It was a cold November day, nothing special for the west side of the Bronx. However, for Eric Rakesh, today would be more special than any other- today, November 22, his sixteenth birthday; he awoke to the alarm he had set sex months prior with a new feeing in his heart. It was a feeling of emptiness. Beyond emptiness. It was a deep, all-encompassing feeling of loneliness that hadn’t left him since the seventh grade. As he shook the cobwebs of sleep from his head, he read the message slowly scrolling across the screen of his phone, reading clearly “today is the day I will kill myself”.

He arose from his bed and climbed into the shower. If he was going to die, he may as well look good on his last day. He combed his hair, placed his glasses securely on his nose, put on his jacket, and walked out of the apartment, skateboard and backpack in tow. As he walked out of the old marble archway decorating the front door of his building, he found a new appreciation for the gray New York City sky. This is the last time I’ll see this, he thought as the dull click of his wheels on the sidewalk began a rhythm, I never realized how strangely pretty it was against the skyline. He got on the number three train to Sheridan Square, letting his thoughts drift the entire time. It seemed like everything was the same shade of gray as the sky. The buildings, the sidewalks, the grime on the subway seats, it all became one singular shade.

He got off the train and skated a few blocks east, looking for the right building. He eventually saw one in the village- an apartment building, roughly 15 stories right next to a sketchy looking Chinese restaurant. But most importantly, both the front door, and the door to the stairs were open. He took his skateboard and laid it gently in a nearby alleyway. You’ve given me some good times, man, he thought to himself as he laid it down, I can’t thank you enough. He climbed the front steps and entered through the open doors into the stairwell. As step after step fell behind him, he tried to think of one, just one reason to continue living. Floor five came and went. Floors seven, twelve, and fifteen passed him by. As he opened the metal door to the roof, Eric had been unable to think of a single reason to stay alive.

He had mused over his entire life. He was born to two newlyweds in the not-so-nice area of Queens after a night with one too many drinks and too few second thoughts. A mistake. Had it not been for one or two more beers he never would have come into existence. Nonetheless, the couple loved him more than anything. But after hard times hit, and his father lost his job, they tried as hard as they could but had no choice but to give up their beautiful baby boy for adoption after just six months. He spent a few weeks in the Manhattan Adoption Center, where he was adopted by two gay men. Everything had been great until he was in fifth grade, when he had a friend over to his apartment for the first time to play x-box. The friend took one look at Eric’s dads and suddenly became horribly ill, and had to be picked up by his mother. When school came on Monday, nothing would ever be the same for Eric. He was teased mercilessly about his parents being “faggots”, and how he’ll end up just like them or get some disease. It got worse daily, to the point where Eric’s normal location for lunch was the handicapped stall in the boy’s bathroom. This was how the last several years had been. Nobody wanted to be associated with him to avoid ridicule, because he was assumed to be gay. He had been lonely and friendless since age 11.

He climbed up onto the roof and walked across the cement to the edge of the building. The people passing by were small, but they looked happy. Whether it was a tourist discovering the village for the first time, a fat old transit worker stuffing his face with yet another “fresh” deli sandwich, or a hipster rushing to the record store, they all looked like they were truly, genuinely, happy.

As he casually touched the edging of the building with his Nike SB’s, he pulled out his wallet. He reached into the slot closest to the back and pulled out a series of pictures. As he flipped through the stack, he tossed them off of the building. His sixth birthday, gone. His biological mother holding him for the first time, picked up by the wind. He slowly flipped through the entire stack until his hands were empty, and a trail of photographs littered Greene Street, fifteen stories below. He began to notice tears, running down his face. This was the first time in years that he had cried after being desensitized to just about every insult in the book. He removed his jacket, folding it neatly and placing it next to his backpack. He pulled off his beanie, folding it as best he could and placing it on top of his jacket gently. Finally, he laid a sealed envelope over the pile, marked “Dad and Pops”. He didn’t want them to think it was any fault of theirs. There was nothing they could have done to stop him, or help him in the end.

After all of this, he reached into the backpack and pulled out an old, work, kitten beanie baby. It was the only thing that he had loved and really believed loved him back for most of his childhood. He clutched it to his chest, silently praying that it wouldn’t be too painful, as he closed his eyed, and took a step.