It Ends Tonight

I don't deserve to live. 

In reality, nobody deserves to live. It's part of the naive belief that everybody is born somehow entitled to life. At that time my life was the sidewalk. Concrete split by years of abuse and weeds cuddling themselves in the wounds of the pavement. I lived under an overpass. Walls once painted with vibrant murals advertising the virtue of the city tainted by graffiti and bottom feeders who sleep under the canopy of empty promises. I was one of them. 

It was a weird feeling to be hated. For people to see me, smell me, and think of me only as an eyesore. A symbol of everything that's wrong with this country. They didn't feel bad for thinking this way. In their minds, I was living surrounded by trash and the stench of piss because I had done this to myself. That I must've spent all my money on drugs instead of rent. And although it wasn’t true, I could understand the assumption. My dark brown hair was covered in grime. I only had one jacket, a deep maroon, practically fused to my skin as it barely fit anymore. Holes littered its exterior, revealing small patches of tanned skin. The area I was in, though, was far from desolate. In reality, I was only a couple miles from bustling downtown Miami, where large glass towers lifted bankers and lawyers to the heavens. In the downtown, billboards sparkled with skinny blondes wearing matching spandex sets. Cars roar overhead, their force causing small rocks to deploy from the overpass. 

It was a comforting sound. The highway brought back memories of sitting in the passenger of my dad’s car. Rubbing my fingers on the bumps of the seatbelt, and peeking into the night, watching the harsh world flow by. I wondered if I could get that feeling back. That warm sensation that even if I closed my eyes someone was looking out for me, that I'd be safe. On that day, in particular, a thought seeped into my mind. I wondered if closing my eyes and walking into the road could somehow bring me back to my dad’s car. Like the thrilling twist at the end of a movie, that it was all a horrible dream. But to return to my true life, I needed to end this one. 

Suddenly my feet were on the edge of the curb. Wobbling between the sidewalk and the road. I saw a car approaching. Headlights illuminated the shadow of the overpass. I felt his warmth in its gleam. His smile appeared in my mind as one foot loomed over the edge.

“You alright?” 

I staggered back. A swift wind whipped against my face as the car sped past. I turned to face the interruption and saw an older man. He wore a stained tan shirt, white beard reaching down the front of his neck.

“Dont jump now,” he chuckled. I stayed silent. His eyes widened slightly.

“Did you need something?” I said. My voice sounded foreign as it left my mouth. I couldn't remember the last time words escaped my lips rather than bounce around in my head. 

“Well, I've seen you around here and…” 

His eyes met mine.

“You’re too young to be all by yourself in this area.”

“I'm 23, so as far as the laws are concerned, I can be wherever I want,” I replied.

He laughed, the noise echoing throughout the overpass. A gold tooth peaked out through his smile.

“Yeah, I guess that's true. But a shelter just opened up nearby. Why don't you let me show you?  It definitely beats melting in this heat,” he said, making a visor out of his hand as he looked up to the sun as if to challenge its assault.

A bead of sweat rolled down my back, marking a cool line on my skin. I had never felt a summer like that one. The humidity was suffocating, squeezing every last breath out of me as a raspy sigh escaped cracked, rough lips. 

“Fine. Lets go” I said, walking a few steps to grab my worn backpack from the dirt and turning to pass the man on the sidewalk.

“Great!” he said, tone shifting from the humid uncertainty of before. His footsteps suddenly got louder as he jogged to my side.

It was probably around 3 PM at that point. Every step I took felt heavy, monotonous. My mind was empty echoing: left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Shadows flashed across my body as I transitioned from the area adjacent to I-95 to the sprawl of buildings springing from downtown. 

“So, what's your name?” the man asked, pulling me out of my thoughts and making me once again aware of his presence.

“Sam.” I replied. Taking my eyes off the city and onto my torn sneakers, laces collecting muck off the ground.

I always hated my name. When I was in 10th grade, my old English teacher, who I can't, for the life of me, remember her name, always called me Samantha because she didn't believe in nicknames. One class, for no particular reason, instead of ignoring her and doodling on my paper, I decided to correct her. I was just Sam. And what made that particularly bothersome to me was that it was true in every way. My mother hadn't agonized over my name, scrolling through magazines or thinking of passed relatives she'd like to honor. When she found out she was having me, my dad later told me, she decided to name me after a teacher who had once flunked her out of class, leading her to drop out because, in her words, I was ruining her life all the same.

“That's a pretty name.” The man responded, and I suddenly realized that silence has been settled over us for an uncomfortable period of time. 

“My name's Greg, nothing special,” he said, bringing his calloused hand up to his forehead and swiping the moisture off his skin.

“Mine’s not special either,” I confessed, taking my eyes off my tattered shoes and onto his eyes, wrinkles tugged at their edges and specks of dirt sprinkled across his skin.

Greg cackled causing heads to turn our way, not immediately obvious, but just enough so that their ears could pick up any possible danger from the two “crazy” homeless people. It was one of the reasons I didn't like downtown. Aside from the narrow sidewalks and hundreds of expensive stores running down to the beach, the people here were so wrapped up in this tropical paradise that the sight of the homeless stained that fantasy. Ruining their vacation and making a few moments of their lives filled with the awkward questions of their children, like “Why does that lady looks like that?”

“My daughter was the same way, always selling herself short,” he said.

“How old is your daughter?”

“Hmm…” He took a moment. Closing his eyes, seemingly counting imaginary numbers in his head.

“She’d be around 20 now I think.” Confusion must've flashed across my face as he quickly followed up with— “It's August 11th, so she actually died four years ago today.” The last part he whispered. Like he believed that if it was said quieter, the blow of reality would be delivered more softly.

I wanted to say sorry, that felt appropriate. Maybe it was because I hadn't talked to someone in a while or maybe because death had been on my mind, I became momentarily dissociated and simply responded: “How did she die?”

“Cancer. She'd been fighting for a while, but it got her in her sleep.”

I still thought I should say sorry.

“I'm sorry,” I said finally.

“Thanks. After she died it's like I forgot how to take care of myself.” He took his hand and gestured at his stained clothes. “Obviously.” He paused. Taking a second to stare at the ground and calculate exactly how much he wanted to share. His decision pierced the air as he continued. “Those doctors promised fancy treatments, and at that moment, I didn't think about how I'd come up with the money. I only thought about my daughter.”

We stayed quiet for a moment. Like an understood moment of silence for her.

“Sorry to dump that all on you. I guess it's just better to get it out than to let it fester in my mind,” he said.

“I get that,” I responded. 

I meant it. More than he could know. I’d left my house at 18. I remember walking down the street I had lived on all my life, right after my mother had rattled off her last slur and planted her last slap across my face before locking the door and threatening to kill me if I ever came back. I really thought she meant it that time. I remember the tree I would race my friends to looming over the street corner waving goodbye to me, as its branches bent to the will of the wind. That crooked stop sign adjacent to the same street corner, which had been abused by a hurricane a couple years before. Those first couple months on the street, I didn't know where to go. My friends were off to college, and it wasn't until I ran out of couches to crash on that reality set in: The world is quiet. Back at home the sound was constant. Comments on my grades, my split ends, having a boyfriend, not having a boyfriend. And though these after-chats were perfectly crafted to make you feel like shit, it was still just noise. When you're alone there's really nothing. Sitting on a park bench that nagging voice inside your head screams and warps and melts until you can't bear to think anymore. Until you don't feel human. You feel out of your body, watching the chest of a sad carcass rise and fall with the sun as the days inevitably pass. I guess that's why I wanted to step into the road. Truthfully, I had long accepted that I would never be able to go back to that little girl in the back of her dad’s car. I just needed the hollow emptiness of living in silence to stop. That paradox of a dead person inside a living person's body. I wanted to close the gap. 

“Looks like we’re here,” he declared, and suddenly I heard once again that burst of sound that reminds me I'm still a person. 

I looked up and suddenly acknowledged the large building planted in front of us. Its exterior was concrete plastered deep grey. Black bolded letters spelling out Haven Home stuck to the building's cover.  It stood at least three stories from what I could tell. The doors automatically opened for us as we got closer. Rosy carpeting covered the floor of the entrance. A large desk sat on the back wall of the main entrance, and on its sides were two corridors which went to what I assumed were respective housing areas. The receptionist was a young girl, maybe 17 or 18. No doubt she was there for some sort of passion project, a shiny badge for her to advertise to colleges. She squinted slightly as Greg got closer. As they talked, I once again became aware of my own smell. How long had I smelled like this? I wondered. I shook the thought off and bathed in the cool air pouring from the air conditioner above.

“Alright, kid, this is where we split ways,” Greg said walking back to me after talking with the girl.

“Take care of yourself, for your parents sake.” He meant it with no ill intention, but back then, my parents' sake would be better served if I had walked into the road. 

“You, too,” I said. He turned to walk down the corridor to the right of the entrance desk, and I called out his name

He turned his head. 

“For your daughters sake. Take care of yourself, too,” I clarified. A smile spread across his face, and he disappeared into the dim lighting of the hall. 

The hall to the women's housing area was essentially a pop-up book of affirmations. SKY’S THE LIMIT! exclaimed from a poster with a backdrop of doves, maybe, flying into a perfectly printed blue sky. Another one stated NEVER GIVE UP with a fist punching up into a plain white background, accompanied by an adjacent poster reading SHE IS CLOTHED WITH STRENGTH AND DIGNITY; SHE LAUGHS WITHOUT FEAR OF THE FUTURE - PROVERBS 31:25. I found the number of the room the lady’d assigned me and peeked into the open space. There were two twin beds. One was bare with only a comforter and a blanket folded on top of the mattress. The other was covered by an array of vibrant blankets, its surroundings heavily personalized. Drawings scribbled in crayon were taped to the wall, and various stuffed animals rested on top of the bed. 

“Coming through!” I heard a small voice squeal behind me. Suddenly, a young girl ran past my legs and jumped onto the bed, sending a bear flying onto the floor. 

“Marisol!” someone yelled, the voice getting louder as a woman turned the corner. 

“Hija, me dice no salta,” The woman said sternly, her frown melting as giggles emerged from the small child curled up on the bed. The woman turned to me, gold hoops swinging as she moved. “I’m sorry, she gets very excited. My name is Irina,” she said, her accent twisting her words almost musically. She extended a hand. I hesitated, glancing down at my own hands, which, in comparison, hadn't felt soap in a while. 

“Que? Oh, do not worry.” She reached down and grasped my hand. “There is nothing wrong with a little dirt”. 

“Dirt!” Marisol called out from under her makeshift cocoon of blankets.

“Hey! Que asco! Get out of there with your stinky butt!” Irina teased jumping onto her bed and attacking her daughter with hugs and kisses. 

“I’m sorry” she chuckled, “We are loud. But we are getting a bigger room, so we will be out of your hair soon,” she said, turning to me, a big smile across her tanned face. For some reason her voice brought a smile to my face, too. Despite ending up in that concrete box, she still radiated personality. 

“Alright, mariposa, enough, let us pack,” Irina said, playfully smacking the bundle of blankets Marisol had wrapped herself in.

“I’ll give you some space.” I nodded my head respectfully in her direction and gently placed my backpack on the ground before turning and walking out into the hall. 

I kept walking. I wasn't sure where. The hall seemed to stretch endlessly into the building. It lacked the motivational posters of the other hall. Here, the walls were a deep blue with paintings of various landscapes. I wondered if there was a time my mother ever spoke to me like that. Like I was something precious, something she wanted to keep curled up against her chest forever. I remember my dad used to think of me like that. He even used to defend me when my mother would raise a hand to me. But everything changed once I turned 13. I was no longer his little girl. I was somehow tainted, dirty. 

Though it really bummed me out to even think about how I should explain him. My dad. I never really understood my dad. My mom was easy to crack, she hated me and if it were legal, she would've kicked me out as early as five, simple enough. But my dad was different. Not necessarily better, but definitely different. It was clear to me that my dad would've preferred a son. Even though it didn't fit and was an ugly contrast against my pale doll-like face, he would still shove a roughened brown baseball glove on my hand. Still call me junior, like I was his carbon copy. He was the only one who really cared what I looked like, so for the first few years of my life, most people believed that with my sports shirts and shorts I was a boy. I think the reason our weekly car drives to get ice cream or our bonding days in the park ended was because, as I mentioned before, I turned 13. It was at that time that puberty hit, and he couldn't deny it any longer. I wasn't a boy. I was a girl who, with the addition of a period, was quickly thrown into a deep depression over my mom. Maybe it was my mom that unsettled him so much at that time. Annoyingly, I was the spitting image of her, and once I hit that age, my gender wasn't the only thing that became prominent, but my resemblance to her did as well. My dad never physically hurt me, but sometimes I wish he did. I’ve held so much anger towards him for never protecting me from my mom, but when a man never acknowledges you, it's sort of like he doesn't exist. That my anger is directed at no one, so has no choice but to ricochet back onto me. 

Anyway, back to that time, I was walking down the hall. That weird wish of my dad hurting me strangled my mind. I felt my breath catch in my throat, like suddenly I forgot how to breathe involuntarily. Though my time at the homeless shelter hadn't been completely awful, standing there, I thought nobody cared about me. The people there pitied me, and my two biological procreators genuinely couldn't care less if I was dead or alive. My legs began to shake, and I felt my chest tighten. I pushed my hand against my heart to make sure it was still beating, and before long, felt I was hovering over my body, watching it crumble to the floor. I leaned my head against the wall and felt a small tear run down my face. 

“I think you're lost.” I quickly turned my head and saw a guy sitting next to me. We were almost shoulder to shoulder, and I found myself moving away.

“Yeah you're close to me. Direct effect of your little whig out.” His eyes were fixated on a phone in his hand, bright colors bounced off the screen and onto his face.

“You’re not allowed to shoot up in here, you know,” he said, turning his eyes to glance at me.

“I'm not high,” I replied.

“Whatever you say,” he said, uninterested. He wore a dark grey jacket, jet black hair reaching down his forehead, barely past his ears.

“I don't do that kind of thing,” I said. I thought about how oddly defensive I was being towards a guy who didn’t even know me.

“Oh, I'm sure,” he replied. 

On that day, I had had a full conversation with two people, admittedly more than I had in the years prior. I felt the urge to talk. To get the words out rather than letting them fester in my head. 

“How old are you?” I asked. Resting my head on top of my knees.

“Do we have to talk?” he replied.

Rude, I told myself but honestly it wasn't far off from something I would’ve said. I closed my eyes for a moment and turned my head away from him. I heard a loud groan followed by a brief shuffling.

“24. And you?” he said, raising his voice in a sarcastic display of interest.

“23. Not so not far off from you,” I responded, returning my attention to his face, which was suddenly off his screen and turned towards me. 

“Alright, here's another question. Why did you run away?” he asked. It caught me off guard. A tight pain radiated through my chest. 

“I'm guessing you ran away right? You seem like the type. Young, pretty, angsty.” 

His question weighed on me. I had been wandering on the sidewalks for five years at that point and still couldn't process the why. Why did I run away? Was it because of that time mom refused to drive me to school for a week after I accidentally spilled a drink in her car. Or maybe it was because after graduation she changed the locks. Or maybe it was because I hated coming back to that house. Hated laying in a trash covered bed in a body that didn't feel like mine. It felt like hers, like her scream, her silent car rides home, her bruises on my cheek. And maybe it felt a little like his, too. Like dad’s. How he would keep his eyes fixated on the newspaper and not on the new scar to the collection on his daughters arms. 

“I don't know,” I whispered. “I just wasn't wanted at home I guess.”

“That seems fair. No offense, of course, but that seems to be the usual response I get,” he replied.

“Well, what about you?”

“I’m a hypocrite,” he said, pausing before he continued.

“Nobody wanted me, either. My parents ran through a red light, smashed into someone else, and died almost immediately. Lots of family showed up to the funeral, but nobody wanted me. I mean, I was 18, so I should've been fine by myself, anyway,” he said, turning his gaze away from me and to the wall across from him.

“I’m sorry,” I said, noting his black hoodie dropping on the floor as it hung off his shoulders. 

“It's fine, any more questions?”

“What’s your name?” 

“Ben. And yours?"

“Sam.” I thought about reaching my hand out to shake his, but Ben stood to his feet and tilted his head down to look at me on the ground.

“Well, Sam, it was nice to meet you, I guess. I'll see you around, and try not to wander into the Men’s area again.” He turned his back to me and continued down the hall before I could reply. Ben reminded me of the boys I’d gone to school with. Guys who wore baggy clothes in the scorching heat, who took naps during class, who got a kick out of hating life. I hope I wasn't like him. Wasn't the kind of person to turn the horrible experiences of my life into a punchline. And at the same time his cool nature was something I wish I had as well. Somehow, I managed to find my way back to my room. Irina and Marisol were long gone, their bed now back to its original bland state. A foreign pile of clothes rested on my bed. There was a note on top reading: Take a nice shower and sleep in nice clothes -Irina. I took her advice and found my way to the showers. I fought past my old insecurities about my body and the scars that cover it and enjoyed the feeling of steamy water washing the streets off of me. The dirt swirled around the drain and vanished beneath my feet. When I returned to my room, an older woman was sitting on the bed left by my past roommates. Her skin was a deep brown and long curls ran down her back. Light wrinkles laid on her face but were not pulling at the skin, more making delicate grooves. She couldn't have been older than 40.

“Hello, I'm guessing your Sam?” she said.

“Yeah, how'd you know?” I sat down on the bed in my new clothes.

“I’m a friend of Irina's. I didn't have a roommate, so I gave her my room.”

“You’re such a beautiful young lady,” she continued. “What are you 20? 21?”

“23,” I answered.

“What a wonderful age. There's lots to do at 23.”

I nodded, laying back onto my pillow. That cool feeling of security almost pushed me to sleep. Her voice kept my eyes cracked open.

“You’ve probably had a long day, so I’ll give you a small piece of advice: You're going to do great things. All you have to do is have a little faith.”

I turned to face her.

“How can I have faith?” I asked. Even now I'm still searching for that answer.

She let out an innocent laugh. 

“Darling, I'm still asking myself that question. But it's never too late to turn your life around. Do it for yourself. I pray you find peace within.”

My eyes closed before I could ask for her name, and suddenly I fell asleep. Not my usual sleep where I could still hear cars roaring by and still felt my hands clinging possessively to an empty backpack, but a sleep where, for once in my life, I couldn't wait to wake up. Where for the first time I wanted to wake up.

I still struggle with thinking I deserve to live. After all, some people are horrible. Pure evil who don't deserve the privilege of life. Sometimes, I grapple with what makes me any different from that kind of evil. What makes me worthy. That day was over three years ago, and I really hadn't thought about in all that time. Well, there were bad times, like applying for my first job and that one shelter in Fort Lauderdale, where I thought back to this day and wondered if I should've ever progressed past it. Anyway, Dr. Wellings suggested I write a story to myself about what happened when I was 23, that day where my life almost ended and finally began. I'm really not good at writing. I never was. Even now, out of all my college classes, freshman literature is by far the hardest. I think the one thing I realize while writing this is how far I've come. Sure, I'm still living in a shabby apartment, back in Miami, with two other roommates, but it's filled with a noise and warmth I never felt on that sidewalk. 

So, I'm ending it tonight. And I don't mean something psycho like my life, but I am going to delete this after I'm done. Dr. Wellings suggested I keep it, so whenever I feel helpless, I can look back on my journey, but I don't agree with that. Sure, she's the one with a fancy PhD, but what she doesn't understand is the memories associated with that time. She hasn't said it, but she definitely thinks I'm crazy for thinking so pessimistically about that day. Though it motivated me to turn my life around and all that cheesy crap, I dont wanna fall back into that feeling. That horrible stab in my mind where death truly seemed like the only way out. So, in my own “crazy” coping mechanism kind of way I'm going to get rid of it. Purge that screaming silence that made me suicidal all those years before. End that invading persona who controlled me for 23 years, making me a glorified punching bag, more than my parents, and a slave to my own self-deprecating thoughts. But in order to, as Dr. Wellings would say, stay more positive, Im going to quit while I'm ahead. So, I guess all that's left to say is, goodbye. Goodbye to this notebook as it's damned to sit on my shelf for the foreseeable future and goodbye to 23. The worst and best year of my life.

Sofia Vargas ‘26

As a natural side effect of maturation, many young adults suffer with mental health issues. In this story, I attempt to bring awareness to the struggles these adults face by outlining a young girl's fight with depression and her journey to self acceptance. Simultaneously, I try to bring to light topics of social issues and stigmas through a glimpse into the life of the homeless and the disadvantages they face in their everyday lives.