Chapter 8: Kaleth

"I can pretend that I'm not lonely, but I'll be constantly fooling myself. I can also pretend that I'm strong, but I'll be sitting and lying to myself. Please, God, if you're up there, help me," I whispered through clenched teeth, staring at the ceiling, the words barely audible. I had said them a thousand times before, but tonight they felt different—heavier, more desperate.

My parents’ silence toward me was a constant ache that gnawed at my heart. It was a silence that spoke louder than any argument ever could. Their refusal to acknowledge me, their indifference, crushed me every day. But no pain—nothing, not even their coldness—compared to the devastation of my shattered dreams. In less than five months, I had lost everything: my school, my friends, my future, and my innocence. Every day felt like a repeat of the last, a never-ending loop of despair.

Each night, I would curl up on my bed, knees pressed to my chest, tears soaking the pillow beneath me. I cried because I was tired—tired of the pain, tired of fighting a battle I couldn’t win. I wished that somehow, when I closed my eyes, my life would end, that I could finally escape the overwhelming emptiness. But God refused to grant my wish. No matter how much I begged, I woke up every morning, trapped in the same misery.

I couldn’t blame my parents for their distance. I knew I was the cause of their fury, the reason for the divide that had grown between us. But even though we shared the same roof, I was invisible to them. Still, I knew they could hear me crying every night. I knew that beneath my father’s stern voice, there was a deep, unspoken pain. And I could see the swollen red of my mother’s eyes, evidence of the endless nights she spent crying for me. But I couldn’t stop, not when I was almost halfway there. I had to keep going. I had to stay strong.

"Hello?" a voice on the other end of the phone startled me from my thoughts. The sound was familiar, but there was something in the tone—trembling, unsure—that made my heart race.

"Yes, hello?" I answered, trying to steady my breath.

"Am I speaking to Celine?" The voice cracked slightly, and I could feel the weight of unspoken words behind it, like a cry for help barely held back.

"Yes, you are. What’s the matter?" I spoke evenly, though the tension in my chest was palpable. I knew something was wrong before she even spoke again.

"It’s Kaleth… I think he’s hurting himself again. He won’t let anyone in his room except you. Please, Celine, hurry." Her voice quivered with fear, and I could hear the panic in her words.

"Okay, I’m coming," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. But inside, I was trembling. Fear gripped me. The last time this happened, we almost lost him. The pain he had gone through after losing his mother—and then his little sister, Amelia—was a weight that crushed him. I remembered how everything had started, how everything had fallen apart for him. And I couldn’t bear to lose him, too.

I jumped out of bed, my heart pounding in my chest. Within seconds, I was out the door, running down the street, forgetting that I even had a child inside me. All that mattered was reaching him.

"He’s upstairs, in his room," she told me as I raced toward the door, barely able to think. I didn’t stop to say anything more. I just ran.

I climbed the stairs in a blur, not bothering to knock before I burst into his room. The door creaked open, and there he stood by the window, holding a knife. His right wrist was bleeding, and his entire body trembled, as if he were on the edge of a precipice.

"Kaleth, please drop the knife. Step away from the window," I pleaded, my voice calm but breaking inside. Every part of me screamed to run to him, but I knew if I moved too quickly, I could make things worse.

He didn’t respond immediately, his eyes glazed over as if he were lost in a world I couldn’t reach.

"I’m sorry…" he murmured, his voice weak, unsteady. "I’m so sorry."

My heart shattered as I saw him, broken and lost, standing there with the knife pressed to his wrist. "It’s okay, Kaleth. I’m here. You’re not alone," I said, stepping toward him cautiously.

"I’m sorry," he repeated, tears streaming down his face. "I caused your pain."

His words cut deeper than the knife in his hand. I had never seen him like this before—so vulnerable, so broken. I wanted to hold him, to tell him everything would be okay, but I was scared to get too close. His grip on the knife was shaky, and I knew that one wrong move could make it all worse.

"I was there when… when the rapists were on you," he continued, his voice shaking. "I was too scared to act, so I called 911, but they came too late. I’m sorry, Celine. I’m so sorry."

The weight of his confession hit me like a tidal wave. The memories of what had happened to me, the pain I had carried for so long, flooded back. But in that moment, I couldn’t think about my own hurt. I couldn’t let his pain pull me under. I loved him too much to let him drown in this sea of despair.

"Please, Kaleth, you don’t have to do this," I said, my voice breaking. "I’m here, and I always will be."

But something in him shifted. I saw the change in his eyes, a certain resolve that terrified me. He looked at me, his gaze steady, as if he had made up his mind.

"Since I caused you pain, so shall I take it away," he said, his voice firm.

I froze. The next moments happened in a blur. He raised the knife again, and before I could stop him, he stabbed himself, the blade sinking deep into his skin. My heart stopped as I screamed his name.

"Kaleth!!!!"

But it was too late. He lost his balance, and in an instant, he slipped, falling through the open window. I rushed forward, reaching for him, but he was already gone.

I stood there, paralyzed, the world spinning around me. The pain was unbearable, a crushing weight in my chest that I couldn’t escape. I had tried to save him, but in that moment, I realized that no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t always save the people I loved.

"Kaleth!" I screamed again, my voice raw with grief. But there was no answer.

I was too late. And all that was left was a world of emptiness, a silence louder than anything I had ever known.