| General Non-Fiction posted December 13, 2024 |
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If I could change my part in her story, I undoubtedly would
Ashlyn's Story (Revisited)
by Keely Fiedorowicz
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.
“Help me,” she begged of me, her tiny frame weighed down by the bricks tied around her waist. Water as black as a moonless night bubbled around her, and fought to claim her. She desperately threw out of a hand for me to take, to pull her ashore, the water now cresting over her chin. But I too was in danger of drowning, and that sucked up most of my attention.
“Help me!” she cried again, the water now almost up to her bottom lip. Desperation crashed within her like the ebony waves we both fought separately, completely unaware we were fighting a similar battle.
I gazed down at the obsidian waves with dread, completely ignorant of her hand near me, trying to get my attention. My own struggle with the sinister ocean drowned out her cries.
“Help!” she cried again, and then her head went under the waves and she was gone…
I woke with a strangled gasp, still feeling the menacing water trying to pull me under. I blink, as if trying to dislodge the inky water from my eyes. As I blink, another set of eyes besides my own flash in my mind. Princess-blue, with circles like deadly nightshade lingering underneath them. The shadows’ color matched the vicious flower, yes, but I was oblivious to the matching, devastatingly sharp bite of poison coating her mind, eating away like acid. In my mind's image, those poisonous shadows seem to suck the life from her otherwise beautiful eyes, her misery drifting across her face like shadows over the moon… It was so obvious now. How could I not have seen it?
A new image flashes in my mind, a creation born from a writer’s imaginative mind. Those eyes gently shut, the poisonous shadows hovering underneath them deepened, her face pallid and made-up gruesomely, arms folded demurely across her chest as she lay motionless in a coffin. I can almost hear the echoes of cries from mourners, and my own heart cries out, too. Her story never should've ended the way it did. If I could rewrite my part in her story, I would, many times over. But the book was super-glued closed, and no amount of straining and yanking will change that. I close my eyes, and the past rises up like the ocean waves that swallowed her, and the past pulls me under…
11 years earlier, 2013...
The cheap fluorescent lights leached out all of the hallway’s color, although the world looked lifeless and dull to me already anyway. Idle chatter and gossip filled the hallway like putrid smoke, as I shoved my way through crowds of preteens unapologetically. Sharp elbows jostled me and obscenities flew through the hall dizzyingly, like inebriated birds. Adding to the unpleasantness, perfume and cologne snaked through the air and collided sickeningly, weaving into a single stench. I found myself entertaining the idea of setting the place on fire.
I was starting at a new school halfway through my 6th grade year, and I was starting it with the worst attitude possible, and depression clouding my brain too, nonetheless.
The warning bell rang, alerting us that we had only a minute left to get to class. I sighed loudly, rolling my eyes dramatically, before shoving my way through the last of the bumbling masses. I swung my narrow, prepubescent hips deliberately, trying to make it appear as if I couldn't give two fucks what anyone thought of me. Then, I sauntered my way into the classroom, and threw my bag and books onto the only empty grouping of tables. I slowly settled into a seat, emulating the fakest of confidence as I settled in. Once settled, I glared challengingly around the room, and my eyes fell on a nearby grouping of tables, with four girls.
To me, they appeared just as real and promising as Barbies, and I instantly was suspicious of them. I glared from girl to girl, my gaze as acidic as vinegar. Can you spell “defense mechanism”? Three of them barely spared me a glance, but one girl, a striking blonde with big, Alice-in-Wonderland-blue eyes, met my sharp gaze and smiled at me, those pretty eyes undeniably welcoming, shocking me. We may have only been 12 years old, but I knew she'd grow up to be a stunner. She looked like she modeled in her spare time. But there appeared to be a sadness shining in the depths of her eyes, too. But how was that possible? The girls she was seated with looked like your average Popular Mean Girls, who appeared to have everything. I had a hard time looking away- that sadness in her eyes called to me. But if these were her friends, I didn't want anything to do with her. I broke eye contact, instead turning my attention to my desk.
None of them had any idea of how depressed I was, and how close I was to sinking. And I wasn't capable of believing that any of them could care. The waves licked my chin as I sat there, and I could feel them trying to consume me, like flames in a wildfire. Soon there would be nothing left of me but ash. I didn't think anyone would care, though…
“Hi, you must be new,” the pretty blonde girl said warmly, oblivious, “My name is Ashlyn.”
I hadn't noticed she’d approached me. She offered me a small, porcelain-pale hand to shake. I gazed down at her hand with a vague confusion. Why was she talking to me and being so nice? I shook her hand suspiciously, like a beaten dog being offered a slab of meat- always trying to peel back reality, because I was sure a hidden agenda lurked underneath. I was cynical to the bone. I looked up into Ashlyn’s eyes, and noticed shadows lurked underneath them, and I again asked myself how that was possible. We lived in two very different worlds, and I couldn't see her ever leaving hers for mine. And HER world didn't have sleepless nights and misery. Or at least that's what I thought.
“What’s your name?” She asked me sweetly. I was positive that sweetness was just to cover the bitter tang of bitchiness, like a topcoat of paint, slathered on thickly. I didn't want to be there when that topcoat peeled away. I needed to protect my heart at all costs, and this girl seemed to be bad news, a possible bomb to my mission to protect myself. No. It wouldn't do.
“Well? What’s your name?” Ashlyn asked again.
I didn't want to be outwardly rude, even if I was sure this girl was about as real as a Kardashian’s breasts. But I also didn't want her to think we could be friends. I'd NEVER entertain a girl who hung out with The Popular Queen Bee Bitches (™).
“Keely. My name is Keely,” I answered.
The blonde smiled gently at me. She looked as if she was going to say more, but the teacher called for silence just then. Ashlyn drifted back to her friends, and class began. I gave the teacher my full attention, almost.
Although most of my attention was on my teacher, I noticed Ashlyn looking at me, that same fathomless sorrow shining in her eyes. But clearly she had everything. What was there to be sad about? I dedicated the last sliver of my attention to the teacher, cutting Ashlyn out entirely, without a second thought.
***
I didn't want to remember what happened next. I wish I could go back to that day, all those years ago, and give her a chance. Or even go back to thinking Ashlyn was a walking and talking paper doll, and erase what happened next, just living in ignorance. Ghostlike impressions of the waves that had threatened to drown me all those years ago linger on my face, and I hate that I didn't see the waves Ashlyn was fighting. I close my eyes, and despite my aversion to remembering what happened next, the past plays out behind my closed lids….
2014, 7 months after meeting Ashlyn...
The school day began like any other. The day was as bland as a politician's rant, and I muffled a yawn as I slid into my seat in English class. The room erupted with the sounds of my fellow students preparing for class: the clatter of pens and pencils, the buzz of conversations, and the rustle of backpacks and half-forgotten homework assignments. It was almost TOO mundane.
I yearned for something to spice up the day, a shot of excitement to be injected into my veins. Little did I know Fate was going to overdeliver. Looking back, I'm sure the Fates were laughing amongst themselves at the hand they were going to deal me with. I can almost feel their frigid, bitter breath on the nape of my neck as I remember, their laughter haunting me.
The tardy bell shrilled, the sound barely slicing through the chaotic cacophony of Teen Spirit.
Normally, our teacher would command silence with her powerful, assertive voice and presence. She was the type of teacher that even the “bad kids” didn't want to cross, and even the slackers respected. But she remained silent. I gazed at her in confusion, and saw she looked… Depressed. Beat-down. Defeated. None of her normal joy shined through, and even her beautiful, shining, teakwood-like skin appeared duller. And the look in her eyes… I’d never seen anything like it. Dread churned in my stomach like a mini-hurricane, swirling around my breakfast. I wasn't sure why dread was twisting within me, beyond a feeling that something wasn't right.
I wanted to believe it was just my overactive writer's imagination and pessimistic ways working overtime, lacing together to form an overdramatized tapestry. But then my teacher silenced the entire room with an indecipherable look, and that very look made it impossible to deny: something devastatingly serious was underway. Suddenly, I wanted things to go back to boring and mundane, as my normally tough teacher stood there looking like a delicate porcelain doll and my breakfast staged a coup against my digestive system.
“ATTENTION, TEACHERS. PLEASE READ OUT YOUR SPEECHES AT THIS TIME. THANK YOU.”
The announcement over the intercom shut off with a muted crackle, and my mind raced feverishly. What in the Hell did that mean? I looked to my teacher for answers, but the melancholy in her eyes only made me panic more and the dread in my stomach churn faster. It was becoming increasingly harder to think straight and breathe in our tiny, claustrophobic classroom, and it didn't help that the room had erupted into a clamorous, loud mess at the evasive announcement over the intercom.
Our teacher silenced us one last time, with one more solemn, devastated look burning in her dark, fathomless eyes. There seemed to be an electric charge dancing in the air, and it seemed like the entire room was holding their breath, waiting for the shoe to drop.
“What is it, Miss?” A slacker called from the very back of the room. Even those who slept through class could tell something serious was underway.
Our teacher took a deep breath in from her nose, and shattered my world.
“One of your classmates committed suicide last night,” she said gravely, “It was because of-” she stopped, seemingly unable to get the words out.
She collected herself after a moment and continued, “Because of bullying.”
She began to weep, and although I wanted to focus on her, my mind kept returning to one possibly Earth-shattering question: who was it?
I didn't see anyone missing from this classroom, so it couldn't be someone in this class. And it couldn't be any of my few friends, as I'd seen them all earlier that day. But that did nothing to help with my churning mind.
“Who was it?” I heard someone ask, as from a distance, right in line with my frenzied thoughts. My heartbeat pounded violently in my ears as I awaited an answer, my blood rushing.
My teacher sniffled, and in a terribly choked voice answered.
“Ashlyn Henderson. She- she said she felt too alone to keep going,” she lamented.
I wanted to be there for my teacher, but the name Ashlyn Henderson tickled at the corners of my mind, and I desperately wanted to put a face to the name. It was honestly infuriating.
After a few heartbeats of desperately wracking my mind, I turned to the girl beside me for answers.
“Sptt,” I whispered urgently, “Who is Ashlyn?”
Surprising me, she frowned severely at me, disapproval burning in her eyes, despite the fact that I hardly knew her.
“You know. ASHLYN. You've spoken to her before. She had blue eyes and wavy blonde hair. She tried talking to you on your first day.”
Suddenly, I felt as if I was Atlas in Greek mythology, crushed under the weight of the sky. I could barely remember to breathe, as the devastating truth crushed me. Without meaning to, I began to weep along with my teacher. I remembered Ashlyn at that moment, and I wanted to go back in time to be there for her. But now it was too late.
Ashlyn Henderson was only 13 years old, and she’d remain 13 forever, never turning 14 or living the life she could have had. She'd never grow up. She’d never fall in love or marry. She'd never have blonde, wavy-haired children of her own, with pretty cerulean eyes and a kind smile. She'd never graduate college, or even middle school. She'd never get a driver’s license, drink a beer, or travel the world. I could only imagine how tragic this was for her family and friends. And knowing that her life ended before it could actually really start was annihilating for even me, someone who had hardly known her. The first time I saw her, I thought to myself that someday she would become a stunner. Now that “someday” will never come. And I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe- just maybe- she'd still be here today if I had just let her in.
Tears dripped down the slope of my nose, and I dropped my face onto my desk. I sobbed as quietly as possible, the sobs wracking my shoulders.
“Keely, sweetheart? Are you okay?” I heard from above me, and my teacher placed a gentle hand on my heaving shoulder.
I wanted to scream bloody murder from the rooftops. I wanted to pull the world apart brick by brick, to tear it apart for its inherent cruelty. But most of all, I wanted to go back in time and give Ashlyn the companionship she sought. Would she still be here if I did that? That question haunts me to this day.
But I couldn't do any of those things, so I collected myself enough to answer my teacher, despite the guilt and regret that was clawing me up from the inside out.
“Yes, I'm okay,” I croaked.
My teacher moved on, and I was sure at that moment that I would never do the same. Once again, the waves tried to pull me under, and it took all my self-control not to let them swallow me whole. The only thing keeping me even somewhat afloat was the thought of my friends and family, and Ashlyn’s sorrowful blue eyes flashing in my mind…
***
I open my eyes, and the past fades away once more. But it'll NEVER be forgotten. Ashlyn’s story will always stay with me, as will the part I could've played in it. My eyes sting, but I force the tears away. Falling apart won't help the situation. The only things that will are honoring Ashlyn’s memory, and not making the same devastating mistakes again.
Over a decade has come and gone since Ashlyn Henderson took her life, at the tender age of 13. I still think of her often, although the guilt I carried for years has dissolved in the past few years. Still, I battle regret often, a worthy foe on this battlefield of anguish, remorse, and devastation. However, I have reached closure.
A few months after Ashlyn took her life, I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for depression of my own. Two days into my hospitalization, a girl with Ashlyn's eyes and smile was admitted. At first, I was sure I was just overthinking and imagining their resemblance. But a friendship blossomed between us, and she revealed she was Ashlyn’s sister, admitted to the hospital for the same depression Ashlyn and I battled, and a suicide attempt of her own.
Shame colored my world in bloodred tones at her reveal. But I got over it enough to confess to her my part in Ashlyn’s story, and she assured me I wouldn't have been able to save Ashlyn. And somehow I sensed she wasn't just saying that to lessen my guilt. We slowly healed together in that hospital, and I reached closure. I also vowed to remember the agony etched into Cambri’s face when she talked about her lost sister every time I thought of suicide. It was a domino effect, and sent Ashlyn’s sister over the edge. I wouldn't do that to my own family.
Sometimes I doubt Cambri’s assurances, and think maybe I could've saved Ashlyn. All I know is this: Ashlyn’s story and my part in it will stick with me until my own last breath rattles in my chest. I decided I'd live for both of us, and that thought keeps me company and helps me every time those beguiling waves try to pull me under once again.
Living enough for both of us won't reverse the intense sorrow her family and friends will suffer through for the rest of their lives, or bring Ashlyn back to live the life she could've- and should've- had. But it's still something, and I swear to do it for the rest of my life. And I know I'll remember and share Ashlyn’s story until I die, and make sure to help ANYONE who reaches out for help, no matter who they are or what preconceived notions I have regarding them.
Ashlyn Henderdson, rest in peace. May we meet again someday, so I can share how incredibly sorry I am, and give you the friendship I could've given you all those years ago. I hope you're finally happy, wherever you are. I look forward to the day that we meet again.
********
Every 11 minutes, someone in the United States commits suicide. Keep an eye out for those who need help, and NEVER dismiss someone just because of a preconceived notion you have about them. You never know what battles a person might be facing. If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts or ideations, call or text the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at the number 988. It CAN get better. Don't let those waves drown you.
True Story Contest contest entry
“Help me,” she begged of me, her tiny frame weighed down by the bricks tied around her waist. Water as black as a moonless night bubbled around her, and fought to claim her. She desperately threw out of a hand for me to take, to pull her ashore, the water now cresting over her chin. But I too was in danger of drowning, and that sucked up most of my attention.
“Help me!” she cried again, the water now almost up to her bottom lip. Desperation crashed within her like the ebony waves we both fought separately, completely unaware we were fighting a similar battle.
I gazed down at the obsidian waves with dread, completely ignorant of her hand near me, trying to get my attention. My own struggle with the sinister ocean drowned out her cries.
“Help!” she cried again, and then her head went under the waves and she was gone…
I woke with a strangled gasp, still feeling the menacing water trying to pull me under. I blink, as if trying to dislodge the inky water from my eyes. As I blink, another set of eyes besides my own flash in my mind. Princess-blue, with circles like deadly nightshade lingering underneath them. The shadows’ color matched the vicious flower, yes, but I was oblivious to the matching, devastatingly sharp bite of poison coating her mind, eating away like acid. In my mind's image, those poisonous shadows seem to suck the life from her otherwise beautiful eyes, her misery drifting across her face like shadows over the moon… It was so obvious now. How could I not have seen it?
A new image flashes in my mind, a creation born from a writer’s imaginative mind. Those eyes gently shut, the poisonous shadows hovering underneath them deepened, her face pallid and made-up gruesomely, arms folded demurely across her chest as she lay motionless in a coffin. I can almost hear the echoes of cries from mourners, and my own heart cries out, too. Her story never should've ended the way it did. If I could rewrite my part in her story, I would, many times over. But the book was super-glued closed, and no amount of straining and yanking will change that. I close my eyes, and the past rises up like the ocean waves that swallowed her, and the past pulls me under…
11 years earlier, 2013...
The cheap fluorescent lights leached out all of the hallway’s color, although the world looked lifeless and dull to me already anyway. Idle chatter and gossip filled the hallway like putrid smoke, as I shoved my way through crowds of preteens unapologetically. Sharp elbows jostled me and obscenities flew through the hall dizzyingly, like inebriated birds. Adding to the unpleasantness, perfume and cologne snaked through the air and collided sickeningly, weaving into a single stench. I found myself entertaining the idea of setting the place on fire.
I was starting at a new school halfway through my 6th grade year, and I was starting it with the worst attitude possible, and depression clouding my brain too, nonetheless.
The warning bell rang, alerting us that we had only a minute left to get to class. I sighed loudly, rolling my eyes dramatically, before shoving my way through the last of the bumbling masses. I swung my narrow, prepubescent hips deliberately, trying to make it appear as if I couldn't give two fucks what anyone thought of me. Then, I sauntered my way into the classroom, and threw my bag and books onto the only empty grouping of tables. I slowly settled into a seat, emulating the fakest of confidence as I settled in. Once settled, I glared challengingly around the room, and my eyes fell on a nearby grouping of tables, with four girls.
To me, they appeared just as real and promising as Barbies, and I instantly was suspicious of them. I glared from girl to girl, my gaze as acidic as vinegar. Can you spell “defense mechanism”? Three of them barely spared me a glance, but one girl, a striking blonde with big, Alice-in-Wonderland-blue eyes, met my sharp gaze and smiled at me, those pretty eyes undeniably welcoming, shocking me. We may have only been 12 years old, but I knew she'd grow up to be a stunner. She looked like she modeled in her spare time. But there appeared to be a sadness shining in the depths of her eyes, too. But how was that possible? The girls she was seated with looked like your average Popular Mean Girls, who appeared to have everything. I had a hard time looking away- that sadness in her eyes called to me. But if these were her friends, I didn't want anything to do with her. I broke eye contact, instead turning my attention to my desk.
None of them had any idea of how depressed I was, and how close I was to sinking. And I wasn't capable of believing that any of them could care. The waves licked my chin as I sat there, and I could feel them trying to consume me, like flames in a wildfire. Soon there would be nothing left of me but ash. I didn't think anyone would care, though…
“Hi, you must be new,” the pretty blonde girl said warmly, oblivious, “My name is Ashlyn.”
I hadn't noticed she’d approached me. She offered me a small, porcelain-pale hand to shake. I gazed down at her hand with a vague confusion. Why was she talking to me and being so nice? I shook her hand suspiciously, like a beaten dog being offered a slab of meat- always trying to peel back reality, because I was sure a hidden agenda lurked underneath. I was cynical to the bone. I looked up into Ashlyn’s eyes, and noticed shadows lurked underneath them, and I again asked myself how that was possible. We lived in two very different worlds, and I couldn't see her ever leaving hers for mine. And HER world didn't have sleepless nights and misery. Or at least that's what I thought.
“What’s your name?” She asked me sweetly. I was positive that sweetness was just to cover the bitter tang of bitchiness, like a topcoat of paint, slathered on thickly. I didn't want to be there when that topcoat peeled away. I needed to protect my heart at all costs, and this girl seemed to be bad news, a possible bomb to my mission to protect myself. No. It wouldn't do.
“Well? What’s your name?” Ashlyn asked again.
I didn't want to be outwardly rude, even if I was sure this girl was about as real as a Kardashian’s breasts. But I also didn't want her to think we could be friends. I'd NEVER entertain a girl who hung out with The Popular Queen Bee Bitches (™).
“Keely. My name is Keely,” I answered.
The blonde smiled gently at me. She looked as if she was going to say more, but the teacher called for silence just then. Ashlyn drifted back to her friends, and class began. I gave the teacher my full attention, almost.
Although most of my attention was on my teacher, I noticed Ashlyn looking at me, that same fathomless sorrow shining in her eyes. But clearly she had everything. What was there to be sad about? I dedicated the last sliver of my attention to the teacher, cutting Ashlyn out entirely, without a second thought.
***
I didn't want to remember what happened next. I wish I could go back to that day, all those years ago, and give her a chance. Or even go back to thinking Ashlyn was a walking and talking paper doll, and erase what happened next, just living in ignorance. Ghostlike impressions of the waves that had threatened to drown me all those years ago linger on my face, and I hate that I didn't see the waves Ashlyn was fighting. I close my eyes, and despite my aversion to remembering what happened next, the past plays out behind my closed lids….
2014, 7 months after meeting Ashlyn...
The school day began like any other. The day was as bland as a politician's rant, and I muffled a yawn as I slid into my seat in English class. The room erupted with the sounds of my fellow students preparing for class: the clatter of pens and pencils, the buzz of conversations, and the rustle of backpacks and half-forgotten homework assignments. It was almost TOO mundane.
I yearned for something to spice up the day, a shot of excitement to be injected into my veins. Little did I know Fate was going to overdeliver. Looking back, I'm sure the Fates were laughing amongst themselves at the hand they were going to deal me with. I can almost feel their frigid, bitter breath on the nape of my neck as I remember, their laughter haunting me.
The tardy bell shrilled, the sound barely slicing through the chaotic cacophony of Teen Spirit.
Normally, our teacher would command silence with her powerful, assertive voice and presence. She was the type of teacher that even the “bad kids” didn't want to cross, and even the slackers respected. But she remained silent. I gazed at her in confusion, and saw she looked… Depressed. Beat-down. Defeated. None of her normal joy shined through, and even her beautiful, shining, teakwood-like skin appeared duller. And the look in her eyes… I’d never seen anything like it. Dread churned in my stomach like a mini-hurricane, swirling around my breakfast. I wasn't sure why dread was twisting within me, beyond a feeling that something wasn't right.
I wanted to believe it was just my overactive writer's imagination and pessimistic ways working overtime, lacing together to form an overdramatized tapestry. But then my teacher silenced the entire room with an indecipherable look, and that very look made it impossible to deny: something devastatingly serious was underway. Suddenly, I wanted things to go back to boring and mundane, as my normally tough teacher stood there looking like a delicate porcelain doll and my breakfast staged a coup against my digestive system.
“ATTENTION, TEACHERS. PLEASE READ OUT YOUR SPEECHES AT THIS TIME. THANK YOU.”
The announcement over the intercom shut off with a muted crackle, and my mind raced feverishly. What in the Hell did that mean? I looked to my teacher for answers, but the melancholy in her eyes only made me panic more and the dread in my stomach churn faster. It was becoming increasingly harder to think straight and breathe in our tiny, claustrophobic classroom, and it didn't help that the room had erupted into a clamorous, loud mess at the evasive announcement over the intercom.
Our teacher silenced us one last time, with one more solemn, devastated look burning in her dark, fathomless eyes. There seemed to be an electric charge dancing in the air, and it seemed like the entire room was holding their breath, waiting for the shoe to drop.
“What is it, Miss?” A slacker called from the very back of the room. Even those who slept through class could tell something serious was underway.
Our teacher took a deep breath in from her nose, and shattered my world.
“One of your classmates committed suicide last night,” she said gravely, “It was because of-” she stopped, seemingly unable to get the words out.
She collected herself after a moment and continued, “Because of bullying.”
She began to weep, and although I wanted to focus on her, my mind kept returning to one possibly Earth-shattering question: who was it?
I didn't see anyone missing from this classroom, so it couldn't be someone in this class. And it couldn't be any of my few friends, as I'd seen them all earlier that day. But that did nothing to help with my churning mind.
“Who was it?” I heard someone ask, as from a distance, right in line with my frenzied thoughts. My heartbeat pounded violently in my ears as I awaited an answer, my blood rushing.
My teacher sniffled, and in a terribly choked voice answered.
“Ashlyn Henderson. She- she said she felt too alone to keep going,” she lamented.
I wanted to be there for my teacher, but the name Ashlyn Henderson tickled at the corners of my mind, and I desperately wanted to put a face to the name. It was honestly infuriating.
After a few heartbeats of desperately wracking my mind, I turned to the girl beside me for answers.
“Sptt,” I whispered urgently, “Who is Ashlyn?”
Surprising me, she frowned severely at me, disapproval burning in her eyes, despite the fact that I hardly knew her.
“You know. ASHLYN. You've spoken to her before. She had blue eyes and wavy blonde hair. She tried talking to you on your first day.”
Suddenly, I felt as if I was Atlas in Greek mythology, crushed under the weight of the sky. I could barely remember to breathe, as the devastating truth crushed me. Without meaning to, I began to weep along with my teacher. I remembered Ashlyn at that moment, and I wanted to go back in time to be there for her. But now it was too late.
Ashlyn Henderson was only 13 years old, and she’d remain 13 forever, never turning 14 or living the life she could have had. She'd never grow up. She’d never fall in love or marry. She'd never have blonde, wavy-haired children of her own, with pretty cerulean eyes and a kind smile. She'd never graduate college, or even middle school. She'd never get a driver’s license, drink a beer, or travel the world. I could only imagine how tragic this was for her family and friends. And knowing that her life ended before it could actually really start was annihilating for even me, someone who had hardly known her. The first time I saw her, I thought to myself that someday she would become a stunner. Now that “someday” will never come. And I couldn't shake the feeling that maybe- just maybe- she'd still be here today if I had just let her in.
Tears dripped down the slope of my nose, and I dropped my face onto my desk. I sobbed as quietly as possible, the sobs wracking my shoulders.
“Keely, sweetheart? Are you okay?” I heard from above me, and my teacher placed a gentle hand on my heaving shoulder.
I wanted to scream bloody murder from the rooftops. I wanted to pull the world apart brick by brick, to tear it apart for its inherent cruelty. But most of all, I wanted to go back in time and give Ashlyn the companionship she sought. Would she still be here if I did that? That question haunts me to this day.
But I couldn't do any of those things, so I collected myself enough to answer my teacher, despite the guilt and regret that was clawing me up from the inside out.
“Yes, I'm okay,” I croaked.
My teacher moved on, and I was sure at that moment that I would never do the same. Once again, the waves tried to pull me under, and it took all my self-control not to let them swallow me whole. The only thing keeping me even somewhat afloat was the thought of my friends and family, and Ashlyn’s sorrowful blue eyes flashing in my mind…
***
I open my eyes, and the past fades away once more. But it'll NEVER be forgotten. Ashlyn’s story will always stay with me, as will the part I could've played in it. My eyes sting, but I force the tears away. Falling apart won't help the situation. The only things that will are honoring Ashlyn’s memory, and not making the same devastating mistakes again.
Over a decade has come and gone since Ashlyn Henderson took her life, at the tender age of 13. I still think of her often, although the guilt I carried for years has dissolved in the past few years. Still, I battle regret often, a worthy foe on this battlefield of anguish, remorse, and devastation. However, I have reached closure.
A few months after Ashlyn took her life, I was admitted to a psychiatric hospital for depression of my own. Two days into my hospitalization, a girl with Ashlyn's eyes and smile was admitted. At first, I was sure I was just overthinking and imagining their resemblance. But a friendship blossomed between us, and she revealed she was Ashlyn’s sister, admitted to the hospital for the same depression Ashlyn and I battled, and a suicide attempt of her own.
Shame colored my world in bloodred tones at her reveal. But I got over it enough to confess to her my part in Ashlyn’s story, and she assured me I wouldn't have been able to save Ashlyn. And somehow I sensed she wasn't just saying that to lessen my guilt. We slowly healed together in that hospital, and I reached closure. I also vowed to remember the agony etched into Cambri’s face when she talked about her lost sister every time I thought of suicide. It was a domino effect, and sent Ashlyn’s sister over the edge. I wouldn't do that to my own family.
Sometimes I doubt Cambri’s assurances, and think maybe I could've saved Ashlyn. All I know is this: Ashlyn’s story and my part in it will stick with me until my own last breath rattles in my chest. I decided I'd live for both of us, and that thought keeps me company and helps me every time those beguiling waves try to pull me under once again.
Living enough for both of us won't reverse the intense sorrow her family and friends will suffer through for the rest of their lives, or bring Ashlyn back to live the life she could've- and should've- had. But it's still something, and I swear to do it for the rest of my life. And I know I'll remember and share Ashlyn’s story until I die, and make sure to help ANYONE who reaches out for help, no matter who they are or what preconceived notions I have regarding them.
Ashlyn Henderdson, rest in peace. May we meet again someday, so I can share how incredibly sorry I am, and give you the friendship I could've given you all those years ago. I hope you're finally happy, wherever you are. I look forward to the day that we meet again.
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Every 11 minutes, someone in the United States commits suicide. Keep an eye out for those who need help, and NEVER dismiss someone just because of a preconceived notion you have about them. You never know what battles a person might be facing. If you or someone you know is struggling with suicidal thoughts or ideations, call or text the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at the number 988. It CAN get better. Don't let those waves drown you.
I have already written a piece telling Ashlyn's story on FanStory, titled "Ashlyn's Story". This is why in the title for this one I have "Revisited".
I created the image with an AI image generator, before changing it to black and white and adding the lyrics with the app Canva.
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and 2 member cents. I created the image with an AI image generator, before changing it to black and white and adding the lyrics with the app Canva.
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