Too Late

It’s been since seventh grade. I, Vanessa Barret, have walked through the halls of Perrysburg schools with fingers pointed my way, the laughs that continued throughout the halls. There would be whispers, and secrets told, rumors started and horrific things said to my face. For years I have brushed it off, and my boyfriend always said that I was beautiful. He tells me not to think about it, and that I am so much better than those wimps that point fingers at me every day.

My good friend Grace, has always been there to talk as well, that’s the only thing that has gotten me through my freshman year of high school. For many people that attend Perrysburg, school is a walk in the park. It is easy for them to be popular, they have a ton of friends and most of them mean nothing by not saying hello in the hallways, or slowly letting a friendship fade, but it honestly hurts. Besides, once the friendship fades, and they see someone pointing a finger at me and laughing, they do nothing to defend me. I guess our friendship really meant nothing to them.

Today marks one week of being done with my awful freshman year, for many years I have contemplated the same thing that I am thinking about today. It would make things so much easier, just saying goodbye. I have nothing to look forward to anyway; I’m going to be a failure like they all say that I am, so why waste the money on college. Marriage might be an option, if my boyfriend and I would stop fighting. Then there is graduation; I would get to graduate with the same people that tortured me for years and years on end. Just my luck.

I texted my friend Grace, asking her to hang out for the first time since summer started, but that was four days ago and she still has not responded. I must have done something yet again to make it so that she won’t talk to me. Maybe I’m just too uncool for her now. That leaves me with exactly one friend, my boyfirned and that relationship is shaky.

I feel a vibration, and see the newest text pop up on the screen, it’s from him, and like I said, that relationship was shaky. I let myself breathe while on a walk and do a lot of thinking, the same kind of thinking that I have been doing since Shelby started taunting me in second grade and since she gained a ton of followers over the years. It would be easier if I just left, nobody would miss me, heck, Grace hasn’t even responded. I have no friends and my parents aren’t even home enough from work to know that I exist anymore. The neighbors are at work, and we have no dog. I am alone in this world. Completely alone.

One of Shelby’s followers finds me from across the street and starts yelling remarks. As the tears that she can’t see start to scroll down my face, my thoughts become more and more realistic. I enter my home one last time and shut the door quietly behind me. I’ve had the noose made for weeks, hidden in the back of my closet, and I can just hang it from the flower holders in the front room that overlook the front window.

I grab my phone and text Grace one last time, “can I talk to you please?” I wait for an hour, but she never responds. I go to get the noose, but I see my parents car pull into the driveway. Tomorrow, it’s over.

After my parents left this morning, I thought about it over and over again. There is no reason to continue, Grace never responded, we were obviously never really friends, she hasn’t talked to me in weeks. I post one last picture to Instagram, “I’m done with this life. I love you all, goodbye.” I wait, hoping someone will call me, and tell me no, to stay here to hang out and to talk, but nobody responds. Nobody cares.

I grab the noose from my room with the hot tears still streaking down my face, leaving a trail of black mascara wherever it goes. I grab the closest wooden kitchen chair and pull it over. I put one end of the noose over the hook, and stand on the chair. I put the loop around my neck and kick the chair over. It hurts as my brain is lacking oxygen, and I can’t breathe, suddenly the idea of not breathing is scary. I claw and grab the rope that is around my neck. No, somebody get me down, please just come get me down! I don’t care how bad it is, I don’t want to die! Please, somebody save me, somebody walk past the house and see me. Somebody come help me, I can’t get myself out!

I pull the rope down, and stick my wrists in between my neck and the rope, but that just made it hard, and was cutting off the circulation in my hands. “God help me, save me!” I try to scream, but nothing comes out, before I can try any longer for more breath, to scream or to hold myself up to find a way to get me down, I pass out from lack of oxygen. My hands fall to my side and everything goes black.

It was just a typical summer day, I was sitting at home, bored and desperately hoping that someone would text me, “hey Olivia, lets hang out!” Instead, I was wasting my summer away on scrolling through different social media pages, seeing what my friends were up to. I get to a black photo posted by Nessa, and read the caption. Without hesitation, I showed my mom knowing that this was not a joke.  “Mom! We need to call the cops, call the ambulance, someone something. We have to do something!” I say as I hand my phone over to my mother and she reads the caption, “she’s been suicidal for at least a year!”

My mom holds onto my phone, as she calls the cops from her cell phone. “Hi, I am calling because my child found a photo that was posted on Instagram by her friend Vanessa Barret. My daughter Olivia says that Vanessa has been suicidal for about a year, and that this is not a joke. Someone needs to get over to her house now!”

Within minutes the police were at my door, taking pictures and trying to figure out if this photo was a practical joke. I give a sigh of relief, knowing that they probably sent someone over to check on her at her house while they investigate this. Until I hear, “well maybe we should check up on her, do you know where she lives?” I shake my head no in shock. They haven’t sent someone over to her!? It could be too late! “Do you know her parents phone number, or her house phone?” I shake my head no, once again, but this time in anger. My friend may be dying, and they have not sent someone over to her house.

I wanted to scream, but there is nothing I can do. They finally left my house after an hour and a half of taking photos and asking questions. Until then, I waited and waited to hear about what happened to Nessa.

My phone had been turned off for over three weeks now; most of my friends had known to text my sister’s phone or ask someone for my sisters’ number to contact me since she would be staying at home in the basement with her husband for a couple of weeks while the water break in their apartment is fixed. My friends when they texted, they always asked for Grace and a random number would show up. At first she would be confused because I grew up on the name Beth, but decided to go by Grace when I started seventh grade. My sister had been nice enough to let me talk to my friends since then, so I never checked my actual phone often.

It was a Wednesday when we were all driving around and as usual, we had a lot of running to do. Becca was driving my Dad all over the place, and I decided to come with them because I had nothing better to do with my summer. As we were passing the church that was right outside our neighborhood, there were a lot of cars and a Hurst sitting in the parking lot.

When we got home, they were all still there, “that is a long funeral…” Dad says from the front seat.

“Maybe it’s the viewing…” Becca said, trying to make sense of a big funeral that had lasted over three hours.

“Yeah, but why would they keep the Hurst outside of the church if it was just the viewing?”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right…”

We pulled into the driveway and I ran to my room to try and finish packing for camp. As I was upstairs my stomach growled and I realized how thirsty I was, I ran downstairs and my Dad and sister’s conversation suddenly became hushed. “Beth, do you know someone named Vanessa?” Becca asked, looking past Dad’s back. I was trying to figure out if she was stretching her pregnant stomach, or just picked a weird way to look at me.

“Vanessa Barret? Yeah why?”

“I hate to say it, but what if that was her funeral?” I heard my sister say in a whisper, at that small statement I knew that something was wrong. “I heard talk about a suicide, but I didn’t think it would be any of Beth’s friends…” I walked past my sister and upstairs.

I heard someone come in through the sliding door, “hi honey,” I heard Tyler say and I imagine he gave her a kiss as she continued to chop up vegetables with Dad.

The first thing I checked when I got to my room was my phone that I had abandoned for weeks now since my parents refused to turn it back on. I only looked for Vanessa’s name, and of course I saw two texts from Nessa, one asking me if we could hang out, and the second asking if we could talk. The tears came fast, and guilt started to well up inside me, if I would have just checked my phone, I could have texted her back on Becca’s phone. I could have saved her.

Not too much longer I heard Becca coming up the stairs, I heard the bathroom door close. Eventually the toilet flushed, the water ran and then it stopped. I imagined her checking her reflection close up for any imperfections in the free time. I accidentally let out a sniff, a couple actually; at this I could imagine her head perk up. She opened the door and went for my room, right past Mom and Dad’s room where I was hiding out.  

“Beth!?” She called out, from my room, I could hear her looking in my closet. I got up and ran from Mom and Dad’s room back to my room, to find myself almost running into her. I knew she wouldn’t understand, how could she? This kind of guilt, someone like her doesn’t have that kind of guilt riding up in her, she’s never delt with someone who committed suicide, or knew someone who was suicidal. She’s my perfect big sister, that’s what I have been telling myself for years now, in my parent’s eyes she is perfect.  She has the perfect marriage to a perfect guy with a perfect story of how they met, and how God was so at work in their lives for years. She has never made a mistake, never had this kind of guilt that was so quickly building up in me. So she would never understand.

I contemplated for a second as I looked at her, not telling her. I thought about yelling at her, telling her to get out of my room and to leave me alone, but at the sight of her, my eyes started watering. Before I could stop it, the words just came out, “Becca, she texted me asking me if we could talk. I could have saved her life!”

I just walked up to her and hugged her, even though I didn’t think she could or ever would understand, I cried on her shoulder. Her big, pregnant stomach was in the way, but I could still feel her tears soaking my shirt as well. Something about this had hit a nerve in her too. Maybe I was wrong.

Through stories on Facebook and friends around the neighborhood, I heard from my sister about Olivia calling the cops and how the cops showed up to Vanessa’s house. They could see the scratches on her neck and the bruises around her hands and wrists, evidence that she was trying to free herself from her own death trap. After the viewing and the funeral I got little details handed to me. Unfortunately, I missed the funeral, but Bethany sat there and listened to my Dad, and occasionally joined in, at the details that they did for the funeral.

When the cars left, they drove through the high school parking lot, so that they could officially say that she arrived at the high school as a sophomore. The graduating seniors and the seniors to be, decorated the coveted rock, with spray paint. The cross walk, which was usually “vandalized” by the most recent set of students was re-vandalized in Vanessa’s honor, and many of the memorial rocks were dedicated to her family and the school in her name.

Everything from the funeral house was free, the coffin, the food, the time spent. There were flowers from local businesses, from each class in the high school, and a massive one from the graduating class of 2017, her class. The same class the taunted her and bullied her.

They also passed her house, which had her drag racing car sitting in the parking lot, in her honor. Dad also talked about how the bruising was starting to show, and Bethany talked about the make-up being caked on her face trying to hide the bruising. However, it was obvious that she tried to free herself. It was obvious that she didn’t want to die once she got up there, and she couldn’t get herself down.

As Dad was talking about it, I knew that it was hurting Beth. I couldn’t help but think about her guilt, the guilt that had been inside of her, and the thought that she could have saved Nessa had to be tearing her apart. I cried at the fact that Vanessa was too young, I cried at the thought that my husband had once been suicidal and that if God had not changed his life in a radical way, my future may have turned out for the worst. I cried at the fact that I now thank God every day for my husbands’ life. I cried at the thought of coming home to see the very baby that is in my stomach, grown and lying on the ground with bruises all over her neck and hands with cops surrounding her cold body.

I cried at the thought that I went through something similar my junior year of high school, so many years ago. I never got the text that she did, in matter of a fact, I barely said a word to the girl, but the simple fact was that I saw her every day and if I would have just befriended her, something may be different. She may still be alive.

I remembered hearing stories of Nichole’s Mom letting her best friend through the door, “she’s in the basement,” I could imagine her saying to Amanda. I’m sure Amanda walked down to the basement to find Nichole.

“Nichole, I have so much to tell you! You will never guess what happened, I – ahhh!” I’m sure the scream was ear piercing as Amanda had found her best friend hanging and the hand written note on the pool table next to her.

As I thought about how Nichole’s suicide probably went down my junior year, I shrug off the guilt that says, “You should have tried harder to be her friend.”

I know my sister knows nothing about Nichole, and she certainly knows nothing about Tyler and his past, I’m sure she thinks that I really have no reason to cry for her friend Vanessa, but the truth is I do. I thank God everyday for the lives of the people in my life, especially my husband’s life.

I just sat there and hoped that this never happens at Perrysburg High School again, and that those who think that they are entitled enough to bully someone will think again. I hoped that Vanessa got her message across; I hoped that she went to heaven and that she was young enough for God to overlook what she had done in her final moments of life. I hoped that in her memory, others will know that they have a full life ahead of them, and I hoped that the police will change the way they handle situations like Vanessa’s. Maybe they could save another life if they change them.

I open my eyes, and the pain is gone. I don’t have any marks around my wrists or neck anymore. Did someone save me? I look up and see a big gate and a book in front of me. “Is your name written in this?” Says someone covered in white in perfect little spectacles.

“I’m sorry?” I say, I’m busy looking around.

“Did you ever accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior? Did you ever confess your sins? If so, I need a name.”

“I’m not sure that I did.”

“What’s going on here?” A man, larger than the one covered in white from head to toe asks as he is walking over. He has two circular scars on his palms, his pretty blue eyes and curly brown hair and a clear complexion, just how I would have imagined him if someone had said his name when I was alive. He radiated life, and knowing that he was Jesus, God’s son, I get down on one knee and bow before him. That’s what you’re supposed to do with God, right? I mean, that’s what I would do to someone who made the whole world, and me so I do. I bow before him, for he is greater than I ever was.

“She doesn’t know if he name is in the Lamb’s Book of Life,” said the one covered in white, he seems very frustrated, but that may just be his personality. I didn’t think that pain, tears, death or sorrow would be in heaven, so I didn’t think frustration would be either.

“You’ll have to forgive Sam here, he’s been in a bit of a mood lately.” Jesus said giving him a look that said, “you need to cheer up, this is heaven, or at least the gates of it.”

I give Jesus a smile, and wonder what is really taking so long. Can’t I just go in? “So what do we have hear my dear? You look really young.” Shouldn’t Jesus already know this? I think to myself, but I decide to answer him anyway.

“Well, life on earth was not easy. I thought about ending my life for years, and then as I was trying to, I realized I didn’t want to die, but I couldn’t get down. I called out for your help, or at least… your Dad’s help, but nobody came to help me. Next thing I knew I ended up here. Can’t I just go in? I was a good person.”

“First of all, God and I are the same person…” I give Jesus a confused look, confused that if he is God’s son, how are they the same? I ignore it, figuring that they will tell me when I get into heaven. “Second of all, your name is not written in the book of life. Lastly, murder is technically the last thing that you did while you were alive…” Jesus gave me a look, and there was regret in his eyes.

If I had a physical heart, it would be pounding. What did this mean!? I want to scream, but he already knows what I want to ask. “I think you know what that means Vanessa. You aren’t supposed to enter through those gates.” I’m sure fear strikes my face as I look down. He continues, “however, you are very young, and you did ask for help. Now I have a couple questions. Who am I?”

“You are Jesus Christ, God’s son.”

“What did I do for you when I was on earth?”

I think back long and hard to the things that I had barely heard from people here and there, “didn’t you die for me, for my sins?”

“Yes, yes I did. Do you believe that?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t I?”

Jesus laughs and continues, “what happened after I died?”

I think back to my time on earth when Grace asked me to come see Jesus Is Alive, a play at her church. She gave the background of the play, and I was amazed at the idea of this man who came to earth, died for me and rose from the grave, all for me.

“You rose from the grave. You’re alive.”

Jesus lets out a smile once again. “Yes, I am. So you admitted here that you sinned, right?” I nod, “You believe that I died for you, that I am God’s son and I was raised from the dead?” I nod once again, and you confessed to me that you killed yourself, so that is confessing your sins.” I look at Jesus with hope in my eyes, I beg him to let me in. I tried to come down from the noose, I really did.

“Well then, you bowed before me, you admitted you were a sinner, believed, and confessed right in front of me. You bowed before me when I arrived in your presence. Typically in your type of situations, it is not the best arrangement, and it is very rough things, especially when they see me face to face and still deny me. It is hard because the last thing you did in life was murder someone. However, you did all of those things. I am a gracious God, and my finished work on the cross means that your sins in life on earth are forgiven.”

“Does that mean I can get into heaven?”

“Yes my daughter.” He gives me a hug and the gates open as he guides me into a place that he has been for eternity already.

            Jesus waves his hand as a young blonde girl comes over at his command. She stops worshiping God for a second and comes over, “hi, my name is Nichole,” she said and Jesus went back to his spot at the right hand of God. He resumes interceding for the believers, and I talk with Nichole as she tells a similar story to mine.

Dedicated to Valerie Bennit and Nicole Sherrick. Rest In Peace!

This was in no way meant to dishonor Valerie or Nicole, if anyone should feel that way, I am sorry that was not my intention. I do hope that they are in heaven and that they have found the peace, love and understanding of God through their tragic experiences. I pray for their families often and I hope that you will as well! 

Special thanks to Suzanne at Plato’s Closet, for inspiring my character! Don’t know why, but I thought of you as I was writing it, and decided to base her off of you (young married and pregnant with a huge back-story to tell! Love you Suzanne! J