They do not open the door unless they want something and they hardly want anything to do with me.

They have perfect bodies, perfect homes, perfect friends.

They are framed pictures behind windows that I am not allowed to look at for too long.

I become such a mess around everyone.

They view what I have as beautiful and useful

but then they listen to me speak and they realize it is ugly.

Bad. Bad. Bad person. Bad product.

Bad salesman. Bad anxiety.

Selling things and having anxiety doesn't work together unless the merchandise is drugs.

Selling things and having anxiety doesn’t work unless the salesman wants to be in constant pain and suffering.

They do not open the door unless they want something, and they hardly want anything,

which is good because I am too small too ugly too bad to be spoken to.

I chose this job. I chose this because I want to be useful in some way.

I want to be able to say I talked to people every day and I was wanted and I was okay.

But I wasn’t. I was self-harming in such a pathetic, pitiful system.

I was killing my happiness, self-esteem, and time.

I am a salesman with anxiety, and my life is such an ironic waste.

I walk in their neighborhoods to sell tea machines when my tongue still has a bitter coffee taste on it.

They send me to knock on doors when they don't even know what is behind it.

I will not reinforce fear by choosing safety. I will look fear in the eyes to punish myself for being scared in the first place.

They do not open the door unless they want something. They do not want me. 

i do believe i am alone.

people and i coexist together, but i do believe i will die alone. 

i do not want things to change, in fear that someday someone will look for me and i will be too busy with others. i want to be wanted, and i love having friends, but there is a part of me that doesn't want to be with everyone else. 

i do believe i want to be alone.

They do not open the door unless they want something and they hardly want anything to do with me.

They have perfect bodies, perfect homes, perfect friends.

They are framed pictures behind windows that I am not allowed to look at for too long.

I become such a mess around everyone.

They view what I have as beautiful and useful

but then they listen to me speak and they realize it is ugly.

Bad. Bad. Bad person. Bad product.

Bad salesman. Bad anxiety.

Selling things and having anxiety doesn't work together unless the merchandise is drugs.

Selling things and having anxiety doesn’t work unless the salesman wants to be in constant pain and suffering.

They do not open the door unless they want something, and they hardly want anything,

which is good because I am too small too ugly too bad to be spoken to.

I chose this job. I chose this because I want to be useful in some way.

I want to be able to say I talked to people every day and I was wanted and I was okay.

But I wasn’t. I was self-harming in such a pathetic, pitiful system.

I was killing my happiness, self-esteem, and time.

I am a salesman with anxiety, and my life is such an ironic waste.

I walk in their neighborhoods to sell tea machines when my tongue still has a bitter coffee taste on it.

They send me to knock on doors when they don't even know what is behind it.

I will not reinforce fear by choosing safety. I will look fear in the eyes to punish myself for being scared in the first place.

They do not open the door unless they want something. They do not want me.

"It happened in the library," the anxious teen with messy hair said. His hands fidgeted nervously in his handcuffs.

"I thought you said it happened on falcon street?" the older man said, running his fingers in his salt-pepper hair.

"Y-yeah, Elena got hurt on falcon street. But it...it happened in the library," the teen boy stammered.

"Oliver, what happened in the library? Is that where you got the weapon?"

Oliver seemed to ignore the older mans question. "She texted me saying she was at the cafe. I ran there." Oliver's eyes filled with tears. 

"When you arrived, how did she look? How was she speaking?" the older man said, trying not to look at Oliver's sad eyes.

"She was...she was so bloody. She was so cold. She wasn't wearing a jacket. She was stuttering and she was shaking. She didn't tell me where she got the gun. She didn't explain it! Her top lip was split and blood was caked all over her mouth. She was hiding it."

The older man took a step closer to Oliver. "What was she hiding?"

The teenager began to sob. Memories were so painful to recover, and the fear of what was going to happen to him was too much. "She was hiding everything from me. She hid the abuse. She hid the cuts and bruises. She hid everything. That is where I got the gun."

"Did she hand the gun to you, or did you tackle her for it?" 

"She handed it to me. We started walking around. I...I whispered to her and I comforted her on the blue bench at the park. I told her about the other choices. I thought of all the ways I could help a suicidal person. I told her about my mom when we passed the cemetery. I really thought she listened. She handed me the gun when I walked her home. I thought-" Oliver stopped speaking. His heart pounded while he thought of that night. He tried not to open this box in his memory. He tried to keep this locked.

"So, you took the gun and you thought it would be okay to bring to the library?"

"Yes! I took the gun from her. I'm so stupid. I didn't know she had another. I thought she was okay." Oliver started to whisper, his voice hoarse from sobbing. He was shaking, saying words he didn't dare to let himself think. "I didn't know what was happening. I didn't ask. I thought she would tell me later. I thought there would be a later. I'm so stupid."

"Oliver." The man went closer, whispering softly. "It's okay."

"So that is why I had a gun in my backpack, and that is why Elena has a bullet in her head." His voice cracked and shook. "Does that answer your question?"

They were quiet for a moment. "Why did you say it happened in the library?"

"After I got the gun, I went to my friend Blake's house. Then we went to the library to work on some homework. And then I get a phone call saying Elena was shot in the head, and I stayed at the library for a long, long time, and you police come and you check my backpack, and," he gestured towards the older man, "I am accused of shooting her."

They were both quiet for a moment. "You know why you were a suspect, right? I didn't know the story. I'm sorry for your loss."

"It's all my fault," Oliver whispered, mainly to himself. He looked down at the handcuffs.

"Suicide is a choice, and it is no ones fault," the police said, sitting down for the first time since the conversation started.

"It wasn't suicide! Her abusive boyfriend shot her in the head. It adds up," Oliver began to sob again. "I had the first gun. I thought I talked her out of suicide. I didn't know she was going to get shot anyways. I didn't know her boyfriend would kill her. The cuts weren't self inflicted. She was getting hurt by someone, and I felt proud for thinking I made a difference. I took away a gun that she didn't even want to use. I took away the gun she ripped out of her boyfriends hands before she ran to the cafe. I walked her home to the house where she was killed." 

Oliver began to whisper, his eyes wild. He spoke faster. "I didn't know! I was at the library when she got shot. I was at the library all night. I was in shock. I was there when," he shuffled his shoulders so the cuts showed, "her boyfriend found me. He forced me to shut up. He carved my sin into me. He told me not to say anything!"

"Oliver," the police offer said. He ran his hand in his salt-pepper hair, a sign of stress. "We interrogated her boyfriend. This doesn't add up."

"I'm so sorry. I couldn't save her. I didn't even know what was wrong. It's my fault." The teenage boy was no longer crying. His voice was numb and stoical.

The police looked at his paperwork. He hasn't written anything down yet. "What was your relation with Elena?"

"I was her best friend. I am such a bad friend," Oliver began to cry again. "Please let me go. I told you why I had a weapon, now let me leave please. Let me go home." Oliver thought of her last words before she went inside her house. "I'll be okay."

Later that summer, Oliver was found with a gunshot wound in his head, categorized as suicide. Elena's boyfriend left town a week later.