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Sarah stared at the doors in front of her with a steely determination, the kind she had previously assumed was only hearsay from action movies and half-assed motivational speeches.
The church cut an imposing figure in the harsh glare of the mid-afternoon sun. She was almost thankful for the clouds, even though they reminded her of what she’d lost, the lazy summer days spent cloud-gazing with her brother when their parents were busy. She was a small child then, even smaller than she was now, but her voice was as loud as thunder. Or that’s what he told her, anyway.
She smoothed out her skirt. I have to do this, she told herself. If not for me, then for him.
Walking through the wide oak doors felt a little bit like a death knell, but she did so anyway. A sea of faces—some tearful, others impassive, and if you were impassive why even bother being here anyway?—greeted her.
“My brother,” she began, taking her spot on the podium, “couldn’t be described in just one word...”
To this day, Sarah Livsey didn’t know what pushed her brother to kill himself. And yes—she could finally say the words now. Not ‘pass away’ or ‘put himself to rest’. He killed himself, plain and simple.
What wasn’t so plain and simple was why.
She spent many sleepless nights thinking about it. Why had he gone to such extreme measures? Why hadn’t he told her? Why didn’t she notice? But no amount of brooding or pondering turned up any answers.
For years, she tried to move past it. Her parents were always distant, but ever since then, they became even more so, throwing themselves into work and the success of their business. Ha! ‘Business’, they called it, when most of their money came from the family inheritance. It didn’t matter. Nothing really did, except finding a way to make sure this never happened again.
She adjusted the front of her blazer. I have to to this, she reminded herself. If not for them, then for me.
The Livsey Foundation—and yes, it was a bit pretentious to name an entire organization after oneself, but Sarah knew it was really in memory of her brother—was her pet project of about two years now, dedicated to suicide prevention and other mental health crises. She’d announced it to the public well before its founding so her parents couldn’t stop her.
Walking onto the stage felt a little bit like a death sentence, but she did so anyway. A sea of faces—most impassive, some interested—greeted her.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” she began. “My name is Sarah Livsey...”
The speech passed in a blur.
There was a brief intermission where she took questions from the crowd—budgeting concerns, mostly, and a few on how she planned to implement the changes she proposed. More public awareness, more infrastructure. Less room for failure, Sarah thought. Eventually, though, the chatter died down. She pressed forward, concluding the conference with some half-assed life advice pulled from a self-help pamphlet. Not her own creation. These people didn’t understand her struggle anyway; why bother with the effort?
She walked over to the side tables, where snacks and drinks were being served, and prepared herself for a few hours of schmoozing. The more rich people she could get on board with this program, the better.
“Excuse me, miss.” Something tugged on the hem of her blazer. Looking downward, she realized it was a girl in a dark blue skirt. Too young to be here—it was supposed to be an adults-only event, bar Sarah herself of course—but maybe one of her parents had snuck her in. “You said we can ask questions...”
The Q&A period had long since passed, but Sarah didn’t want to upset her. It’d reflect poorly on the foundation.
“Yes.” She nodded. “I did say that.”
A pause. The girl looked like she was struggling with herself. Sarah briefly contemplated leaving—she could even do it without consequence, gently letting the girl down by saying she was busy. No big loss; she was never any good with kids. Besides, the girl was probably going to ask her where her parents were or something like that. No big loss.
“Why did Daddy do it?” the girl finally asked.
“Pardon?”
“Why did he leave?” Her voice broke. She clenched her hands over her skirt, shifting from side-to-side. “If he really loved us, why did he leave? Did we do somethin’ wrong?”
These were the same questions Sarah had been asking herself for the past seventeen months.
“I’m sorry,” she said, trying not to stutter, “that’s—that’s not something I can answer.”
“Was it ‘cause of me? Did I—was it ‘cause I didn’t care enough? I never talked to him outside’a breakfast ‘cause he always looked unhappy but maybe he was unhappy ‘cause I didn’t talk and maybe he thought I didn’t care—”
“Stop,” Sarah said. She didn’t know how to get through to the girl.
“—but I really did, promise, even if he got mad at me and yelled sometimes—”
“Stop!”
Loud. She was too loud and now everyone was staring at her and the lights were too bright and everyone was too loud and how was she supposed to fix things how was she supposed to solve the problem how was she supposed to save her brother when she couldn’t even answer a girl’s questions and—
Sarah blinked the light from her eyes. The summer heat was excruciating under the her armor, whose interlocked layers caused sweat to bead up on the back of her neck. Not that she could wipe it off. Every bit of her was covered in a mesh of chains and gears. There was a cruel irony there somewhere. Connections. Bonds.
She sighed.
“You alright?” her teammate asked, looking slightly concerned. He must’ve noticed she didn’t do well around crowds.
“Yeah,” she said. “Just peachy.”
With a dubious nod, he pushed the curtains open. They were greeted with a sea of faces—some awestruck, others impassive. At any other moment, the warm mid-afternoon sun would’ve been a ray of hope, bringing her new life where she had irrevocably ruined her old one. But Sarah knew the truth.
She was no good as a hero. All she could do was try to bridge the gap before it was too late.