Every 43 seconds, someone attempts a suicide. Every nineteen minutes, someone succeeds.
He has the number 1-800-SUICIDE tattooed on the inside of his wrist knowing that she counts down forty three more seconds. She pulls her knees to her chest as she leans against the locked door counting down nineteen minutes, waiting for the phone to ring. His bathroom reflection stares back at him wondering. The plastic wristwatch in the wastebasket ticks away. Forty three seconds to decide. She kneels beside her bedroom window searching for words in the sky. Nineteen minutes to change her mind. He folds in on himself, his back is pressed against the locked door as he thinks over and over that nobody wants him. His broken record player memory of... Whispered conversations broken off upon entrance, glass dishes smashed on hardwood floors at dinnertime, and of silence. Nineteen minutes of silence when he asks for help. She buries herself in a barricade of blankets as if she could fight off fingers that tighten to fists inching closer, these pictures, etched and replayed over and over. Her broken record player memory.Every night she holds her breath for forty three seconds in high hopes that he holds on, every night she prays that someone will hear her. Every night he paces across his bedroom floor as he whispers.. "will someone save our souls?" Every night he prays that the wristwatch in the wastebasket will stop ticking. Every forty three seconds, someone attempts a suicide. Every nineteen minutes, someone succeeds. And at this very moment, someone stops believing, but he still holds on and she still holds on. They hold on for Amy, and for Malcolm, and for Hannah, and for Kurt, and for Sarah, and for Beth, because this is an S.O.S. for broken souls. This is for forty three more seconds to hold on and this is for nineteen more minutes to change your mind. This is for you, and this is for me. For he. For us. For them. For she. For we... Take our prayer home. Listen, please.