Loving Mark Wilson
In loving memory of Chris F.
“Mark’s dead, Sarah.”
Lizzie stood in the doorway, her voice hollow and her cheeks streaked. In the two years that she’d been my roommate, I’d never seen her cry.
I dropped the handful of silverware I held.
“What?” It had to be a different Mark. Not my Mark.
“He died this morning.”
Our dinner grew cold as the clock on the wall ticked into the silence. Lizzie pulled me into a hug, her sobs pounding over and over as my heart tried to catch up with my brain.
Mark is dead. Mark is dead. Mark is dead.
I opened my mouth to ask—what? How he died? Yes.
“How—?” I choked. How does anyone die?
Lizzie backed away and shook her head, her eyes wild.
“Liz?”
“He shot himself.”
I can still picture Mark Wilson’s dark hair and beard, tall build, and the ex-military muscle rippling along his arms as he strode toward me in the college library. If I try, I can hear his soft, firm voice too. He invited me, a brand-new freshman, out for pizza. And in front of Dave McConnell, no less, who turned another page in his book and pretended not to listen. I glanced at him sideways, wondering if he cared what I answered. We’d been friends since tenth grade, but he’d never had the courage to ask me for anything more than a spare pencil. So when Mark took the chance, his expression hopeful, a yes easily slid out, along with a smile that matched his.
At the end of a date filled with shy but comfortable conversation, Mark suggested we try the Chinese place next week. I opened my mouth to say no, to shake off the weird feeling crawling around my skin. I shouldn’t have wanted a stranger to kiss me after one date. But I did. And I nodded.
Two dates became three, then four, and I finally got that kiss. My first, and worth calling Mom about. When she asked why my voice quivered, the trickle of tears changed into a flood that lasted fifteen minutes. I couldn’t tell her that I longed to kiss him again, and it scared me.
The most awkward situation was when Mark moved in with Dave. They’d started working out after classes on weekdays and running together on weekends. When Tom Wells flaked out, Mark offered to split the rent. After that, wherever Mark was, Dave usually showed up. I avoided going to their apartment because I never knew how to act when both guys were in the same room. Was I supposed to pick sides? What if I chose the wrong one? Or lied to them—and myself?
I fled to my car as Lizzie crawled into bed, her body trembling with more emotion than mine. My headlights sliced through the darkness, but not brightly enough. The night was too deep, too overcast. I wasn’t angry or questioning the meaning of life. Not yet. Nothing reached my senses, not even the worn rubber of the steering wheel. Only the massive weight pressing in on the center of my chest. When I think of Mark now, the knot still twists my insides.
A drop glided down my face, leaving a wet splotch on my sleeve. Then another. And another. Until my vision swam with a kind of pain I hadn’t experienced before.
Tears are cruel. They can come on the heels of joy, or crush you underneath sorrow. I’d never known anyone who’d died. And this victim, this statistic on a chart somewhere, was someone I liked, maybe even loved.
I never thought of my relationship with Mark as dating, even though we went out for almost a year. I learned that before he joined the military, his life was a pit—drugs and parties, confusion, and lots of girls. I learned that his parents hated each other but refused to get divorced. I learned that he had a temper that often landed him in the dumps for weeks.
But each new piece of his soul that he trusted me with made me more reluctant to break up until I wasn’t sure I even wanted to. When he yelled or sulked, walking out or calling Dave was so tempting. But then my Mark would come back grinning, as if nothing had happened, and I’d push my doubts into the corner. I didn’t mind his past, because somehow his guilt made mine feel smaller.
Lots of people carry hell around in their hearts. Some find purpose, redemption, and stumble along the best they can. Others stay trapped. I thought Mark was fine, and he would’ve told me about every monster that raged in his head, if I’d let him. It wouldn’t have mattered. He gave me a more vivid glimpse of his personal hell than anyone else, and I still couldn’t save him.
(to be continued)
September is National Suicide Prevention Month. The story is published in memory of Chris F.
This short story was originally published on StoryEmbers.org, “Loving John Wilson” February 25, 2021. Stayed tuned for parts 2 and 3.