with, he picked up the phone, and with the other, he began wiping the old tears off his face as new ones began to form.

so, recently, my brain has been thinking about making a mystery story similar to the one book I read called: This Book Kills. it’s literally the only mystery book I’ve read. yet somehow, I was inspired to make a mystery, detective novel that follows Leo Western, who lost his sister Libby. The book I’m making is called: Fly high…Libby.

here’s the first 3 chapters. (chapter 1 is short asf)

Chapter 1:

I like quiet. I also like cookies. But I like quiet more. Oh yes, I also like chocolate, milk only. Cookies and chocolate and quiet are perfect. 

Though, I should’ve  realized that quiet has its Darkside. Maybe if I had paid attention, Libby would still be here, tickling, teasing and poking me. 

She’s not here. Anymore. 

Chapter 2: 

I didn’t really like the stares I got when I walked into the cafeteria. Everyone was talking, whispering about me and even though I had my earbuds in, parts of conversations floated into my ears. 

Is he okay?

That’s Leo….. His sister… Sad

Hear me out, he’s kinda hot. 

I blushed at the last one. 

I sat down at my table and stared at my sad apple and potato salad. I picked up my fork and stabbed it in the bowl. It made a weird squelch sound, and I was reminded of Libby. The way she applied lipstick like she would die without it. The way her lipstick sounded on her already wet lips. Squelch Squelch Squelch

I quickly shoved the food into my mouth to stop myself from crying. Just chew Leo. 

Tears prickled my eyes as the food refused to go down my throat. 

Just chew—

I spat it out. 

I sniffed and grabbed a tissue pack from my pocket. Took one out and wiped my eyes with it. If Libby could see me now…

I crumpled up the tissue paper and pushed my tray away. I laid my head down on the table, my arms covered my face, and I cried. 

-+-+-+-

I usually like English literature, when Libby was being loud in the front corner, near the teacher’s desk and I in the back, writing. 

But it’s not the same anymore. It’s quiet where it shouldn’t be. I pulled up my hoodie and took out my pen and notebook. Page one: Libby

I love my sister. She’s loud, she’s funny and she’s the light at the end of my tunnel. 

She-

And that was it. That was all I wrote of my sister. I click my pen and start writing as the teacher begins his lesson.

She gives me strength 

“Poetry is the most precious gift to humans” Mr. Fey said

She’s the sun, we orbit around her and she gives us warmth.

“Let’s look at this poem…”

And she loved me. 

“Leo, what are you doing?” My head snaps up at the sound of my name. Mr. Fey was staring at me, one eyebrow raised and lips pursed. Everyone’s head was turned to me. I swallowed and slowly pulled down my hoodie off my head. “Nothing,” I said. 

Mr. Fey looked like he wanted to argue, to give me detention. Not that I would go, but a girl suddenly raised her hand. “Mr. Fey, what’s anathema mean?” He turned to her, to answer her question, and I breathed a sigh of relief. 

Thanks. I thought. Whoever you are.

Almost as if she heard my thoughts, she caught my eye and gave me a small smile. I tried to smile back, but I swear it looked like a grimace. 

Chapter 3:

I don’t know who found Libby. I don’t really care. I know I should, but I don’t want to. 

I started walking to my room. Every classroom had a memory of her, tucked in the crevices, waiting to jump out and get me. I couldn’t do this. After math, I had gone to the office to file an ‘early leave’, and got approved instantly. 

I shared a room with a guy called Octavian. He’s loud, annoying as hell, but he’s the one who hugged me when the headmaster told me. Octavian wasn’t on his bed when I walked in, but I heard humming from our bathroom. 

I threw down my bag on my bed and closed the door with my foot. I got under my covers, and curled into a ball. 

Life. Sucks. 

The shower stopped, and I heard the door open. I peeked out, and saw Octavian still humming as he walked to his closet. He hadn’t noticed me. Which would have been fine, if it didn’t mean I was too small for him to notice me. 

Libby did use to try and force me to eat vegetables. “You’re so skinny!” She used to say. I squeezed my eyes shut and my nails dug into my palm. Stop crying. 

I still sniffed though. I hate that I can’t keep my emotions in check. 

Octavian stopped humming. “Hello? Leo?” He asked. I poked my head from my blanket. “Hi…”I said. Octavian eyes softened and he shuffled towards me, one hand desperately trying to hold his towel on his waist. 

The tip of my ears reddened. Why am I noticing that? 

He sat on my bed, his free hand running through his hair. “You okay?” He asked. I nodded, my eyes still attached to his waistline. 

I pinched my leg to turn my gaze away. “I’m okay,” I answered. Octavian’s lips turned slightly. “I see you staring at something, Leo.”

I wanted to crawl into a ditch and go see Jesus. I couldn’t though, because at that moment, the door flew open with a bang and two police officers ran into the room, one holding handcuffs. 

“Leo Western. You’re under arrest for the murder of Libby Western.”

…What

that’s it 👍