'On July 22, 1988, my brother showed up at my mother's apartment early in the morning, unexpectedly. It was a Friday, and once again he said that he wanted to move back in. He seemed out of sorts, nervous, and said he hadn't slept the night before. Throughout the day, he took several naps in my old bedroom, on the second floor of the duplex. When she checked on him, my mother noticed he'd opened the sliding glass door to the balcony. It was a summer day, and the heat was overwhelming.

"Don't you want me to turn on the air conditioner?" she asked him.

"No," he said. "It's fine the way it is."

They ate lunch together, and talked. My mother was concerned, but not overly so. She knew that something was wrong, but Carter wouldn't say what. After lunch she let him sleep for a time, then checked on him to see if there was anything he wanted. At some point, as he lay on the sofa in the library, she read him a story by Michael Cunningham called White Angel, which had just been published in The New Yorker. In the story, a young boy unexpectedly dies after he runs through a plate-glass sliding door in his parents' living room while they are having a party. A shard of glass severs an artery in his neck. The violence of the story surprised my mother, but it didn't seem to upset Carter.

"That was a good story," he said.

He took another nap.

At about 7.00 P.M., he came into my mom's room. He appeared dazed, disoriented.

"What's going on? What's going on?" he asked.

"Nothing's going on," my mother said soothingly.

"No, no," he said, shaking his head. He ran from her room, "as if he knew where he was going, knew the destination," she would later tell me. My mother followed him as he ran up the curving staircase, into my room, through the sliding glass door, and onto the balcony.

By the time she got there, he was perched on the low stone wall that surrounded the terrace outside my room. His right foot was on top of the wall, his left foot was touching the terrace floor.

"What are you doing?" she cried out, and started moving toward him.

"No, no. Don't come near me," he said.

"Don't do this to me, don't do this to Anderson, don't do this to Daddy," my mother pleaded.

"Will I ever feel again?" he asked.

My mother is not sure how long they were out there on the terrace. It all happened very fast. He looked down at the ground, fourteen stories below. A helicopter passed overhead, a glint of silver in the late-summer sky. Then he moved.

"He was like a gymnast," my mother remembers. "He went over the ledge and hung on the edge like it was a practice bar in a gym."

"I shouted, 'Carter, come back!' " she told me later, "just for a moment I thought he was going to. But he didn't. He just let go." '

-Anderson Cooper recounting the story of his brother Carter's suicide, in his book Dispatches from the Edge


I don't know how many people reading this have felt like Carter has. If you're like him you may not read this at all. Ever. Because you can't.

I know what that feels like, to feel worthless, helpless, vulnerable, heartless. "Will I ever feel again?" I've asked myself that, too. It's felt useless sometimes - I know so well that I have so much: I live in Canada, I have a full family, I have so many friends, I have goals in life, I have dreams, and I have the ability to achieve those dreams. Yet sometimes it all feels useless - like I can't get there even though all that is there.

Carter Cooper's situation is obviously radically different from my own: he'd lost his father (which I hope I won't for a very, very long time), his mother was Gloria Vanderbilt, he lived in New York - you'd think he'd be the last person to kill himself.

And yet ...

And yet he did, and never explained why.

Anderson elaborates as to his thoughts on that a bit in his book, which I've quoted from above (Dispatches from the Edge, © 2006 Anderson Cooper) - he thinks that their father's death (Wyatt Cooper; of heart failure) affected Carter as much as it did himself, but as he was drowning his pain in weltschmerz (reporting on the most grisly of wars and disasters), he never saw (nor let himself feel) the emotions on the scale of what was happening to Carter.

I think Carter and I might have gotten along well (even though he would be older than my father at this point), somehow. I'm not sure why.

That feeling ... the feeling of being absolutely lost, of having nothing left - because what is the world in your pocket when your heart is shattered? - of being absolutely alone, of having no one there to hold you and love you ... it's one of the most frightening feelings in the world. It eats away at your heart until it starts eating away at your soul, and then you've got nothing left.

Thanks be to God, I wasn't alone when I felt that way.

And that's why I'm here.

It's ... shattered mirrors. That seems to describe what I feel right now best. Shattered mirrors, millions of little shards, all shining, all glittering, too much to process.

And of course, shattered glass cuts. It slices and destroys.

I feel like I've shattered. Like something inside me has just ... broken.

I hurt so much inside.

I'm so lonely.

I know God loves me, and I know I have so many friends who care about me (their love today showed me that), but I still feel so lonely.

All I want is music. I want music so badly. I play music all the time when I can get away with it. It ... it makes me feel better. Like the mirror's repairing itself a bit.

I want an Angel ... I want an Erik. But he's never existed and he never will ... I want someone to sing to me, to care for me, to truly love me. I want a Raoul. I want someone who wants to protect me from anything and everything, to keep me absolutely safe, to hold me close, guide me, love me.

In fact, if I could get them rolled into one, that'd be lovely.

I want so badly to just be held and cared for. I want someone to repair and polish this broken mirror inside me - polish it until it shines brighter than ... brighter than ... I don't know.

I just want music. Right now I feel like I'm so far away from what I want to do, so distant, so alone ... I want music more than almost anything else right now, and I feel so helpless to get there.

I want to be held, I want to be loved, I want to be sung to and this hurts so much ...

This hurts so much to type it out ... I'm so used to keeping almost everything inside except with my closest friends - and even sometimes with my closest friends.

This is getting to the point where I'm spiralling back down into blackness more often than I should be. When you get so frightened, so depressed, so alone and so sad that you feel like you're falling, and like you're being pulled down ...

That isn't good. I don't want to fall. I don't want to!

I so often don't want to tell my parents about what I'm feeling, because I don't want to worry them, and yet I know that I need to tell, that I need to get help - I know that there are so many people who care about me and love me, and yet I shut them out.

I started crying in church today ... we were singing about wanting God in our lives, and it cut right past the shell I'd put up. It was so true. I felt so alone and then there was this about God being there all the time, no matter what. I couldn't stop for quite some time.

I'm crying again now as I write this. It's so hard to write this. I want to write it but I don't want to hit the post button. I want to hide, I want to push the pain away, but I know I can't. I can't do this alone and yet I want to.

I want someone to hold me so badly ... I feel so alone, so worthless, so helpless, so young ... I feel like I'll never get anywhere and that my dreams are worthless. I want someone here to tell me that it'll be okay, that I'm worth the world, that I'm beautiful ...

I don't know where to end this ... I don't want it to end. It won't, not in my head, but it has to end somewhere.

Maybe I'll just end it here.

Vertigo

Uno, dos, tres, catorce!

Turn it up loud, captain ...

Lights go down,
it's dark -
the jungle is your head;
can't rule your heart:
a feeling's so much
stronger than a thought -
your eyes are wide
and though your soul,
it can't be bought,
your mind can wander ...

Hello hello -
I'm at a place called vertigo:
it's everything I wish I didn't know -
except You give me something
I can feel ...

The night is full of holes
as bullets rip the sky of ink with gold:
they twinkle as the boys play rock and roll -
they know that they can't dance
(at least they know) ...

I can't stand the beats,
I'm asking for the check -
the girl with crimson nails
has Jesus 'round her neck -
swingin' to the music,
swingin' to the music, oh ...

Hello hello -
I'm at a place called vertigo:
it's everything I wish I didn't know -
but You give me something
I can feel ...

"All of this, all of this can be yours ... all of this, all of this can be yours ... all of this, all of this can be yours ... just give me what I want, and no one gets hurt ... "

Hello hello -
I'm at a place called vertigo:
lights go down and all I know
is that You give me something ...
I can feel Your love teaching me how -
Your love is teaching me how -
how to kneel, kneel ...


Vertigo lyrics (c) U2, How To Dismantle an Atomic Bomb

(Author's Note: The following account is entirely fictional and based on no one in particular.

I write this a week or so after the Dawson College shootings in Montreal, along with the Colorado and Pennsylvania shootings in the States. My deepest sympathies and prayers to the families of the victims ... I'm just as scared as all the other students out there, wondering whether a man with a gun is going to walk into our school next. This little story comes from that fear.)


What a beautiful day. The sky is bright blue, the leaves just beginning to change colours, and the wind is ruffling my hair pleasantly. Nothing can go wrong.

I'm heading to school - it's Friday morning, and I'm looking forward to the weekend. I attend a downtown school in the capital, and the commute (I live out of the city) is nuts.

A white car drives past me. It's probably a student driving to school. My dad drops me off on his way to work, so I walk a ways. That's fine.

The little white four-door sedan stops a bit ahead of me, and the driver door opens. A tall man unfolds from the car. He's wearing a long black coat, a bit like the ones in The Matrix. I don't get why, but oh well, to each their own style of clothing.

He heads around to the trunk of his car, but by this time I've passed him and am continuing on to the school building.

Suddenly there's a quiet chik-chik sound behind me. It sounds ... familiar. Like something I've heard before somewhere, in a movie or something. I turn around to look.

The man in the coat is standing about twenty meters away from me, pointing a gun right at my chest. I freeze.

Time seems to stop. I can't take my eyes off the cold gunmetal-gray machine in his hand, poised to kill me.

I look up at his face, very slowly. The wind has died down. Everything is silent. I can't see his eyes. He's wearing sunglasses.

I'm scared. I don't want to die. Not like this.

I start praying in my head. Nothing ... long and drawn-out, just ... praying. It's so hard to explain.

His face is set. His muscles are tight. He's ready and willing to fire. If I run, he will for sure. If I stand here, I'm a sitting duck. Mom said that if someone's firing at you, run in a zig-zag: it makes it hard to aim. But I've been standing here. He's ready. If I start running he'll hit me for sure.

Am I going to die?

He starts walking, his gun still pointed at my chest. I'm trembling oh-so-slightly. I don't know what he wants. I don't know what to do. I'm so scared.

He walks past me. He just ... walks past me. After a minute passes I turn and he's still walking. He's not looking at me anymore, and the gun is at his side. I just about collapse in tears. I'm alive. I'm safe.

Through the haze of tears, I realize that I may be safe, but he's heading for the school. I pull out my cellphone and dial 911 as fast as I can.

"Hello?"

It's hard to me to reply. The voice on the other end sounds so kind and helpful, I just want to break down and cry. "There's a gunman going into my school."

The voice changes. "What school, honey?"

I tell her the name and say come quickly.

"We'll be right there, dear."

She hangs up and I look up. I can't see the gunman. I don't know where he is. I run to the school's side door and look in. He's not there. I go in and pull the fire alarm, then run away as fast as I can. I haven't heard any gunshots. Maybe no one will get hurt.

I make it to the other side of the park beside our school and sink down in front of a tree. I look back at the school and see kids coming out en masse. I wonder how I'm suddenly so calm. It doesn't make sense.

A gunshot. Screams. No, no, that shouldn't have happened! I wanted to make it not happen ... please say no one was killed ...

Ambulances and police cars rumble down the street and stop in front of the school. Another gunshot. More screams.

I start to cry. This should never happen. Never. It's so wrong. I force myself up just as I hear another gunshot, and see a police officer walking towards me. I go to meet him.

He asks me if I knew anything. I reply that I was the one who had called 911. He asks if I'm a student. I reply in the affirmative.

He sighs gently and tells me that the gunman is dead. I let out a sob and ask if anyone else is. He says, "Not yet."

I ask if I can go home. He asks me where home is. I tell him and he tells me to call my parents and tell them I'm alright: I try on my cell, but the lines are busy.

He smiles wanly and says that's no surprise: many people are calling to say they're okay. Maybe I should go to the school and see if I could help. I nod and head back with him.

I find out my best friend was one of the ones who had been shot. It hits me like a battering ram to the stomach. All I can do is say, "I'm sorry, what?"

It sinks in and I start to cry again. "Is she ... "

"No."

"Will she ... "

"Maybe."

Someone gives me a hug and I just hug back, crying. Only then do I notice that so many others are crying, too.

I want to go home ... I want to go home ... In the space of fifteen minutes, my life has changed. I want to be home safe, watching this on the news, not living it.

The media have started to show up. One of them inquires as to who placed the emergency call, and I'm ushered over. We talk for a little and I try to explain, without too many sobs, what happened.

It all passes in a blur. Soon I'm home, curled up on the living room couch, watching the six o'clock news. I'm on the news. I've been on it before but not for anything like this.

It's all so surreal. So, so surreal. I don't understand it. Facts are passing by my head and they just don't compute. My mom tries to get me to eat, but I feel nauseous and refuse.

After a while I can't stand news anymore, so I turn off the TV and turn to the piano.

It's several hours later when I finally stop playing and go to bed crying. I don't know what's going on and I don't want to. I just want to sleep ... and I don't want to dream.

Anything to make the ache go away.

The potential of an asset cannot ever be determined when it begins. Only after being put into use can one determine whether it is worth it. ... Yeah, sure, exceptions abound. Not the point.

Who am I? Here, I will be Inyalin. You may know me by a different name, but my name here is Inyalin. I am 14 years old. I am a Christian. I like to talk and I love to sing. I speak English and French. I have friends and I have a family. I am not rich, but I am not poor. I am blessed, but that doesn't mean I don't have to work. I'm curious, but I generally know when to quit. I dream, but I anchor those dreams in reality ... most of the time.

In my life, there are so many questions, with answers that somehow seem wrong ... In my life, there are times when I catch, in the silence, the sigh of a faraway song ... and it sings of a world that I long to see, out of reach, just a whisper away ... waiting for me.

There is precious little I won't say. Here, I will talk, write, and sing. You, whoever you are: you don't have to listen. You don't have to say anything. Everyone, though, needs somewhere to talk, and it is here that is my place.

I have nothing more to say right now, except: Enjoy.