A Helping Hand

The church basement was dim, filled with the quiet murmurs of the support group. Some shared moments of pain and guilt; others offered words of encouragement and compassion. A few, like me, remained silent. I focused not on their words, but on their "auras," sensing a mixture of exhaustion, despair, and reflection. Only Jason, the group leader, felt different—empty, with an edge of trepidation. I recognized the signs. After the meeting, I lingered as others left. Alone, I approached Jason. "I know what you're planning," I said. His face shifted from confusion to despair. "You can't stop me," he replied, turning away. And so I told him about my twin brother—his struggles, his suicide, and the devastation left behind. I didn't mention the powers we'd shared from birth, or how he'd failed to prevent the emotions of others from consuming him. Instead, I told him about the wreckage he’d left in his wake: the mourning my family went through, the guilt, the spiral into alcoholism and toxicity that my parents had yet to recover from. I explained how suicide didn't end suffering; it just transferred it to those left behind. Jason's aura remained mostly unchanged, but there was a tiny ray of warmth at the center now. Fragile, but there nonetheless. As he turned away again, I recognized the feeling: hope. But hope was never enough. The bullet from my Beretta M9 struck the back of Jason's skull, sending him crashing onto the snack table, cookies and coffee scattering in a mess of blood. Kneeling, I took his wallet and slid it into my purse next to my gun. His loved ones would mourn, but without the guilt, blame, or shame mine had suffered. Quietly, I left the church, stepping into the cold night air, ready to find another family to help.