Lessons We Should Learn From Dead Men


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Lesson 1

    Never trust a person with your life stories, struggles, or thoughts, for they can slowly drive you to insanity. 


Lesson 1

    On my way to school there was a man probably in his mid-thirties. I didn’t think much of it at first, him standing over the ledge that is. When I walked next to him, he jumped. Did I do something? Did I push him and not realize? I rushed over to the ledge and bent over. The man was obviously dead. I was panting. I couldn’t breathe. Do I call the cops? Do I call my mom? What am I supposed to do? My thoughts are racing and my head is spinning. I stood there. I stared. I contemplated jumping myself. I turned around to look for anyone else around me. Nobody was there. I found a book under my foot. I picked it up and read the title. “Lessons we Should Learn from Dead Men”. He had left the book there right before he jumped. I open it up to the first page and started reading. 

    Lesson One. People don’t notice you until you do something to make them notice you. You could simply introduce yourself or you could do something like I did. Jump off a bridge in front of the most innocent girl you can find crossing your path. 

    He waited until he found me to jump. I triggered him to do it. Does that mean I killed him? I need to stop overthinking things. 

    To the girl who saw this happen, don’t tell anyone. Do you hear me? Anyone. If you spill one word about this to a single soul it’ll be the death of you. Believe me. I guess I should tell you my name. I’m Jared Williams. You’ll find out more about me when you read on. Anyways, back to the lesson. I never really talked to anyone my whole life. I was always very closeted and in my own little world. I felt powerless and so I started doing little things to make people notice me, good or bad. I just wanted attention. I started stealing things from my ex’s house. I started abusing my son. It got to the point where I almost shot down a school then myself, but I talked myself out of it. All of this happened after I started seeing a psychiatrist for my anxiety. I should have never told that man all of my problems. He did this to me. I did this to me. We did this to me. 

    I never thought that a person who is supposed to help you would be there reason you kill yourself. But why? 

    I carried on walking slowly, thinking about what I just saw. I can’t tell anyone. I’m not taking any chances. 

    Once I got inside the school, my best friend Angel walked up to me and took the book from my hands. I instantly grabbed it back because she cannot see it.

    “Hey, what was that for? It’s just a book!” Angel screamed.

    “Shh! Angel I can’t tell you,”

    “Why not?” Angel demanded.

    “I can’t say,”

    “I’m not talking to you,” Angel said and started walking away.

    I rolled my eyes and called for her. I can’t loose my best friend over some stupid book. 

    “Angel! Wait! I’ll tell you. It’s a book a dead guy wrote. I found it on a bridge after he jumped in front of my eyes,” I said.

    “Are you serious? That’s crazy!” She exclaimed.

    “I get it, but you can’t tell anyone, and you can’t read it,” I made that clear.

    She agreed and we walked off to class. 

    I decided to ignore the book for the rest of the day, but it was really hard. I kept hearing that man’s words in the back of my head. My thoughts just wouldn’t shut up. 

    My mom had set up an appointment with a psychiatrist for me a few weeks ago, and the appointment is today after school. I have anxiety and depression, but honestly, who doesn’t these days. We live in the suicide era, with the suicide rooms and the suicide notes. People don’t really notice those people, though. 

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    When I got home from school my mom gave me a snack and we headed out the door. 

    Once I got to the office we sat in the waiting room. There were pictures of presidents and cats on the wall, but who am I to judge?

    “Ella Berche, come on this way,” the man, who I assume is the psychiatrist said.

    I followed him and he brought me into this tiny room that was painted blue. There was a dark brown couch for the client and a small chair and desk for him. 

    “I’m Dr. Eden. Jeff Eden, that is,” He said with a smile.

    I couldn’t help but notice the scar on his right cheek right under his eye. It seemed pretty old, but it was definitely there. 

    “Okay, so Ella, we are gonna start off with getting to know each other a little bit. When is your birthday?”

    “Uhh-October 18th,” I said.

    We talked for a while longer and we eventually started talking about my life.

    “Is there anything specific you would like to talk about?” 

    “Umm, not really. I just need help with like coping skills I guess. I have panic attacks a lot and I cry a lot,” I said, ignoring the book.

    We talked some more and my mom and I left to get some dinner. I couldn’t eat, so I just sat there and stared at my phone. I don’t know  what it was, but I had no appetite. That might be a side-effect of the anti-depressants. I told myself that I would eat when we get home, but I didn’t. I went straight to my bedroom and got out the book. I need to read it some more.

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