I’m a pretty happy guy. I left state for college after high school, got a degree in psychology, and now work as a counselor for high school-aged kids. My little brother Mack is happily married with a two year old son, which makes my mom turn her attention to me, heckling me about when I’ll be able to give her more grandbabies. Life has been very good, but I’ve recently discovered something that may turn everything upside down.
My dad needed help cleaning out the attic, something which he said hadn’t been done “since Reagan was in office.” I agreed to help, but my brother wouldn’t be joining us since he had work. I had only been in the attic a handful of times throughout my entire childhood, so being up there again felt surreal. Dust and cobwebs coated every box, chair, and trinket in sight. I almost had two heart attacks thanks to a couple of rats scurrying around, but my father and I managed to sort through a lot of things, figuring out what was needed and what we could throw away. While my dad took a break, going down to the kitchen for a drink with my mom, I continued to curiously scour the attic. That was when something colorful caught my eye.
It was one of my old comic books, lying unceremoniously on an end chair in the corner. I picked it up, waves of nostalgia surging through me as I admired the front cover, which depicted my favorite superhero, the Hulk, raising a car over his head, his teeth clenched. It had to have been almost 15 years since I had last seen that book. I was surprised at how good a condition it was in; The rats hadn’t touched it. I flipped it open and began thumbing through the pages, enjoying a little piece of the past that had been forgotten. As I neared the middle of the book, however, a single sheet of white paper, folded horizontally, slipped out and drifted slowly to the floor, coming to land at my feet. I kept a finger on the last page I had stopped on, so as not to lose my place, and bent down to pick up the paper. Opening it, I began to read the message that had been written:
I can’t take it anymore. I wish that someone could understand what I’m going through, but no one ever will. Mom, I love you so much and I hate to do this to you, but it’s the only option that I have. Dad, you did your best for me and Mack, but still, I have to go. By the time you read this I know that it will be done. Don’t tell my friends the truth about what happened; Don’t bury me, either. I don’t want to be worm food. Mack, you were the best brother in the world and just know that this is not your fault. I’ll be singing with the angels and watching over all of you from now on.
Darby
I stared at the note for a long time after I finished reading. I read it again and again, not knowing whether or not this was a joke. If it was, then it was cruel and I didn’t think that anyone I knew was capable of doing such a thing. I stared harder at the words. My heartbeat hammered against my ribcage as I pondered the possibility of the note being…legit? The handwriting was very similar to my own and written in orange ink, my favorite color pen to use when I would write in my journal or when I would write stories when I was younger. My head was spinning. Could it be possible that I had written this and simply suppressed the memory? I couldn’t recall any negative experiences that could have made me consider killing myself, and I was sure that seeing something like this would bring such experiences to come back to me. But they didn’t come.
“Darbs?”
I jumped, spinning around and hiding the note instinctively behind my back. My dad was standing near the entry to the attic, a confused look on his face. “Everything okay?” “Yeah, Dad, I’m fine, thank you. Just uh…a little thirsty, I guess I should have taken my break too. You mind grabbing me a glass of water?” “One glass of water, coming right up!” he replied, but as he descended the stairs, I could see him watching me closely. As soon as he was out of sight I folded the note into a square and stuffed it in my pocket. I waited until I finished my water before telling my dad I needed to get some errands done, and that I would help him finish the attic another time.
I went home and immediately tried comparing the handwriting in the note to my own. My current handwriting was a lot neater, but I could totally imagine myself as a teenager or preteen writing the way the message was written. Then again, if someone had been trying to copy my writing style, then that would explain the slight differences. After a couple hours of questioning my childhood I decided to sleep on it. Maybe I would call my brother and ask him if he remembered anything traumatic happening when we were younger. I lay in bed for hours, but just as I was about to drift off, I received a text message from my mother
.
“You found it, didn’t you?”