A mother and a father sit in a dimly lit hospital waiting room, holding each other tightly. The mother with tears freely flowing, and the father repeating something, barely over a whisper; “why”.

As the boy opened his eyes, he slowly took in his surroundings, and came to the realization that he wasn’t in his room at home. Questions flooded his mind: “where am I?”, “why am I here?”, “what happened?”, “where are my parents?”. He tried to process his surroundings, and noticed a white wrist band, along with soreness in his neck. Almost immediately after waking, nurses rushed into the room, taking his vitals, checking his eyes, ears, mouth, nose, ears, and anything else possibly scrutinized.

He tried to ask them what had happened, but they were deaf to his pleas. “Is this a dream?” he thought. He tried to think about what had happened, but hard as he might, he had no memory of how he ended up in a hospital room. Finally, after a seeming eternity, the nurses left, as quickly as they came in. He rose shakily out of the bed, his muscles aching, and made his gradual trek to the bathroom. Taking a hard look at himself in the mirror, he couldn’t recognize the person staring back at him. The long hair. The dark rings around the eyes. But the thing that finally triggered his memories was the red mark circling his neck.

Everything came back to him in an instant. The rope. The chair. The feelings of self-loathing. The self hate. But the worst feeling was that he knew he didn’t just fail, but it wasn’t the first time. He saw the empty bottle. The razor blade. Each time, thinking he could end it. And each time waking up in a strange place, with no memory of the ordeal.

He made his way back to the bed, and closed his eyes. In his heart he wanted to be grateful to be alive, but he knew the feelings would come back, and he would eventually try again. The hands would grab him, and drag him back into the darkness. They always did.