content warnings
suicidal ideation, use of alcohol
[298 words]
The chat alert dings. I take a sip of my vodka-with-vodka and open the message.
‘I hate myself.’
I close my eyes. It’s a girl, 15, and she’s on the verge of tears. That last part’s conjecture, but I’d bet on it. I’ve been her before.
‘No one cares about me. I don’t know what changed, but it’s like the whole world has decided I don’t matter. I don’t want to be here anymore.’
It hits me right in the heart. They always do. These kids don’t want to die. They just don’t want to live like this.
Can’t say I blame them.
But I also can’t admit that.
‘Thank you for contacting the crisis line,’ I type. Each word hangs heavy around my neck. ‘My name is Alex and I’m here to support you.’
Another sip. Also a lie. I can barely support myself.
‘I feel so alone. I don’t think anyone would miss me if I just disappeared.’
I’ve been this girl. I still am. But she doesn’t know that. To her, I’m the hand she’s reaching for as she falls overboard.
This job offers health insurance, I remind myself. This job pays more than any coffee shop in town.
I sigh. I don’t have the words in me tonight. I never do.
I paste her message into the AI my supervisor said never to use under any circumstances. He warned us of AI hallucinations. If I keep drinking like this, I’m going to have some AI hallucinations of my own.
I feel the pain in your words, the AI replies. You’re brave to admit you’re feeling this way.
Copy. Paste.
‘Thank you,’ comes her reply. ‘Nobody’s ever called me brave before.’
She doesn’t want to die. Neither do I.
But I’m ready to be replaced.
Wyn Archer lives on the rocky coast of Maine but is rarely there for very long. She’s usually found plotting her next escape over some good Pad Thai. Her short fiction has appeared in several literary magazines under her other name.
