Lucas is the most amazing student I’ve ever had. I didn’t want to hurt him, but I think it was supposed to happen. After all, it was his decision. And I feel better than I’ve ever felt in my life.
It sounds crazy. But something extraordinary happened between us this week.
To fully explain, I suppose I need to tell you about myself.
I haven’t lived a happy life. I work at a fairly shitty preschool; it’s probably not a good career fit for me. I’m not as peppy or caring as my coworkers, but I feel stuck, probably due to my (self-diagnosed) anxiety and depression.
My life consists of work, home, couch, weed, alcohol, any drugs I can get my hands on (which is unfortunately not as many as I’d like), sleeping at odd hours, and repeating. Days blur together and nothing really changes. Some days I feel like I’m holding back tears, and others I just feel empty. I’ve spent the last couple years entertaining suicidal thoughts that have only increased as time goes on.
At least, they had until now.
Lucas started in my classroom a week ago on Monday, July 9th.
I was nervous, knowing that my comfortable, albeit exhausting, routine was about to be upheaved. The initial meeting with his father revealed that Lucas, born to abusive parents, had been recently adopted.
His biological parents reportedly tied him up for hours at a time. When Child Protective Services removed him from their house he was malnourished, developmentally delayed, and deeply traumatized. He couldn’t even be touched without having a meltdown. The parents had a drug problem, supposedly.
Good thing I never had kids. Some of us aren’t suited for it.
Anyway, while I certainly want the best for any child in that situation, I didn’t feel equipped to handle him. I had no idea what to expect and braced myself for the worst.
Monday (his first day) went ok.
Luckily, he didn’t have any major tantrums or outbursts like I feared. Instead, he acted like he couldn’t hear me, seemed incapable of cleaning up after himself, and turned away whenever I tried to talk to him. He wouldn’t say a word. Fine, I was too exhausted anyway. I let him do his own thing. Besides, he seemed to prefer being left alone.
On Tuesday, he started watching me closely. It was eerie - I’d turn toward him and his large, sunken blue eyes, standing out brightly against his pale, sallow skin, would be fixated on me. I started gently smiling at him then turning away, sensing that we both preferred to be ignored. A commonality between us.
I heard him speak for the first time on Wednesday. He tripped and fell on the playground, so I walked over to him.
“You ok, buddy?”
Once again, the deep stare. A stretch of silence. And then he spoke.
“I think you’re nice. I wish you weren’t so sad.”
I tried to hide my surprise, both that he considered me nice when I had mostly ignored him, and also that he had such an intuitive grasp of my emotions, which I kept devastatingly private at all times.
“I’m not sad today Lucas, what makes you think that?”
He stared at the sky this time, squinting up with a pained expression. He was shorter than all the other 5 year olds, awkwardly skinny, with protruding bones that created sharp angles over his body. Sharp, with nearly translucent skin. Looking at him too long made me uncomfortable, but at the same time it was hard to tear my eyes away.
“I can feel the sad in people. Don’t tell… but I know you won’t.” He said it with a mixture of mumbling and whispering, but I knew I heard him right. Suddenly he turned and walked away with his awkward gait - seemingly off balance, with a slight limp.
He didn’t talk again for the rest of the day, but from then on, whenever our eyes met, he would gently smile back.
The first instance happened on Thursday.
God, my head was killing me that day.
Sitting at my table while the kids played, head in my hands, struggling to keep my eyes open, gently rubbing my forehead. Trying to fight the nausea and wishing I had something to ease the pain. I hadn’t slept well the night before, just on and off here and there throughout the evening.
That was the state I was in when Lucas walked up to me.
Silently, our eyes met. The pain inside him was so deep, almost palpable. I was simultaneously terrified and intrigued.
He gently placed his hand on mine.
I was so captivated by him that I didn’t even notice my headache was gone until he’d walked away. He went to a quiet area of the room where we store cots for naptime, a corner hidden behind the cubbies, without any toys or activities to choose from. He sat down, laying his head in his hands.
I could tell he was in pain.
That evening, all I could think about was Lucas. Surely he couldn’t have healed my headache, but how did it stop so suddenly as soon as he touched me? I felt different, too. I went to sleep at a normal time, and ate a semi-normal dinner. I attributed the change in routine to my preoccupation with this unusual occurrence.
Lucas wasn’t at school on Friday. I worried about him all weekend. It was a typical boring, empty weekend. I found myself sitting and wondering what to do, with this odd feeling that I should be doing something. I usually don’t feel that way.
He was back today, on Monday, eyes looking glassier than before, moving a bit slower. I was thrilled to see him, and had to practically hold myself back from hugging him. It was the strongest emotion I’ve felt in awhile.
“Lucas, I missed you on Friday! Are you feeling okay? Were you sick?” Why was I so worried about him? I don’t tend to get emotionally attached to children in my class.
He looked at me with worry in his eyes. Whispered something unintelligible.
“What did you say? Sorry, I couldn’t hear you.” I leaned down to get as close to him as possible. I’d never had such a strong desire to hear every single word out of a child’s mouth.
“My old parents liked drugs too. But they were bad people. You aren’t bad.”
For an instant, my heart stopped. Most 5 year olds don’t know what drugs are, and I’ve never had anyone, adult or child, hint that they knew about my life outside of work. I hide it surprisingly well.
It felt like he had gotten into my head.
“Lucas, I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sweetie…”
Suddenly, Lucas grabbed my hands. Squeezing tighter than I would’ve thought possible for his frail body, nails digging into my skin, white knuckles.
His expression was frozen in a look of shock and despair. He began to scream.
I tried to free myself from his grip, but his nails were so deep in my skin that it tore as I pulled away, and blood trickled down my wrist. His shrill scream rang in my ears, making me feel slightly panicky.
“Lucas, it’s okay! Please let go, that hurts…”
He kept screaming, at the top of his lungs, as the other children in the classroom silently gathered around, scared and confused, to watch the spectacle.
All at once, I felt a rush. The feeling was indescribable, as though someone had opened up my brain and reset it. I felt clear. I don’t think I’d felt that way before.
The depression, the negative energy, the demon, however you choose to make sense of the debilitating horror that can infest our being, drained from my body.
Then Lucas collapsed. Sobbing on the floor, fetal position, rocking back and forth. Inconsolable.
Our assistant director rushed in after hearing the screams. She saw the blood and nail marks on my wrists, and immediately took Lucas up to the front to call his parents. It all happened so fast, I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.
***
It’s now Wednesday, July 18th. Today I found out that Lucas was found dead in his bedroom last night. He had somehow gotten into a gun case that his dad could’ve sworn was locked, and he shot himself.
It’s a story that is absolutely devastating the town, and made national news. A 5 year old child with such a horrific childhood, killing himself with a gun, such a tragedy. A preventable accident.
But I know it wasn’t an accident. That was supposed to my death, my suicide. Lucas took my pain and saved my life.
Part of me feels guilty, but I also realize that he chose me. His small, weak body held an incredible power, and he knew my life was meant to be lived. And now, thanks to him, I know it too.