My friend wants to **** himself. Who do I tell?

I've come to believe all life is precious. I watch each person, each interaction, each laugh and smile and sneer with such absent curiosity, I feel my brain and 7 names fall through my dry palms. I snap my gum. A girl snickers, covering her mouth, her friend grinning along.

****, he's the one with abusive parents, sometimes homeless, right?

I feel my mouth go dry, my tongue swells, balloons to the roof of my mouth, my teeth sweat and my throat rolls over. My stomach and heart switch places. Words are only sounds; they mean nothing without pattern, without memory, without culture, without hearing. Why are the things with the most power in this whole **** world so inaccessible?

Don't tell anyone. A call from the school could get him killed.

6 hours later, I look to my right, my best friend resting in my arms- asleep, tranquil, clean of bruises and the same abuses. My skin radiates warmth and worry and relief and everything that's entailed in loving someone that's always so close to the edge.

Give him my number. Good luck. Keep me updated.

Close to the edge of what? I would say God only knows, but He doesn't know everything. He has no plan. I'm the only one with a plan. I'm the only person I can trust.

6 hours later, I worry myself into my sheets and below my mattress, through the floor and foundation, cradling my head in the soft soil beneath my comfortable, quiet family home.*

Sometimes, when hope is all you have to hold onto, you find yourself holding your own hand.