Paper Planes

Trigger warning: mentions of s**cide Just a little story I sent to a couple writing contests.

Paper Planes

Only a true, more-than-best-friend like Blake would ask for something so stupidly simple in a suicide note. I’m bent over on the couch when the phone clicks dead, his mother’s final sob swallowed by the lack of sound that follows. My head throbs as the quiet settles in. The whole town has been grieving this week since it happened, so that was something. Not enough to be comfort, though.

Nothing would be enough.

A hand on my shoulder drags me back to now. My mother sits beside me.

“There’s nothing quite as harsh as a mother torn from her child. It’s only natural to want answers after something like that happens.” Her voice timidly arrives, like frail wind sweeping the coast. “As his best friend, it only makes sense she expects you to know�"”

“You know I couldn’t have known,” I croak. We both flinch at the sound of my voice.

“I didn’t see him for a whole year, and he was the same as always the day he came back.”

“Maybe something happened at that college he left for.”

“He could’ve told me, he should have! He really made me think everything was fine, just for that to happen the next morning…”

The hand on my shoulder tightens. “It’s not your fault. It’s not anyone’s fault.”

I rise, nausea sliding up my throat. “I have to go.”

“Where to?”

“I’ll be home soon.”

I finally look at her. Her eyes whisper that she understands. I grip my phone tighter, the front door getting closer with every heavy step. I make it.

“I’m fine,” I mutter, to anyone willing to believe me. I lean against the cool of the glass. I don’t know if it was her who whispered it, but the words “Goodbye, Joel” leak into my head. I feel my head plunge under again, back to the thoughts of Blake, the note. When I open my eyes, I’m on the porch, the summer air cooking my face.

The words are gone.

It glares at me as I pulled out of the driveway, bouncing insistently in its envelope. Shapes and colors blend outside the truck. I should've known. Maybe it was all in the details, the way he reminisced about childhood and dodged the subject of college life. Even in that damn note, he was beating around the bush like it didn’t matter. Like I didn’t matter enough to just be upfront.

We’ve known each other since we were five. Pretty much predetermined in a town like this. He was the guy no one could dare to be�"the wave that’ll wear you down, that local small-town football star. Maybe what you’d call a class clown, except I can’t name a time he’s ever played the fool. Most guys like me would probably wish they were him, but Blake didn’t even give me the chance. He’d let us wish together, at our special cliff reigning over the sea.

I tether my breaths to fence posts by the road. Anytime, for anything, we’d write our wish down, fold the sheet into a plane, and launch it so that it would cut through the salt-dusted air. It was more ritual than game, a ritual so engraved that it never washed away, only evolved from childish yearning to a small window to throw worries from. The wishes turned to problems. The note rattles again. How could he of all people decide he was a problem?

Alternating red and blue burns my eyes. I’m pulled over, a heap of a cop stepping out. I know him like how everyone knows everyone. Officer Matthews, a family friend. I roll down the window.

“Good morning, Joel.”

“Morning.”

He watches me sink into my chair, worry twisting through his face. “Listen, we’re all thinking about him, every one of us. The whole town will be there tomorrow.”

“That’s not what I need to hear. I’ve suffered through every consolation in the book, and tomorrow hasn’t even come…”

“Then what do you need to hear?”

“I want the full details. The exact time, the scene, everything.” My face softens. “Please.”

“I’m not authorized to give anyone outside his family additional details right now. Please don’t push the matter, son.”

“I was family to him. Everyone knows it, I’m surprised I even have to say it!”

He’s no doubt tossing around the thought that what I’m talking about just isn’t the same. But the thing about Blake was, if he saw you as family, you were.

“Either way, you don’t want to know.”

“I don’t, but I think I need to.”

He gives me this almost pitiful look. “Alright, I’ll tell you. Blake was found dead at six thirty-two a.m. last Saturday in the water beneath the cliff up ahead. His body was found by a boat passing by the scene. He was floating face-down on the surface. All signs point to�"”

He stops when he sees my face. “I told you.”

“So you did.”

“Unlock your door, son,”

His tone is different from the others, more than brittle sympathy when you crack it open. I feel my hand obeying. Just as the truck door opens, I’m crushed. His bulking arms are engulfing me, protecting me from something that’s already invaded, taken over. It’s too late for me. Saltwater drips into torrents, crashing over my face. I scream. Some sort of animal cry of agony that could not have come from me. It’s too late for him. If only he could’ve been saved from this drowning silence. The hug and the tears roll on until I hear a door slam shut and suddenly I’m alone in the truck again. I look out to catch a final nod from Officer Matthews before his car blares away. He never told me why he pulled me over. I don’t ask myself for long. You already know the answer to things like that, with things like this. My eyes tie together the note and the cliff up ahead. Our special spot he chose to die. I close my eyes and suddenly know how I’m going to go through with this.

I look down at each rolling wave, crowned by froth and kissed by the sun. Police tape covers the edge of the cliff. The note’s in my hand now, every word worn out from my eyes. I fold the sheet again, then again, then again. The plane takes form. I tighten creases and smoothen wrinkles and fuss over it until I can feel him nudging me, telling me to stop. I stare at it. His final, only ask of me.

Remember how we used to write down our problems and throw them over the cliff? I want you to do that with this note when you’re done. I’m sorry to you and everyone else for being a problem. Please just throw me away.

He may have thrown away his life, the truth about why he really took it, but he can’t convince me to forget him. I retreat to my head and dig like how one makes holes in the sand. I scoop out fresh grief and his college departure, memories of school days and fall games until the problems are back to wishes and now we’re six, sandy legs dangling from the edge. We both champion glittering smiles, planes in hand. Our wishes are both something about football, or maybe our mothers’ tired eyes. Tucked away and condensed into hope, we throw at the same time. Always the same time. They entwine, clumsily riding the breeze until they reach the water and drift. Not sink, not drown. Not bob lifelessly. Drift. The hope drifts towards the sun.

Yes and no. Not like how he asked. I unfold the plane, taking out a pen. On the back of the note, I write a wish. My wish for him. My heart crashes against my inner walls. I refold the sheet again, then again, then again. It takes back its form. I stare at it. There’s a light in its darkness now, a spark of hope in its core. I throw it. It spirals and glides, a blossoming, dying final notion to share. It hits the water, and drifts.

Author's Note

Honestly, I’m pretty mentally done with this story, so I’m not to worried about critiques, just read and enjoy <3
I just want to know your overall thoughts, lines that stand out, and ur beautiful opinions ;)