I was young, I didn't know any better than to point at the hanging figure on our school rope course. My brother went over to investigate, leaving little nine year old me to kick mindlessly at the sand. He came back after a few minutes, his face was white like he had just seen a ghost, his eyes were puffy and red. Not knowing much then I just gave him a him and said it would be okay.

We went home, and I just couldn't shake that hanging figure, my eyesight has never been great, but I could feel something coming from it. It wasn't exactly sad, but not happy or any other emotion that has a name. Something that seemed content, but was just putting up an act that it was, the sadness was genuine and there was another element I couldn't quite name back then. Something much worse than sadness, something so overwhelming it put a metallic taste in my throat and made my stomach drop. 

"Mark, what happened?" I looked up from book as I sat on the couch of the living room. He sighed and came over to where I was sitting on the couch. 
"Emmy, something happened to my friend." I saw Mark's eyes darken and cloud over, before he sighed yet again and sat down next to me. "Do you know what suicide is?" I could only shake my head, it brought that same metallic taste to my mouth as I said it that came from looking at the rope course earlier that same day. "Well, it's when you're feeling sad, or I guess worse than sad, and you want life to be over with. So you act on it, and you kill yourself. That's what Chris did." I felt bile rise in my throat, why someone would even think of doing that. I managed to nod to my brother, before giving him a hug goodnight before I went to my room.

I remember laying awake that night, in complete darkness, something felt wrong, like my emotions were being twisted. I brought my body up, it felt heavier than it usually did. Ignoring the feeling, I lifted my arm to the switch and turned my light on, feeling the sting as the light reached my eyes that accustomed to the dark. My pencils glided across paper, as I drew out what I was feeling. My coping methods were usually denial, but something about this couldn't be dismissed. 

I don't remember how long I was drawing, or when I went to sleep, I don't even remember what I drew. But I remember that night having dreams about a boy holding on to a string on the ropes course, before something came and cut it, letting the boy fall, fall, fall, further into the dark.