They rushed into his room holding metal rods to beat his lifeless body.

 

He was barely conscious, yet his body seized from the pain and shock of the violent attack. Their hands were hidden. They had no eyes, no nose, and no lips. They were dressed in black and ran with hemiplegic stride. He was punished for reasons he did not know.

 

His hands were shattered and his eyes sewn shut. His nose was demolished. His lips were so swollen he couldn't speak. He couldn't walk, for he fractured his ankle. Everything was self-wrought.

 

Severe head trauma, dehydration, and withdrawal. An unstable mind, he was brought to the hospital by ambulance after his parents found him palsied on the ground. His parents told him of this in the days that followed. They stayed to clean the blood stains and destruction he left. Their eyes were bloodshot from the loss of their child.

 

Violently coughing blood and tears streaming his face, he kept taking the shackles off. The paramedics used their entire force to keep him restrained. A threat to himself, there was no reasoning on what he could do to his body if left to his own accord. In the emergency room, he wouldn't stop screaming he wanted death. His parents watched in horror.

 

His father called him. He answered the phone slurring and incomprehensible. Each syllable was met with intermittent sobbing. His parents didn't know where he was or what was happening. They left home immediately to try and find him.

 

The shrieking in his head was the soundtrack to the blood he saw in his mind. Grappling with severe, complex PTSD, he sought a friend to confide in as he grappled with the tragedies he experienced. If only his friend hadn't cancelled.

 

Everything happened so fast. He left his shift to meet a friend at the bar and ordered his second drink within minutes. He finished three more before heading out after his friend never showed. He stumbled the street in search of a meaning larger than him. The solace in which he met the voice of God had abandoned him. He was alone.

 

He sat there, waiting for his shift to be over. Trapped in his thoughts, he battled the draw of eternal peace with his duty to stay alive for his family. At least he could meet his friend for a drink afterward. The night prior, his partner shared specifics of the atrocities committed against her. Unable to reconcile these feelings, he sought confidence in his closest friend. He needed someone to ensure he didn't act impulsively on his feelings. If only his friend knew the decision he had reached. If only his friend hadn't cancelled.

 

Crying his eyes out on the community bus, the stranger to his left tried to console him. He knew by now his partner had been viciously kidnapped and gang-raped a few years back. Only yesterday did he learn the positions forced, tools used, and intimate details in which it happened. Only a week ago, he desperately fought to stop her from tearing herself apart with scissors.

 

He hadn't eaten for two days. His body starved but he felt no appetite. Only recently did he perform CPR on a pulseless body. Only a couple of months ago, he heard a baby scream for his life as he ran to help his mother. The feel of the wind on his neck and the sound of bloody, broken glass crunching under his feet scar his memory.

 

Everything hurt. His mother dropped him off at the bus for his shift. He didn't tell anyone, but he was grappling with the thought of being alive. His pain and hurt needed to stop. The insanity of existence needed to cease. He was pushed too far past his breaking point trying to help others; he was scarred and irreparable. The only solution was suicide. What other alternative did he have?

 

His parents thank me for coming and give me a hug. I wipe my tears and walk back into his funeral. I know I could've helped, even a little. If only I hadn't cancelled.