I'm not sure what this blog will turn into. I'm hoping to post some of my stories and things that I am doing in my life. To begin this experiment in posting, I will post a short story I wrote for my creative writing class this past semester.
Lucky Thirteen
I remember smelling the antiseptic-and-bedpan stench that can only be described as “hospital” before I even opened my eyes. If they’d been open, they would have rolled in their sockets. I can’t believe my parents did this to me again. Why couldn’t they let me take a shower in peace? I thought I would have a good half an hour by the time they found me, and I would be dead by then. Instead I’m here. Rehab. Even the word sounds discouraging.
I guess I should have been more sympathetic to Mom and Roger as they sobbed goodbye over a clipboard checking me in. Stop crying! For fuck’s sake, it’s two weeks! The words dribbled out of my mouth as soon as I thought them. And she crumpled into Roger like a cat dying under a bush. I watched as he led her down the blue tiled hallway, out the fingerprinted glass door, and into the blinding daylight. She was desperately clutching the corner of his coat. It reminded me of those sad kids on leashes. Oh, they can try to disguise them as some sort of cute monkey backpack, but when you’re holding one end and they have no choice but to follow, it’s a leash. Who the fuck puts their kid on a leash anyway.
I started waking from my daydream as the person next to me started speaking. I had been staring at that cheap Ingraham clock on the cream colored wall for fifty seven minutes now. “I’m Angela and this is my fourth time in rehab.” Four times? Holy shit. “I guess I just don’t see the point of living anymore.” She shrugged her shoulders in a non-committal sort of way, and looked at me. They were all looking at me. In fact, they had been looking at me during Angela’s introduction. What? Am I fucking funny looking? A sign on my forehead saying look at the new girl?
I stared very hard at a brown stain on the tacky orange carpet. I liked thinking it was a blood stain. I pictured myself standing up, pulling a gun out of my shirt, and putting it to my head. My only regret would be not seeing the agonized looks on my group’s faces as my body fell in slow motion to the floor. ““Um, well, my name is Roz.” What the fuck was I supposed to say next? “And I’m not sure why I’m here.” What did it matter what I told them, it wasn’t going to change anything.
I tried to put my best I’m-done-talking-now face on, but it didn’t stop the group psychologist from asking: “Well why do you think you’re here?”
Because my parents think they can fix me by sending me away. “I dunno. I guess my parents think I have a problem.”
She wasn’t going to quit. “Do you think you have a problem?”
I looked up from the blood stain on the floor slowly to gain some dramatic effect. She was a small woman, blonde, maybe thirty. She was wearing the type of red rimmed glasses girls wear when they want to look smart. Her frizzy hair was pulled back into a tight bun, but the mane was still sticking out in a halo around her head. It was like she was trying to gain some control, but that frizz just wouldn’t cooperate. I guess that thought made me say “Yeah. I’m alive and I want to be dead. So fuck off and let me go home already.” A woman who can’t even control her hair can’t control me. I heard a few of the kids snicker so I smiled wickedly beneath my slanted eyes.
“I think we’ve had enough group discussion for our first night, but I would like to talk to you after dinner Rosalie.” Ugh, my full name, didn’t I just tell that bitch my name was Roz. As she started to talk about roommates and room assignments, I let my eyes drift to the orange curtained window. The last rays of summer sun were disappearing as I turned to follow the others for dinner.
Dinner had been pretty horrible. Not the food so much, my mother never did learn the fine art of the stove. It was horrible because the people in this place are so dramatic. I pictured the conversations at another table: I’m so attention starved I could just cut myself with this fucking plastic knife right now! Look everybody, I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna fucking do it! Someone stop me before I embarrass myself because I know this plastic isn’t going to cut meatloaf let alone my skin! It’s a fucking high school dramarama. Everyone wanted to talk to everyone. I tried to keep to myself and after a few Fuck off’s they got the hint. I ate fast. I was looking forward to getting to my room and having some quiet. Maybe if I was already asleep, I wouldn’t have to talk to that counselor tonight.
I fell into the bed and put the pillow over my head. I briefly thought about just pushing it farther down on my face. Feel a last rush of air from my lungs and give up on breathing ever again. But that was a stupid thought. I would pass out before I actually died and wouldn’t be able to keep the necessary pressure to finish the deed.
Rolling over. Staring at the wall. Feeling bored, no restless. I wish I would have brought an ipod. I wish I had an ipod to bring. I guess I will just have to endure playing songs in my head. The dark shadows on the spackled wall swam in front of my unblinking eyes. I could hear talking in the hallway, oh great more fucked up people becoming fast friends with other fucked up people. I shuffled through band names in my head. I settled on Elliot Smith, pretty appropriate for this shit hole. I tried to empty my head and pour the first song in. Put this picture into you and me. Burn it backwards kill this history. Think it over, make it go away. Maybe I could die like Elliot, a kitchen knife to the heart. A heart so broken it won’t even protect itself anymore.
It’s a picture perfect evening and I’m staring down the sun. Fully loaded; deaf and dumb and done. Waiting for sedation to disconnect my head, or any situation where I’m better off than dead. He advanced slowly into the sunlit room. His feet were careful; his face more familiar than breathing. I tried to say hello, to run to him and jump into his big teddy bear arms, but I couldn’t move. I was too scared. I had been hiding in the closet of the study ever since I heard their most recent fight. They usually fought like howling cats, out for the other’s blood, but today they didn’t. Today only my mother spoke. She was calm and determined. He was looking at the floor not saying a word. The tension in the kitchen was primed to snap, but it didn’t break in that room. I ran in here when the word Divorce echoed through my head like a gunshot. He blocked the sunlight as he stumbled past the slightly ajar closet door and into the bathroom. I heard him cry and I cried with him. We cried and cried for what felt like hours. When the sobs stopped, I worried. It was as though someone else’s hand reached to open the bathroom door. I resisted, I knew what was on the other side. Pulling the door open I saw his feet first, pointing their toes to the sky. Then I saw the blood, my father’s blood. A scream erupted from my lips.
My eyes flung open at the sound. I don’t know how long I had been asleep, but I was suddenly determined to never sleep again. I hugged the bed, lying as still as I could while someone came in. She was trying to be quiet, maybe trying not to wake me, but I felt the air cool my face as she tip-toed by. “I thought I didn’t have a roommate.” If only I had been so lucky. But I had been told that by some fluke chance my roommate wouldn’t be coming to this session.
“That’s usually my bed.” Angela. Great, the girl who never dies is my roommate. How encouraging. She had said in group today that she’s tried to kill herself four times now. Why can’t she fucking die already. I bet she slammed the door on purpose; trying to wake me up and get back to her usual place in this hell. I didn’t want to risk closing my eyes again so I stared at the wall. I was pretending to go back to sleep when I noticed something interesting on that bumpy surface.
“Did you write this?” I looked at her sharply, snapping my hazel eyes forward to look into hers, but she looked down.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about.” She was a bad liar. Probably helped her parents find her when she was trying to off herself. Fucking parents.
Right there next to my head was scratched in tiny letters: Next time you kill yourself, make sure you die. I’ll make sure next time. “So I take it you aren’t leaving that bed?” The tone in her voice was nostalgic, like the fight for the bed was already just a memory.
“Nope, I’m pretty comfy here.” The writing on the wall was too encouraging to give up. It was assuring me that I could do a better job than her next time and actually die.
“So, why are you here?” She sounded genuinely interested, which is something I’m not used to hearing. The springs squeaked a painful melody as she jumped into her new bed.
“Fuck off.” Well, it had worked in the past to get people off my back. But I said it a little too reluctantly for it to be effective. Maybe it was the silence that ensued which made me roll over to look at her.
“Well that wasn’t too difficult. Now you are going to tell me what your story is. Why are you in here?” Fuck, this girl was weird. She had a wispy look to her, definitely what you would expect from a girl trying to off herself. Petite, pale, un-brushed hair, wearing whatever smock drew the least attention to the fact that she was a girl, but her eyes were the giveaway. There was just something hollow to them. Where most people’s eyes were a kaleidoscope of shades, hers were only brown. Flat brown. No depth of color at all. It was creepy. She set her mouth in a patent, impassive line and waited for me to speak. At the moment I wanted anything, but to have to look at her. I took a sudden interest in the ceiling.
“My boyfriend died.” I lied. It was much easier than telling the truth. My support, my comfort, my soul had left me for another girl. She didn’t speak. I thought I had made it obvious that I was done with my story. “Er, so why are you here?”
“My parents found me cutting myself in the bathroom.” Her eyes darted up from the floor for an instant, then back to the tile.
“Yeah, I forgot to lock the door too.” Very stupid mistake on my part. I made a mental note not to forget again.
“So why are you really here?” Damn. Was I going to have to tell her the truth? The thought of saying it out loud sickened me. The ceiling swam with little black dots which made me realize I had not been breathing. I pulled in a thick gasp of air before I could tell myself not to, maybe I could have held my breath until I passed out. Well, that breath did more harm than good in my opinion because it left enough air for truth to slip out.
“He didn’t die. He left me.” I thought about this for a moment and decided to clarify who I was talking about. “My boyfriend I mean. He’s a lying, cheating sonofabitch.” I glanced her way to catch a reaction, but there was none. She sat just a still as before, legs dangling from the side of the hospital bed frame like a rag doll. She was a rag doll, just a harmless play thing to which I was confessing. It made it a little easier to talk to an inanimate object. “I gave him my fucking virginity and he cheated on me.”
She giggled.
“Why the hell are you giggling at that?” I sat up in bed and turned to face her sarcastic smile. I was really more curious than I was angry, how could I get angry at someone so small and pathetic?
“It’s just the way you said fucking virginity. What other kind is there?” She smiled a little wider. I tried to give her a disapproving frown, but couldn’t quite make it genuine.
“Ok, well if you’re going to start laughing at my story at least give me a chance to laugh at yours.” I folded my arms to tell her I was done. I was glad for the excuse, I really don’t know what I was going to say next. My father took the easy way out of his problems, why couldn’t I? Or how about Everyone leaves me, so I wanted to leave first this time?
“I still haven’t found a reason to stay alive. Why should I continue to suffer, when there is an easier alternative?” Simple enough and also true. Why do we continue to live in the shithole world when we could just as easily be free of it? Then again, if it is so easy to leave, why am I still here?
“So why are you still here then, if there is such an easy alternative?”
“I think I sabotage myself. I don’t really want to die; I just want a reason to stay. I mean, I’ve failed twelve times now. That should say something about my drive.” Twelve times? Well, I guess her parents didn’t need to send her here after every attempt.
“Yeah, twelve times failed is a pretty bad record.” She smiled again, a real smile. It was different than her usual upturned line. Her head tilted upward just a little and her eyes gave a slight, for lack of a better word, twinkle.
“I don’t know, thirteen is my lucky number.” Hope looked strange on her face. It looked more like triumph, like she was glowing.
“Man, you really are fucked up.” There was a knock on the door. The frizzy haired counselor opened the door, flooding the room with light. I felt like I was being drowned in it, I shielded my eyes.
“I’m ready to see you for that talk.” She looked me right in the eyes, staring me down. I think she was expecting me to run out of the room screaming or something.
Just to prove her wrong, I got up and headed out the door without a second glance. “Later Angela.”
She had stopped in the doorway, halfway between the darkness of the room and the orange carpeted hallway. “How did you know Angela?” She tilted her head slightly to the right and the frizzy halo waved with it.
“She’s my fucking…” The word roommate didn’t come out of my mouth like I was expecting. Something about the way she said did sunk into my brain. I quickly glanced into the empty room before following my counselor down the hall.
