To Give Up and Let Go
Trigger Warning: Suicidal ideation, dark web, and traumatic imagery.
Jean sat in an empty kitchen with his computer. At least now, he could access lettinggoandgivingup.com and keep his honor about remaining low key in the bro code. No one here, nobody to know, no one to see. She wasn’t supposed to know…and she wouldn’t.
thehangman: I’m back from class and at home.
Azrael: How was school?
How was school? Though school didn’t go terribly, Jean couldn’t say that everything went too well; his math and science grades murdered his GPA. As a kid, it was all easy for him. Teachers would call him a little Einstein in the making and he got awards. Mom had plenty of pride in him, Dad would yell “that’s my boy!”, and grandpappy rooted for him.
What was once is not now.
thehangman: Nearly failing math and science, got Ds.
Azrael: Not as bad as failing, eh kid?
Could there be anything worse? Some people would bet that cancer was on that list, so Jean guessed that would be amongst the worst of the worst. Still, a piss poor GPA, lazy attitude, and nothing but sad music to keep him going? Things went downhill from here.
thehangman: I guess?
Azrael: So you know something worse, kid?
The deaths of mom, Dad, and grandpappy along with the fact that his big sister, Monica, had to raise him. Calling or considering her a ‘mom’ or parent would be the strangest thing ever. Car crashes were just like the Riddler: they left no choice.
thehangman: You mean my whole life?
Azrael: You barely lived a life, and you already hate it. Sucks dick for you.
Understatement of a lifetime. If Jean had a penny for every time he wallowed, he’d be a millionaire and pay off Monica’s law school loans. He’d be useful for once. Students in high school weren’t usually the type to be considered useful in families. No, they just sat there doing nothing.
thehangman: I wish I could go back to a point.
Azrael: A point when?
thehangman: When I was happy. I feel like I can’t find one.
Azrael: There isn’t one because there is no point. Valuable lesson they never tell you growing up.
Pounding sneakers snagged Jean’s attention from the screen. Monica. Knowing the drill, Jean slammed his laptop shut. A young blonde woman in short shorts, a tank top, and drenched in sweat jogged to and stood in front of him.
“Hey, ‘lil bro,” Monica said, “got a minute? It’s important.”
Something important. By the name of God, he hoped it wasn’t about his grades. The amount of time spent bringing those up defined infinity. A gnawing pit formed in his belly, and he barely ate junk food.
Let alone much food.
“What’s it about?” Jean asked as Monica threw herself on the couch beside him.
She flicked a bang from her eye and adjusted her posture in a straight and attentive manner. It was the same body language she’d use in the courtroom when defending a client. Except she wasn’t lawyering. It was a Friday night and weekends were free for her, which allowed them to watch movies either at home or in theaters. Chills ran through his spine, goosebumps popping on the skin.
“You alright?” Monica put a hand on his shoulder. “You’ve been more tense than usual.”
“I’m fine,” he laughed but she didn’t remove the worried face, “don’t worry, Moni!”
She exhaled. “Okay, but I’m here always.” Monica cleared her throat. “The thing I wanna talk about is… triggering and relates to your school.” Please, let it not be the grades. “A student tried to commit suicide Friday night.” It wasn’t the grades. No, it didn’t need to be grades to give such a hit.
“Why?”
Monica swallowed a visible lump in her throat. “They described a lonely situation, Jean. Family issues, isolation… man, that kid had so much.” A kid who hated life enough to want it to end early. What he talked about with Azrael before stuck with him. “Didn’t get to a point where he jumped, thank God.” Her hand covered the heart, and she took a deep breath. “They didn’t feel like they had a reason to survive.”
There is no point. Should he tell Monica? Did she need to know? Was now the time?
“Damn,” he breathed, “that sucks.”
“More than just that ‘lil bro. It’s an illness. Too many feel alone and go untreated, which leads to that kid’s situation.”
It does, Azrael texted him days ago, and it is a shame.
Jean nodded. “It’s something that we gotta get sorted.”
“We start with those nearest.” Monica grabbed Jean’s hand and looked at him. “Jean, if there’s anything eating at you… you have me. Come to me, talk to your friends, and tell someone. Please.” He wanted to turn down his eyes, but the conviction in his sister’s kept him still. “It doesn’t have to end in suicide, I’ll make sure it doesn’t. There is always help.”
There is always help. Adults said this plenty, television or internet ads would say it, smiling therapists spoke it on TV, and then scenes of people crying together. You’re not alone, Jean’s friends in sixth grade once said.
‘You can tell us anything’, ‘We won’t judge you’, and ‘You can trust us’.
It’s us against the world.
Some part of Jean wished they were serious. Years ago, self–hate, and suicidal ideation introduced themselves. After sharing and crying with his friends, everything changed: they left. Sitting alone at lunch, getting knocked by bullies at the lockers, and these people never even spared a hello. Right now, Monica, the grownup currently raising him, was begging him to tell her anything concerning. She was his sister, but did that mean she’d be different?
Could he risk her rejection?
Sometimes the pain just isn’t worth it, Azrael said.
Jean and Monica had dinner during the passing hours. Oftentimes, they talked about movies or moved onto news about social issues while eating. Monica aligned with intersectional social justice causes as a white woman with a dark-skinned younger brother. Solidarity may well have been in her DNA, but empathy had limits. So, should Jean tell her? Was she like the others?
After dinner, Jean and Monica put the dishes in the sink. For generations, post—meal hugs passed down the Corinniere family as a tradition equivalent to saying grace. Sweet nothings whispered in French caressed Jean’s ears, Monica’s arms cradled him tight, and her forehead kisses warmed for a moment.
One moment.
Azrael: So you wanted to tell her, huh?
This conversation was coming ever since dinner ended. Jean cracked his knuckles and sent fingertips in for furious typing.
thehangman: My big sister wanted to know.
Azrael: How bad does your lawyer sister want answers?
thehangman: She practically pleaded. Told me I wasn’t alone, and that people are here for me.
Azrael: Oh, the usual. Classic. She’s probably recasting the slogan from one of those useless hotlines.
thehangman: A kid in school tried killing themselves.
Azrael: Oh?
thehangman: They were going to jump off a ledge until someone talked them down.
Azrael: So someone decided to play hero and prolong suffering, nice.
That text sent a pang into Jean’s heart.
thehangman: How?
Azrael: Logically speaking, people only help others when it benefits themselves. They look like a good person. Your resident attorney sister is no exception.
Monica only cared out of selfishness?
Azrael: Remember when you and I covered this? Kid, your sister is barely reaching thirty and she has to take care of you while having a career. She isn’t a free woman. You think she wouldn’t want a long break from you? That’s my unbiased outsider take. Would she cry? Yes. But the question is would she cry for long? Be a nervous wreck? Drink herself to death? Sister attorney sounds like a woman obsessed with fitness, so I doubt it.
thehangman: But she wants to know…
Azrael: And she’d never understand. They never understand. Normies aren’t meant to understand. We’re never going to be that important. Keep the code, hangman.
Never going to be that important. Jean scrolled through the messages with a hitch. To Dad, Mom, grandpappy, Monica, and some people out there, Jean was important. He mattered to them, and they loved him. Loyalty and solidarity drove Corinniere family values, for Jean could recall grandpappy saying that Monica “would go to jail for him.”
Monica’s computer went down the drain. The battery had issues before warranty expired, which meant that it’d get changed, but would take a while. So Jean’s laptop was for work at the moment.
His chest ate itself ever since.
Then, screaming. Jean rushed to the living room . If what he heard wasn’t enough, then what he saw would’ve been more than enough. Monica’s heavy breaths punctured the air, her face painted a bloody red, hands trembling on her chest and his computer, and she cried from bloodshot eyes.
“Chérie…” Monica coughed and beckoned Jean to come close. “Chérie…Mon Doudou…” She could barely speak without choking. Without words, her finger pointed at Jean’s recent message history with Azrael in the ‘DMs’ window. Directly after the most recent talk laid a link: Ten Ways to Painlessly Kill Yourself.
Oh God, oh fuck. It shouldn’t have happened this way. This should’ve been a secret, kept a secret, and on the down low. Jean should’ve cleared his history, deleted something and prevented all this. Why couldn’t he do that right? One job, one motherfucking job.
“Why can’t I do anything right…?” Jean watched his big sister sink from the couch to her knees and wail. “Why…”
“Why the fuck!” Monica actually growled at him and clenched her fists. “Why didn’t you tell me, chérie? Why!” He hung his head down as she crawled on her knees toward him. “I told you that you could tell me, that I’m here for you, and that you’re not alone!” All of this emotional carnage that he caused, made, and now saw was his fault. “Why didn’t you motherfucking let me be there for you, chérie?” Because he couldn’t take her down with him. “Azrael, that motherfucking termite… he’ll want to die after I’m done with him.”
She found out and it ruined her. “Monica… I’m so—”
“Chérie …” Monica raised a finger and said through heaves. “He played you…don’t blame yourself…” Jean could only bob his head. “Chérie…there is hope…he is wrong…” Tears were welling in Jean’s eyes. “I love you, mon petit chérie…Azrael speaks with his ass.”
He sniggered at that sentence, bringing a smile to his older sister. “Wee.”
“It’s…oui*, chérie*,” Monica whispered, “do you want to talk about it now?” Jean shrunk into his shirt. “It’s okay not to be okay…” He wasn’t okay enough to do anything but sob. “You have me, and we’ll get help okay? You’re not alone…” Water trails spilled down his cheeks, sniffles puffing from the nostrils, and his sister tilted her head. “…come down here, Chérie.”
With shaking breaths and low cries, Jean fell down to his knees in front of Monica and slowly broke down. The cracks in the dam widened, more tears flooded, and as his sister cried out he joined her. It was like a song of grief. They hugged for ages and never let go.
Jean even slept in his sister’s arms.
“Get over here, mon doudou*.”
Monica sprinted and embraced Jean, and he returned it with joy(even though they almost fell).
“I know I got to visit, but you’ll be home again, yay, mon petit chérie*!” Jean laughed at his sister’s overexcitement and let her warmth take over. “How’s everything?”
“I really didn’t want to be there,” he sighed, “but uh, I’m feeling a little better. Therapy and medication.”
“Great!” Monica clapped and put a hand on her hip. “I’m working with people to get the internet Zodiac Killer behind bars.”
Azrael.
Jean entered the front seat of Monica’s car as she hopped in the driver’s seat. “4chan users had bad blood with lettinggoandgivingup, and so they hacked it.” His eyes widened. “Huge data leak and they found him: Anthony Roberts Jr.” Azrael got doxxed. “I know a guy, and we forwarded all this to the feds.”
“Bruh.” Jean said.
She winked. “He gave me heart chocolates in high school.” What? Then, she grew serious and put a hand on his shoulder. “Chérie*, you need a detox from what you experienced in order to heal. So no internet for a month.” Even if that sounded daunting and horrid, he trusted her words. “Wanna go somewhere fun? Six Flags is open, and I’m taking less hours at work.”
He perked up. “We have to go!” A single tear fell down from Monica’s eye. “Just don’t scream too loud on the Bizarro, okay Madame?”
“Tais toi*.” Monica rolled her eyes and punched his shoulder. “Chérie, you deserve to be happy. My girl friends worried about you. Would you mind them being there?”
“No, I wouldn’t.”
“Alright, music?”
Monica turned up the car radio and pulled out of the parking lot while Sia’s “Courage to Change” smoothed out their emotions. Each verse relaxed and soothed their nerves and told Jean things he never thought of in forever. It was like the song itself said: he wasn’t alone in his pain, he didn’t have to go through it alone, people did care, and Monica loved him.
Recovery wouldn’t be easy. It put calculus to shame in terms of difficulty. His meds weren’t happy pills either, and he’d have to keep coming to therapy for a while or the rest of his life. Though this could have been worse, the emotional expression of his singing sister while she drove told it all.
Like the therapist said, worst case scenarios rarely came to pass.
You are not alone, couldn’t have been truer.
Translations(*):
mon petit chérie = My dear one
Chérie = Dear
Oui = Yes
Tais toi = Shut up
Mon doudou = My baby
Andromeda Nebula is a 21 year old author who took his fascination with fanfiction and lore to another level. As someone who struggles with major depressive disorder and anxiety, “To Give Up and Let Go”, is Andromeda tackling the grand battle that comprises life with this invisible killer of an illness. When not writing, Andromeda is a gamer, audiophile, astronomy nerd, and world builds his own science fiction setting. Then, he puts it on the page because…
There’s a whole galaxy of stories to be told.