Self Published a novel called “To Whom It Doesn’t Concern”, a YA novel dealing with themes of depression and suicide, the bystander effect, and forgiveness/healing from mental health.

Excerpt:

I’m closest to the window, so I find my face smushed against the glass when everyone starts crowding, peering out to take a look. Even though my face is pressed against the pane, cheek burning from the window’s heat, I can’t get my eyes to travel down.

Something about looking down I can’t do.

I’m still replaying the sound. The thumping sound as it hit the ground, like dropping a large weight; it sounds similar to me throwing my backpack down on the kitchen counter. But that other sound, the one that followed: the splat. It’s mushy. It’s wet. It’s something being cracked open, something bursting with juices.

It’s like hitting a watermelon open with a hammer.

There’s a scream. A horror wrenching scream. I realize it’s coming from inside the classroom. In fact, it’s followed by more screaming. More screaming and cursing, and someone’s sobbing now, and even Mr. Miller is muttering “Holy Shit” over and over again, looking traumatized, which is saying something for a man who’s almost 50 and has seen everything, past and present. Finally someone begs, “For God’s sake, call the police!!!” It’s those words that shifts my gaze downwards.

He’s lying on the asphalt, arms and legs twisted in odd, uncomfortable directions. They’re broken. But that’s the least of his problems.

It’s like a sink overflowing, the red liquid flooding over the concrete behind his head. His russet hair is soaked, turning a deeper maroon, getting closer to black. With the sun still shining down, unrelenting at what just happened, it makes the blood glisten. It’s shiny, and rich; for a second, it looks almost like cherry syrup.