The Night We Met
Nikole Knight
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Resources
About the Author
Also by Nikole Knight
Copyright © 2020 Nikole Knight
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the writer, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidence.
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Cover by Abigail Davies © 2020 Pink Elephant Designs
Line Edits by Nix Whittaker
--For the ones who feel alone and trapped. For all the Sams and Jethros.
Chapter One
Jump
If asked to pinpoint the moment I decided to kill myself, I wouldn’t be able to. Trying would be a futile endeavor. It was a rather gradual thing, a growing snowball as it rolled down the hill, gaining layers and momentum with every spin. Like a frog basking in a slowly warming pot, I lazily acclimated to the concept. And before I knew it, the water boiled around me, too hot to stand, but I was already stuck. It was too late, and I had no other choice but to burn.
It started as a simple thought, scandalous and insane. But it nestled deep and bided its time.
The thought expanded, the roots digging through my psyche until its grip was firm and unbreakable. Like a deadly poison, it infected me, pumping its venom into my mind. And the thought became a notion and then an idea. Eventually, it turned into an option and, finally, a plan. It was the answer I never wanted, the cruel truth under an unforgiving microscope.
Life was an empty lie. So, perhaps, death would hold meaning.
Some said it was the coward’s escape, but death took its own type of courage, didn’t it? Moving on into the great unknown wasn’t for the faint of heart. Did it make me brave, standing at the railing of New River Gorge Bridge as I contemplated the best way to climb over the barrier? Or did it make me a coward for running from that with which I could no longer cope?
Maybe I was both. I was probably neither.
The winter wind should be colder; it should bite into my cheeks as I leaned over the top of the railing, but the dull chill barely registered. I hadn’t been cold for a long time.
Numb, I gazed into the swirling mist below as the chorus of rushing water roared through the gorge. I couldn’t see the river through the late evening fog, but I clung to its melody as my fingers tightened on the slick railing. The rapids echoed their symphony, calling to me like a long-lost lover, and I would answer.
It wouldn’t be my first time climbing the barrier. When we were kids, my friends and I frequented the bridge to fuck around and prove our foolhardy courage and, as we grew, to do more illegal activities.
I had lost count of how many joints I’d smoked in the woods just off the forest trails with my buddies. If I searched, I would find long forgotten beer cans and maybe a bra or two, evidence of another time, a past life, a different me. I was no longer that Samuel.
No, he was carefree with dreams and aspirations. He still wanted, still felt, still needed. He found joy in simple things, beauty in the gray. Now, all I saw was bleak slate, cold like concrete. I wasn’t that Samuel, not anymore.
Most days, I wasn’t even this Samuel. I was a mere ghost, an apparition of the man I could have been, and I was tired. So tired. Sleeping didn’t help, and neither did drugs. Conversation fell flat, social interactions bored me, and even sex became a chore.
Don’t get me wrong, I had loved my girlfriend. Or, maybe, I just wanted to love her the way I used to. But I’d grown too apathetic, and she couldn’t take it anymore.
She had been cheating on me with some pre-law jack-off for three months before the hammer finally fell. I knew about him, and worse, she knew that I knew. I figured it out when she started staying out late, coming home with smeared lipstick and that dreamy look she got in her eye after I went down on her. I used to love that expression on her face, used to live for the way she’d dig her nails into my back as she moaned beneath me.
But the first time she fucked him and returned home covered in his cologne, I could barely muster the energy to be hurt.
That was why she left me—not because she fell for the pompous ass, but because I refused to fight for her. It happened over dinner, or our lazy college student version of dinner—macaroni and cheese with turkey sausage, half-burned like our relationship.
“I’m fucking Harvey,” Sophia said conversationally, spooning a small bite of noodles into her mouth. “I know you know.”
“Is he any good?” I sipped at my water, and her bowtie lips pinched, her nose scrunching in a way I used to find adorable.
“That’s all you have to say?”
The heater kicked in, humming through our one-bedroom apartment we’d rented at the beginning of the school year. The drone was the only sound to break the silence. Something between us had died, and it lay rotting on the dining table like a macabre corpse. Everything withered from the sour stench.
“You’re the one fucking another guy.” I stirred my noodles covered in fake, melted cheese as I avoided her watery eyes. “I didn’t realize an explanation from me was needed.”
As tears welled in her slushy eyes, I forced myself to take another bite. It turned to cardboard on my tongue, but I chewed and swallowed as her lashes glistened. I had loved her eyes once, the way the gray danced and sparkled when she laughed. There used to be a range of color within the thunderous depths, but now, all I saw was dirty dishwater.
Salty droplets slid down her cheeks, carving trails through her foundation, and for the first time in a long time, emotion stirred in my gut. It was hot and bitter, like ash and pennies. Anger. She dared to cry, like it was my fault she’d opened her legs for some fuckboy.
“What happened to you, Sam?”
I wished I could answer her. How many times had I asked myself the same question as she lay sleeping beside me, her hazelnut hair spread out over half my pillow? I didn’t know what had happened to turn me into this shadow, so how could I explain it to her?
“You can have the apartment, if you want,” I said in lieu of an answer. “I’ll pack my stuff.”
Leaving her at the table as she gawked at her bowl of singed noodles, I threw my belongings into my duffel bag. I didn’t own much of value that I couldn’t replace, and half of it, I didn’t care enough to retrieve. She could donate it to Goodwill for all I cared.
“I can’t afford this place on my own,” she whined as I snatched my toothbrush and shampoo from the bathroom. “Both our names are on the lease! Are you seriously doing this to me?”
“Should have thought about that before you fucked Harvey in our bed.”
I swung my bag over my shoulder, watching ugly, fat tears trickle over her pink cheeks. They should have bothered me, but they didn’t. My detachment had grown too strong, and there was now only a gaping chasm where my emotions should live.
It was only fitting I took the final dive into the abyss known as New River Gorge. The empty gulch shrouded in darkness reminded me of the emptiness inside my soul. And, no, Sophia wasn’t my reason to jump. She was just an unfortunate casualty of my inner decay.
Did I miss her? Maybe. I missed what we u
sed to have more than anything because, believe it or not, we were happy once. I used to make her smile, buy her flowers just because I could, and take her on the kitchen floor because I was too impatient to make it to the bed. The old Sam told her how beautiful she was, and the old Sophia would blush.
I missed the old Sam and Sophia. But this Sam? No, this Sam didn’t miss her—missing involved some grief, and I was immune to such emotion. The depression was too powerful, draining every feeling until I was nothing more than an empty husk.
That must be why the December air didn’t chill me, why the raging river below didn’t scare me. On the contrary, it sang to me, an alluring melody tempting me to dangerous waters. My own personal siren.
It was time to go home. I was too tired of fighting a battle I couldn’t win.
Would I regret it? Perhaps. It was a long drop after all, and the fall would allow plenty of time for remorse. But by then it would be too late. There’d be nothing but surrendering to the inevitable, releasing the control.
The force of the water alone would kill me on impact, and then the rapids would carry my body downstream until some unlucky soul eventually discovered it. And my parents would mourn the death of their only son, and the town would ask, “Why did he do it?”
But they shouldn’t, because that wasn’t the right question.
I didn’t have a reason to kill myself. There was no list of pros and cons, no scale weighing the justifications. People asked why. The way I saw it, the question they should ask was: why not?
Hell, I wanted a reason not to; I just hadn’t found it yet. Everyone assumed I would need a motive to die, but I wanted an incentive to live. If I had no purpose in waking every morning, no passion to do the simplest of things, then what was the point? Life should be more than going through the motions.
I didn’t want to simply survive. I wanted to live! Unfortunately, that wasn’t in the cards.
A firework exploded in the sky, glimmering on the horizon, and the sudden sound jarred me. I gripped the wall tighter, watching the blues and greens glitter and crackle across the evening sky. It was only half-past six in the evening, but it was already dark as night. It was that time of year, of short, gray days and long, black nights.
Few cars drove by as I leaned against the barrier, staring into the gorge that would become my grave. I wanted to wait until the road was clear. This was my choice, my decision, and I didn’t want to scar some innocent bystander merely because I was weak. I couldn’t deal with life, and that was no one’s fault but mine. I shouldn’t traumatise a stranger, not with my selfish cowardice.
I’d left a note for my parents on my pillow. I didn’t want them to blame themselves, and parents always did in these situations. It was as if society expected them to be mind readers. I was their son, not a robot programmed to follow their every order. Ironically, there had been times in my youth where they wished I was. I had been rather rebellious.
But it wasn’t their fault. They were good parents, loving and supportive. I was just broken inside and didn’t know how to fix it. The pieces were there, scattered along the floor, but the way they fit together was ever changing. How could I piece the puzzle together when the picture didn’t match anymore?
“Come on, Sam,” I said into the night as I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Don’t pussy out now.”
My eyes stung from the bitter wind as I hoisted myself onto the railing, my hands trembling, heart pounding in my ears loud enough to drown out the hungry river below. Sweat coated my palms as my hoodie fluttered, and I fought for balance as I slowly straightened. The air pressure pushed and pulled, the breeze fighting my inner equilibrium, and I blinked back tears.
This was what I wanted, to go to sleep and never wake up. It would be easier. Death was simple; life was hard.
Yet, as I stood at the edge of black eternity, my throat swelled with panic. Every instinct in my body fought the urge to tip forward, screaming for survival, and my eyes watered with terror. I was finally afraid. I feared the ravenous rapids and the lengthy, weightless fall. I recoiled from the inevitable pain of hitting the water at a velocity my brain couldn’t calculate.
Every muscle quivered as I finally reached my full height, unstable as I balanced on the too-thin handrail. My ears filled with a hollow whooshing, and my vision blurred.
Oh God, Sam, what are you doing? What are you doing?
I was cold, and a snowflake drifted through my vision, dancing peacefully in stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside me. For the briefest of moments, my fear abated as I watched the solitary flake float into the night. For one second, the smallest spark of hope ignited in my chest. But then it faded as a gust of wind hit my back, and I teetered at the edge. One breath, and I’d fall.
But I didn’t want to fall. My life was out of my control, but I’d be damned if my death was, too. No, I wouldn’t fall. But I’d sure as hell jump.
Except the moment my resolve solidified in my gut, a voice rang out through the darkness, louder than the river calling me, harder than my thundering heart, and more desperate than my demolished soul.
“Stop! Don’t jump!”
My muscles locked, and I stood immobile on the railing. Shoes scraped against asphalt, and the bitter wind tugged at the loose fabric of my sweatshirt. I was running out of time, but I didn’t jump. Why didn’t I jump?
“Wait, hold on. Just hold on one second!” Something heavy thudded over the pavement, but I didn’t dare investigate. One ill-timed move, and I’d plummet to the bottom. “Don’t do it, man.”
The voice was male, but it was an octave too high, panic turning the dulcet tones reedy. A flash of yellow shifted in my peripheral vision, and carefully, ever so carefully, I turned my head. Hysterical hazel eyes met mine, his oval face framed by wavy blond hair the color of sunshine.
As the breeze blew flaxen strands across his freckled nose, he raised his hands in the universal sign of surrender. Palms out, he stepped toward me. One step. Two steps. He was close enough now, I could see the calluses on his palms and the dirt ingrained in the pads of his fingertips.
“Hey,” he croaked, his voice cracking under the stress as he strained for nonchalance. “What, uh, whatcha doin’?”
I cocked an eyebrow as the corners of my mouth twitched. “Just hangin’ out.”
His head quirked as he shuffled closer. “Could you, um, maybe hang out on the sidewalk instead?”
“Nah, I’m good.” My arms swayed as another gust of wind threatened my balance, and Freckles squeaked.
“Seriously, you’re freaking me the fuck out. Just come down for a sec.”
I smiled harshly. “It’s okay. Get back in your car and go. I’ll be fine”
“Dude, I don’t think you’re fine.” He stepped forward, almost close enough to touch my jean-clad leg. “Please, come down.”
“Just go. No one will know. I won’t tell.” My morbid joke didn’t humor him, and his pale lips whitened as they pressed together.
The dull lamp posts illuminating the road cast eerie shadows over his light skin, highlighting his full lashes and high cheekbones. His nose was slim but long, and laugh lines creased the skin in the corners of his eyes. The wrinkles deepened with stress as he stretched his hand toward me, palm up in offering.
“I’m not going anywhere until you come down. Take my hand.” When I made no such movement, he licked his full lips and inched closer. “My name’s Jethro. What’s yours?”
I knew what he was doing, what he hoped to accomplish, but I answered anyway. His hazel eyes were mesmerizing in their fear, and I was lost to the swirling golden flecks in his greenish-brown irises.
“Samuel.”
“Old testament. Same as me. Your parents drag you to church, too? My mom never let me skip unless I was on my deathbed with a fever. Not that church is bad, but I always got bored. Plus, the parents got uptight when I hit on their sons during youth group. But you know, small towns.” He chuckled awkwardly as he rambled, and my lips twitched
again with the ghost of a smile. “You know what your name means?”
I barely had time to shake my head before he was talking again, answering his own question. “It means ‘God has heard’. That’s nicer than my name. Jethro means ‘abundance’. It’s stupid, really. An abundance of what?”
“Words, maybe,” I quipped before I thought it through, and Jethro’s brows rose, disappearing into this hairline.
“Damn, that’s cold. Accurate, but cold.”
His full smile captured my attention, dimples cutting into his cheeks on both sides, and I blinked, dazed. Far from feminine, he wasn’t exactly pretty, but there was no denying the captivating intrigue of his features. He wasn’t the first guy I’d found attractive, but he was the most riveting.
After being raised in a small town like Fayetteville, West Virginia, maybe it should upset me. My parents weren’t strict or even invested when it came to religion, but it was expected to attend church on Sundays. And since my dad was a county judge and in the spotlight more often than not, we always did what was expected of us. Being bisexual—or whatever the hell I was—didn’t really fit in with that.
Regardless, I’d come to terms with the fact I wasn’t exactly straight, but I had never pursued the interest. Guys could be hot and I even allowed myself a fantasy or two when I was alone, but the only gender I ever brought home was female. Though, for this guy, maybe I’d make an exception.
“Samuel, please take my hand. You don’t want to do this. You don’t have to do this.”
“Why shouldn’t I?”
Jethro paused, his head cocking to the side in a cute, almost puppy-like way, and the urge to smile returned. “What?”
“Why shouldn’t I? I have no reason not to.”
“Sure you do. You have family and friends, parents who love you. And, Jesus, looking like that,” he waved at my body, “you have to have a girlfriend.”
The Night We Met Page 1
