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The first time she asks what’s wrong he just tells her, point blank. He looks her in the eyes, although his feet are shuffling with nerves and he wants to be anywhere but there. He tells her.
“I’m tired.”
But the way he says it, the trailing ending, makes her know there’s more. So she asks, “Of what, Nico?”
And he looks at his feet and says, “I’m tired of trying.”
And that night, when she reflects, she can see why. He’s tired of trying. He’s tired because he has to keep trying, but they all keep rejecting him. He has to keep trying, keep being strong, keep struggling through a world make for adults, but he’s only fourteen. And he’s tired of it.
The second time she asks, the answer is the same. He doesn’t meet her eyes this time, just looks over her shoulder as he tells her, “I’m tired.”
And it ends the same way, that unfulfilled sentence, so she presses on, “What are you tired of?”
“I’m tired of hoping.” He says. He only stays for a few seconds after that, then turns away with a muffled sound that might be a sob.
And she can understand why. He’s tired of hoping. He’s tired of hoping that this time it’ll be different, that this time he won’t be left, that this time thing will be better. She wants him to come back and she wants to hug him and tell him never to get tired of hoping.
The third time is the first time she gets truly worried. The first time she pressed beyond ‘I’m tired.’ But that’s the answer he gives her.
“I’m tired.” He says, tugging on the sleeves of his jacket.
“Of what, Nico?” She asks. “Please, tell me.”
“I’m tired of coping.” He says, and tries to leave, but she grabs his wrist.
“Why are you tired?” She asks. But he just stares. His eyes look shattered and black and lifeless. She can remember when they were a warm, deep brown. When he laughed, smiled, was happy. That seemed like a long time ago. “Why?”
But he doesn’t answer. He just pulls out of her grip and walks away. And this time she lets him. But she knows why he’s tired. He’s tired of coping with the looks that she sees thrown at him. He hides, tries to avoid her in public so she won’t know, but she sees. He’s tired of being thrown against walls, beaten, hurt and kicked and broken. He’s tired of coping with that every day. But why doesn’t she do something?
The next time she asks him what’s wrong, she knows she needs to help him. She asks him what’s wrong. He just says, “I’m tired.”
But she still asks, “Of what?”
And he just turns away, ready to leave. But she doesn’t let him. She grabs hold of him and asks him again. And after a hesitation, he tells her, “I’m tired of existing.”
Existing. That word has her letting go of his arm. And it’s only after he’s gone that she realises the truth of what he’s said. He tired of existing. He’s tired of waking up every day. Of eating and talking and moving among people. He wished he didn’t have to. He wants to stop it. Stop existing. She tries to tell others – her father, her step-mother. But she doesn’t know if they don’t hear her, or if they just don’t care.
The next time she asks, it takes even longer for him to answer. She asks him, “What’s wrong?”
And he just says, “I’m tired.”
But she knows there’s so much more. He’s tired – yes. But he isn’t just sleepy. She knows there’s something more behind it. She knows that he’s tired of something much bigger. So she asks him, “What are you tired of?”
But he doesn’t tell her. He still tries to leave. So she grabs him and pins him against a wall and tells him how this is for his own good and that he needs to tell her and she just wants to help him. She just wants him to be okay. She tells him everything, and watches his dull eyes as they dim even more. But he still doesn’t answer. So she asks once more, “What are you tired of, Nico?”
And finally, he slumps. He tells her, “I’m tired of breathing.”
And then she lets him go. She tells her friends, his friends. But what can they do? They can’t stop him if he hasn’t done anything. But each time one of them offers to walk with him, to buy something for him, to talk to him even, he scowls suspiciously and declines. And she knows he knows that she told them. She tells her father and step-mother again. This time they hear, she knows they do, but she can tell they don’t take it seriously.
But she knows that he’s tired. He’s tired of breathing. He’s tired of inhaling the same oxygen as the people who torment him. He’s tired of needing to keep going, to keep taking breath after breath. And who knows? Maybe it really does hurt. Maybe each inhalation is like a stab in the chest.
So she tells everyone she can, but no one listens. No one cares enough to save him. So she asks him again. “What’s wrong Nico?”
And he just says, “I’m tired.”
And she doesn’t pin him against a wall or tell him everything, she just sits down and he does the same. And she says, “Please tell me what’s wrong. And don’t say it’s nothing. What are you tired of?”
And he sighs and says. “I’m tired. I’m so, so tired of living.”
And when he gets up to leave, she jumps up and hugs him tight and whispers nothings into his ears. And when they break apart, the sparkle is in his eyes for just a moment – but it’s there. So she doesn’t stop him when he leaves. And she knows why he’s tired. He’s tired of living. He’s tired of struggling through life. He doesn’t want to live anymore. He doesn’t want to be alive. He wishes he were dead. And the thought scars her more than she can put into words. Her brother. Her only brother. Wishes he were dead.
She keeps trying to tell people. But no one listens. No one stops it. And one afternoon she knows somethings happened. He’s locked himself in his room, and turned the music up. It’s so loud that she can hardly scream to her father when he comes to see what’s happening.
But finally he and her step-mother realise just how serious this is. And her friends all come and crowd around his door. But he doesn’t answer. It’s not until, late at night, when she yells for the last time, “What’s wrong?”
The music turns off and a small voice whispers through the door. “I’m tired.”
“Of what?”
There isn’t an answer, so she tries again, “Nico?”
And his voice whispers one last time. “I’m done.”