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Guitars and Suicides: Chapter Three

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One of the most amazing things about Carlson Train High was that during Saturdays, several teachers host study sessions for the students who are, let us say, not as knowledgeable as what the teachers expect them to be. Unfortunately, I fell into that category along with the crack heads and smartasses and lazy asses and dumb asses of the school. As amazing as this program is, there are still dumb asses in the school; very effective, I would say. I was recommended to this Saturday gathering; however, that did not stop me from attending, being in a place where no one wants to be is not really a great way to enjoy a Saturday.
The child’s room was hit by a tornado again. There were traces of a massive battle that took place. This battle involved two extremely fluffy pillows for shields and towels for whipping. You could hear the shouting and screaming and laughter if you were standing in the middle of this room. You could hear the commotion for over an hour, and then, yelling and lecturing of an adult because someone broke the television set. There was only one thing in that room that was completely unscathed by the war, the guitar on its stand. It stood there, boasting its majesty to the room.
Mark’s parents did not come to pick him up that day; his father was out of town for a week and his mother was working a nightshift until four in the morning. Mark took the bed and I took the floor, he always complimented my bed and compared it to his hard rock cot. He blacked out as he hit the bed.
The sunlight shot through the seeps in the windows and hit Mark’s face. Usually a person would wake up, but he lay there, as motionless as a rock. For Saturdays, he and I sleep in an extended six hour period. Going to Carlson Train High at six o’ clock everyday was utterly a very arduous action; however, I commit this act of adultery not for me, but for this written law in the new constitution. No alarm clock was sounded at six o’ clock, but instantly at exactly noon, Mark’s eyes shot open. He jumped up quickly off the bed and slammed into my back.
“QUET! Wake up; we have to go to the bridge today. We have to commit suicide!” shouted Mark.
“Get off of me,” I retorted back. He then put his arm around my neck into this wrestling pin-down maneuver. Powerful as he was, I gained control over him and flipped so he was on the bottom and I was on top.
After we stumbled around the floor, causing some books to fall off the desk, having pillows squashed underneath us, and loads of other debris flew everywhere, we got up, and raced to the kitchen.
Mamma was in the kitchen, as usual, everyday, attempting to produce the finest toast.
“At noon?” I asked her.
“It’s your breakfast, now eat up,” she snaps back at us as if we did not wake up in time for an actual breakfast.
“We are going to the bridge to commit suicide today, Ma’am,” Mark spat at her face unintentionally.
“Oh really?” she continued, “How’s the toast?”
“It was unbelievable,” Mark complimented.
Mark, I guessed, liked to feel incredulous while drinking tea. Well, that did not really stop him from skipping our suicide at the bridge.
To a more logical term, it was our code word (or phrase) that indicated people that we know that we are planning or planned to meet up at the bridge that connects the suburbs to the metropolis of the town. The suburbia was always underestimated in this town; however, the metropolis was greatly exaggerated because there was only one sky scrapper, and it was not really high at all. Dull and looked as if it was raised from hell, the “Commercial Bank of America” stood as a humongous rectangular prism with a delta like stairs entrance.
Across the street from the bank was the mayor’s office. The street these two important places live on is called Heavan’s Drive. I called it ironic. Neither the mayor nor the bank was really holy, the street only sparked a shining essence on these buildings. As you go south of this street, the street split into a T shaped intersection, one lead to suburbia and the other led to the small outlet shopping mall where all the jocks and the cheerleaders acquire their weekly new clothes. The street lead to suburbia was long, barren, and dirty. The street was turned into a bridge, crossed a shine-less blue-pearled river. Under the bridge, there were cemented banks that lead up to under the bridge. The bank towards the suburban part of town; the bank where if you looked out, you would see metropolis, was where we commit suicide.
The whole river was man-made, it looks murky, but the riverbed is purely cement, giving a dull shine when you look at it from the bridge. The river was fresh and was always was filled no matter what the season. Waters ran through filters and filters and filters from mountains about fifty miles away. It was the middle of spring and the river was flushed with clear fresh water, a perfect time to swim and perform our suicide.
As we trekked our way through the monstrous Saturday traffic and successfully avoided rampaging dog-sitters on walks and professional bikers, we finally made our way towards the bridge. A girl and a guy were standing on the outside edge of the bridge, their faces looming down in some nervous but yet anxious face. Their hands were grasping tightly onto the handlebars of the bridge as if they were going to fall, which was highly unlikely. The edge was wide enough to fit two people by width and you would have to make yourself fall in order to fall.
Ingrid Shinoff was the girls name and Gerard Crushion was the guy’s name. Ingrid was a freshman in our high school and Gerard was a senior. Ingrid’s blond-ish brown-ish hair was blowing in the breeze, her eyes wide open and her mouth gaping wide. She was wearing an overlarge t-shirt and under it was her bathing suit. The senior, a foot or so taller, had jet black hair and was barely motivated by the light wind. He was half naked and wore this pants that stretched down to the bottom of his shin.
“Hey guys! Don’t commit without us!” shouted Mark. Both of them turned towards us and waved at us with both hands, unfortunately Ingrid lost her balance and flew straight down into the blue pool causing large ripples. She claimed it was the wind that knocked her over, but that was just one of her infamous crappy excuses when she could not think of any other good one.
We stared down; she was swimming towards the side where an overstuffed bag was laying. Of course, none of us would have guessed that she would have one of those lying around. She never goes without a bag, and if it was overstuffed, she was in a good mood. Many times, though, her bag had barely anything in it; she was on her everyday mood. Mark never quite understood why Ingrid had daily or hourly moods. He just proclaims her lady’s time to the world whenever the subject comes up.
Ingrid had a large blue one with a strap and a million and one pockets. That is as much pockets as Gerard’s million and one pocket man khakis.
“Oh no! She committed without us?! Why?” Screamed Mark as he clutched his head and spun around like a Neanderthal discovering fire.
“I did not mean to, it was the wind,” she complained up towards us as she resurfaced.
“You committed without us!” repeated Mark again.
“I told you already, you do not have to be so dramatic about this!”
I turned around to Mark, “Let it go, man, let’s just jump now.”
“Quet,” Gerard quickly grabbed my attention, “I thought you had Saturday school.”
“Why would I sacrifice this quality and special time between us four to take eight hours of Mr. Dick’s monotone voice screeching in my eardrums?” I called to him.
“Ha, I guess not,” he laughed.
“Yeah, Quet-Man here does not need any Saturday school with him, he has me,” Mark boasted nonchalantly.
The three of us heard screaming from twenty feet below us. Ingrid was yelling for us to take the suicide jump. It was basically a threat, a “jump or I’ll make you jump.”
Gerard created a monstrous wave, no a tsunami. It engulfed Ingrid and the towel she took out of her bag as she was drying her hair on the edge of the river. He sprung up nearly a second later and called us down. Yes, it was our turn. Mark never gave me a chance to take off my shirt, of course. Always, always, always, during the middle of my strip scene he’d push me off the bridge; snatch my shirt as I fell down what it felt like one hundred feet into the seemingly enormous fresh water ocean. My adrenaline was pumping faster than the blood itself, landing in that water rejuvenated me. Whatever happened between when my feet touched the water and when my head sank under the surface, I was reborn, a new me.
I was addicted; committing suicide was like taking the gateway drug. I did not care whatever the calculations and the test results say. Scientists are only accurate based on fact; I do this because it feels great.
I began to suffocate as I was raised slowly upward by the river current. My body was being lifted by god. Resurfacing gives me sight, everything looks so new, so amazing; unfortunately it was the same town, the same sky, and the same bridge. Suicide Bridge, as we called it.
“Quet, hurry up! It’s my turn,” complained Mark three stories above me. I swam out of his way towards Gerard and Ingrid on the side of the river on the cement bank. I reached there and both of them greeted me with hugs. Ingrid told me to look up, as here Mark was about to perform his signature on the world.
He dashed outwards, soaring past us.
“I feel so alive!” he shouted as he plunged down into the water. He was reborn as well. We spent our early afternoon there. It was where everything took place Saturday. Suicide Bridge was a definite name for that bridge. Five suicide attempts took place within the past five years. Five years ago, a man. Three years ago, Gerard and I. Two years ago, Ingrid. And within the past year, Mark.
It was our trademark on the world. Sadly, the man disappeared from our lives forever. The four of us, we are still alive.
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