Fictional short story.
Forgive the spelling and grammatical errors.
Typed in the dead of night.
This is my home. The tilted tombstones, broken headstones, the overgrown weeds, dead tress looming overhead. It is my home now. I chose to rest here and I chose to die. Don’t look so surprised. I’m sure everyone saw it coming. Everyone knew I wasn’t happy. Everyone knew I was different. I guess I should explain.
I was born into an abusive house. I have yet to call that building a home. The man called father was a drunk and began beating me at the age of six. Along with the beatings cams the verbal abuse. Fat, ugly, stupid, worthless, pathetic. Things a six year old shouldn’t be forced to hear. My mother never did a thing about it. Denied it all ever happened while I was alive. She probably still does. I’d have to say that she’s got a few screws missing, too. Hey, like mother, like daughter, eh? Good thing I never had children. They would be lunatics. Ha, it’s always good to be able to laugh at yourself. Anyway, so my parents were assholes. Dad beat me, mom ignored me. I suppose that’s where the trouble started.
I remember one time when I was twelve, my dad was drunk. It was probably six in the evening. I had gone into the kitchen to get something to eat and when I walked in, my dad was pouring himself another glass of wine. I waited by the counter for him to finish up and put the bottle back in the fridge. When he went back to his glass, I guess he stumbled and spilled some of his wine. You could hear the anger in his slurred voice as he dropped the eff-bomb on the house. He looked up at me and I immediately tensed up my body when I saw his eyes blood shot. I knew better than to run so I just looked down quickly and stood there, waiting for the impact of the blow because somehow, the spillage of wine on the floor was my fault. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor with pain shooting to my cheekbone. Then came a thud and a dull, throbbing pain in my ribs {no worries, no ribs were broken}
GET UP!
y.e.s.s.i.r.
GET UP, YOU PIECE OF SHIT!
y.e.s.s.i.r.
CLEAN THIS SHIT UP NOW!
y.e.s.s.i.r.
bam. pain.
Suck.it.up.don’t.let.him.see.you.cry.get.up.and.clean.it.up.
The results of wine spilling on the floor: a swollen, bruised cheekbone, bruised stomach and a bloody lip. But I didn’t let him see me cry. That bastard hadn’t seen me cry since eight and I wasn’t planning on breaking that cycle.
I never let him see me cry.
I had to have some way of covering the marks so noisy teachers wouldn’t butt in and make things worse. I took up all kinds of sports and picked fights with kids on the playground. Other than the fights, I was a good student, though. I made all A’s in elementary school and A’s and B’s in middle and high school. I guess I was trying to impress my parents. Make my dad notice me as something other than a punching bag and my mom recognize me as something other than a giant mistake. School was always tough for me, though. Not academically, mind you. I guess you could call me above average. No need in modesty now that I’m dead, huh? It was the social part. I was a really friendly kid, regardless of my reputation. I was kind of shy, though. Didn’t really know how to act around people. It always made me feel really uncomfortable, but I longed to have friends. So I pushed away the anxiety and made "friends". I think only two were real. I was automatically put into the different crowd in middle school. There were only three groups back in those days, though: prep, geek, or different. I was a rebel, a leader in middle school. I went out of my way to stir up trouble in middle school. Most teachers hated me, most the students were scared of me and my group loved me. High school was different, though. I was still stuck in the different ground, now known as "gothic" {although I was far from it}, but most people accepted me and were nice. But back to middle school. Something very important took place in that time.
Him.
He was a god. Everyone wanted him, and strangely, he wanted me. He was in ninth, me in eighth. Why was he even talking to me? He had spoken to me when he was in eighth, but I thought it was out of pity or something. We started talking, though. And he was amazing. His eyes looked right through you. They were ice blue and absolutely beautiful. He was the epitome of tall, dark and handsome. He was charming, funny, sweet. He was almost too perfect. After five months, I found out how far from perfect he was.
It was a beautiful summer day. I was over at his house, which was right by the lake. The sun was high and made the lake sparkle brightly. The air was warm, not too hot, not too cool, it was perfect. It felt like nothing could go wrong.
We were in his room, watching t.v. after being out on the boat for a couple of hours. His dad was at work and his mom had gone to the neighbor’s to get something for dinner that evening. I was on one side of the bed; he was on the other. After us lying there for about ten minutes, I felt movement. I looked up and saw him scooting over to me, his ice blue eyes looking strange. He crawled on top of me and kissed my softly; his weight seemed heavier than usual. His kissing got harder and he had gripped my wrists, not tight but tight enough to keep them down. He took one hand away and tried to put it up my shirt, but I gently pushed it away. He grabbed my wrist again, only this time harder and held them both with one hand {I had tiny wrists, he has big hands} He began tugging at the button on my jeans and I felt it snap open. I tried to free my hands but his grip was too tight on my wrists. He got the zipper down and started pulling at my jeans. I kept telling him
No
No
No
But he wouldn’t listen. He got my pants down to my thighs but I was moving too much for him to get them down anymore. He let go of my hands and pulled my pants the rest of the way down. I sat up and tried to get up but he slapped me and told me if I didn’t shut up and lay back down, he would beat me worse than my father ever had. {He was one of the three who knew} His slap knocked me back and I was too scared to try anything else. He pulled my pants off, along with my underwear while I laid on his bed, silently cry.
No
No
No
Please.stop.please.don’t.please.PLEASE!!
The pain was like nothing I had ever experienced. After he was done, he laid there on top of me and stared at me, almost looking guilty, but I knew he wasn’t. He wiped away my tears and tried to kiss me but I jerked away. He stopped. The look in his eyes flashed to anger.
"Get up and clean yourself up before my mom gets home."
I gathered my pants and underwear and walked to the bathroom, which thankfully, was right by his room. I closed the door and my knees just gave out on me. I slid down the door and curled my knees to my closet and cried. My sobs were silent, except for the gasps for breath, which sounded like hiccups. I heard his mom drive up and knew she would ask questions if I stayed in there much longer so I forced myself to get up and wash my face, put my pants back on and tried to "fix" myself back up. I looked in the mirror and I hated myself. What had just happened was my fault. Somehow I made him do that, somehow it was just like my father’s beatings being my fault. I looked at my red face and I wanted to break it.
I went back in his room to find him and his mother talking. She looked at me when I came in and knotted her eyebrows in thought.
"Are you ok, sugar?"
I couldn’t speak so I nodded yes. If I had opened my mouth, it would have all spilled out and that would have equaled disaster. I walked past her and sat on the edge of his bed. He leaned over, kissed my forehead and squeezed my arm gently as to say "Good job". I forced a smile and he said to his mother,
"See? She’s just fine. Why would anything be wrong?"
I was screaming on the inside, telling her everything, begging her to help me. She looked at me, then to him, then back to me and she knotted her eyebrows again, as if trying to figure out what I was thinking. After looking at me for a moment more, she nodded and walked out of the room, saying,
"Dinner’ll be ready in about 30 minutes."’
We sat in silence the rest of the time. When dinner was ready, I ate about three bites before feeling like I was going to throw up. About an hour later, they took me home. He walked me to my door, gently kissed me and told me that he loved me. I wanted to throw up. But nothing happened. I was young and stupid and I didn’t leave him. We stayed together for about another month then he went on a trip with his friend, called me the next day and broke up with me. I laid in bed for a week, crying and sleeping. I hardly ate and when someone tried talking to me, I turned over and ignored them. Then I got slapped into therapy.
A lot of secrets came out during therapy. During middle school, I had become really depressed for virtually no reason. I began cutting myself and I used to take pills like candy. I didn’t care about anything. I started battling with anorexia and bulimia. My therapist didn’t know about the rape or the pills or ana and mia. I didn’t need to talk about those. I could handle it on my own. I stopped the pills in seventh grade but things didn’t really improve. My therapist recommended I go to a psychologist and be put on anti-depressants. With some fight from my mother, I ended up going to one. She diagnosed me with social anxiety.
[explains the feelings at school]
Mild Obsessive Compulsive
[explains why my room had to be spotless before I could sleep]
and finally manic depression
[explains the extreme mood swings]
They put me on Prozac.
{surprise, surprise. They hand that out like candy}
They bumped my dosage up almost every time we met.
Suddenly.
I.
Was.
Numb.
Nothing mattered.
I couldn’t feel anything. I was completely dead to the world. The colours turned grey. I wanted to die more than ever. I would have rather had the pain than be numb and dull.
So one night.
I took apart another razor.
I laid it down on my desk.
I went to the kitchen.
And got some of my father’s alcohol.
Then took all the pills bottles I could find.
I went back to my room.
And began my dead journey.
I took the pills one by one.
Downing each with the beer and vodka.
By the time I was done.
I had 278 pills in me.
And a twelve pack of beer with vodka on the side.
My vision was blurred.
But I got to the razor.
And began cutting.
One line for every time my father beat me.
One line for every name I’d ever been called.
One line for every time he thrusted in me.
One line for every lie I’d been told.
One line for every lie I believed.
One line for every time they pumped me with more Prozac.
One line.
One line.
One line.
One line…
I laid back in my floor. My ceiling fan was spinning fast but every rotation; it got slower until it was barely moving at all. I closed my eyes and waited for the darkness to come.
The clock flashed
3:27am
3:27am
3:28am
I looked around my room from where I was on the floor. I hadn’t moved. I sat up but instantly laid back down; my head was throbbing. I hadn’t realized it until I tried sitting up. I guess I was still encased with sleep. My wrist was tingling. It felt like I had like I had laid on it and make it fall asleep, but I hadn’t moved from my laying position. I raised my arm to look at the damage of
One line
One line
One line
the razor. It didn’t look real. A drop of blood dripped on my face; it was still warm. My wrist looked like something out of a slice and dice movie. It was like a miniature person had gone ice-skating on my wrists.
::diagonal::
::vertical::
::horizontal::
My wrist slightly resembled butchered meat. I sat up and pushed away the dizzy feeling. There was a little bit of blood on the carpet but nothing too drastic. Most of it had bubbled up on my arm. I slowly got up and went to my desk where I had ace bandages [I had bad ankles] I bit my lip wiping away the blood with some cotton balls dipped in peroxide because there was a line of pain that went up my arm that stung like there was poison in my veins. I wrapped my wrist up with the ace bandage slowly and tucked it underneath the wrap to secure it. I then laid down on my bed and cried. I now was a complete failure. If I couldn’t even succeed in killing myself, what could I do? I hated myself more than I thought possible as I laid in my bed. I thought to myself, "I really am pathetic. Everyone was right.’
After my funeral, they cleaned out my room. When they cleaned my carpet, the blood from that night was the only stain that refused to come up.
It gets really cold sometimes. You’d think that wouldn’t happen seeing as I don’t have any skin or nerve endings to feel. It gets lonely as ell. Sometimes I visit people I knew when I was alive. To check on them, ya know, see how they’re doing. There are times when I almost regret killing myself but I know deep down,
it was for the best.
High School.
Whoever said it was the best years of your life needs to be punched. High school was a breeding ground for idiots. The popular kids who ruled the school had a combined IQ of about 50. Football players slid by in classes because they could throw and catch a ball. Cheerleaders got by cheering the football team to victory and then sleeping with them. Touchdown.
Ninth grade:
I didn’t feel small and helpless and no one tried to stuff me in a trash can or sell me an elevator pass and swimming pool pass. [two things we don’t have at the school but a senior trick for silly freshman] I knew my way around and no one really messed with me. I guess it was because I had upper classmen friends who were well-known. Ninth grade was virtually easy.
Ninth grade:
was when I met him. He was sitting at a table by himself at lunch on his first day. My best friend and I were waiting in the lunch line and something about him intrigued me. But I didn’t say anything that day. I kept walking but I took in all I could about him.
The next day when I came into the lunch room, he was sitting at my table. I sat down beside him in the chair I always sat in and said ‘hello’ barely audible. He made me feel shy, which was strange because I had pretty much gotten over being shy. We started talking and about a week later, we exchanged numbers. We started talking everyday and soon, I was really falling for this guy. A couple weeks later, we started dating.
I was scared, though. He was the first serious relationship I had gotten in to since him. I was terrified of him hurting me like he had hurt me.
Before I knew it, we hit one year. My longest relationship. Ever. I was happy for once. He made me happy. And it was amazing. I didn’t want to lose that feeling. So there I was with yet another fear. A fear of losing him (did you know there is a fear of ugliness? Its called cacophobia. Sorry. I had a lot of free time when I was alive.) But I tried not to think about it.
Then we had our first big fight.
You came over.
We fought.
I cried.
We made up.
We talked.
I cried again.
You wiped my tears away.
You told me you loved me.
I believe you.
I promise I believe you
You held me.
I wanted to cry again.
But I didn’t.
I looked in your eyes.
& I told you that I would always be yours.
That’s a promise.
Things are awkward between us now.
Quiet and weird.
I hate it.
Because I love you.
& because I want things to be good again.
I’m sorry.
I’m sorry that I fucked up.
I’ll take all the blame.
Because the blame is all mine.
If I could.
I would take everything back.
I would make things better again.
I would make things perfect again.
We’ve been through so much.
Too much to leave.
I wanted to tell you.
That you would be.
The man I thought about.
At my wedding.
& if the man at my wedding.
Wasn’t you.
Then I didn’t want anything.
I only want you.
Because I love you.
& I’m sorry again.
For everything.
& I want you to know.
That I only want you to be happy.
I don’t want to fight anymore.
I don’t want us to be anything less than wonderful.
I’ll say anything.
I’ll do anything.
I’ll try anything.
Whatever it takes to make things better.
Whatever it takes.
We broke up for a week. I lost ten pounds. I cried at the drop of a hat. I was dead again. He had given me back my life. We still talked everyday but it wasn’t the same.
He came over a week later and we hung out just like we used to; just like nothing was wrong. I held back so much. But at the end of the night, it all came out.
I walked him to his car.
(right behind mine)
He held my hand.
(I held on tight)
We stood beside his car.
(underneath the moon and stars)
He kissed my forehead and whispered.
(I love you, baby)
And it all came flooding out.
Your headlights lit up the driveway, brightly shining on the fluorescent orange tiger lilies. They seemed to lean in towards us, wondering what we were saying. Both of us were leaning up against your car, watching the lightning in the only cloud in the sky. I’d never seen the sky look that beautiful and it was almost as if the heavens placed it there for us to enjoy. With your arm placed around my incredible shrinking body, I felt beautiful for the first time in quite awhile. You were playing with my long, Cherokee hair, as you seem so fond in calling it, while yours was tightly secured under your hat. The wind was blowing it around your face while you intertwined it in your fingers. I couldn’t help but smile through my tears as we stood there, me in my pajama pants and flowing spaghetti strap shirt and you in your blue jean shorts and old white shirt. You told me that you needed to get going and went to give me a hug. I wrapped my arms around your body and held on tightly. I think it was an attempt of never letting go. Tonight was amazing and I didn’t want it to end. You’ve been gone for almost two hours and it still hasn’t ended for me. I can still feel you here beside me and I can still feel your arms around me and I can still feel your kisses and I can still smell you lingering in the air and I can still see the way you looked standing there in the moonlight and I can still see how the TV hit your face just right, giving it an eerie yet stunning glow and I can still hear you whispering in the still night ‘I love you…’ I can still…
Things were good again. I was alive again. He was back in my life and so was happiness. The months went by quickly again, the days running together. Yea, we still fought, but everyone fights. That’s just a part of life.
It’s strange. My arm, or whatever is in the place of my arm, sometimes shakes and tingles. It did it when I was alive, but now that I’m dead, it shouldn’t do that, should it? But it does. It started after the night I tried killing myself for the first time. What I’m guessing is I hit a nerve or messed a vein up because the tingling I feel now was just a complete lack of feeling when I was alive; no tingles, just numbness. My left hand used to shake slightly and it used to be pretty irritating but I got used to it. Now that I’m dead, I hardly notice it. It’s just something that happens now. It’s been going on for too long to even notice.
I was getting better. I had stopped the pills and cutting in middle school, although I had the occasional slip up with cutting, and I started getting better with ana and mia during ninth grade. I struggled with those until I died, though. But I was young when I died so I probably would have overcome both of them in time. I hardly ever thought about him and my parents didn’t know about what happened so they couldn’t’ve bothered me about it. I took myself off Prozac and it didn’t really do much. I had learned to block out most of the episodes. Things were going well but it was almost like the calm before a storm.
Twelfth grade:
My senior year. Tenth grade and eleventh grade seemed to fly by and I was surprised to find myself in my last year of high school. The boy and I were still together, although he graduated the year before and was in the Navy. We were still fine, although we didn’t get to see each other much. I had been accepted into Wafford College for criminal law and I was on my way out of that dinky town. My parents had been leaving me alone and other than a few depression episodes, I was holding up ok. Then all hell broke loose.
The boy got shipped out to some middle eastern shit hole. The father got laid off and was drunk 24/7 and more violent than ever. The mother began verbally abusing me again. My grades were slipping because all I could think about was the boy half way across the world, when my father was going to start beating me again, and what other creative combination my mother could come up with to make me feel like shit.
My final day:
My alarm went screaming at 6:30am, like usual. I rolled over and fell out of bed…like usual. Still swimming in sleep, I walked over to my stereo and turned on Radiohead. ‘I’m better off dead, I’m better off dead.’ I didn’t know how ironic that was at the time, but if I had known, I’m sure I would have gotten a laugh out of it. I got dressed in my jeans and the first shirt I pulled out of my closet, pulled my hair up into a bun and stepped outside to see the early morning frost. The dawn was ashy like the end of a cigarette and there was danger in the air. I knew something bad was going to happen that day. I walked back into the house, finished my morning rituals and drove to school.
Nothing happened during first period. The class was boring and long and I took a nap. Nothing happened during second period. I took four pages of notes then continued my notes. Nothing happened during third period. Again, I continued my nap, although it was broken up with lunch and fifty math problems along with a lecture about sleeping in class all the time. Fourth period, the last class of the day, came and by that time, I was anxious for whatever was to happen, to happen. And so it did.
Half way through fourth period, the intercom buzzed and called me to the front office and to bring all of my stuff. Reluctantly, I gathered my books and walked to the office, only to see my mother when I got there. She had a grim look on her face and only told me that I was to follow her home.
When I arrived at my house, there was a car I didn’t recognize sitting in my driveway. I left my books in my car and hurried inside. My heart was in my throat and I was shaking. I walked into the living room and was met by the boy’s parents. His mother’s face was blotchy and her eyes were blood shot. His father was pale. I stopped in my tracks. I shook my head ‘no’ and tried to say something but nothing would come out. His father looked at me with pity in his eyes and said,
"He was killed…He’s dead."
and it all went black.
I woke up in my bed and I was immediately hit with the news again. My mother was standing beside me, looking down on me. As I laid there, it felt like my body was shutting down on me. It felt like my lungs had forgotten how to work properly and it seemed like I was drowning. My mother offered no words of comfort and sympathy. All she said was I better not be in bed when my father got home. Apparently he was having a bad day. But I didn’t care. I planned on sleeping until the pain went away, which in my world would be never. So I slept. And while I was sleeping, I cried. I woke up often and I kept telling myself that it was all just a bad dream.
It isn’t real.
It isn’t real.
It’s all just a bad dream.
He’ll come back to me.
He promised.
He’ll come back.
My father came home after spending a day out with some friends, drinking of course. He was drunk, but not as bad as I had thought. But drunk enough to be not all there. I was still laying in bed when he came home and that struck a nerve with him. He stormed into my room in a drunken rage and began screaming at me. Normally, I would have just gotten up but I didn’t care anymore. So I just rolled over and tried to block out his screaming. But that was a mistake. I soon found myself on the floor with a foot in my ribs. It hurt like hell and I screamed but I didn’t move. I was numb. He could do his worst but I didn’t care. So I laid in the floor and took the worst beating of my life. I guess it wasn’t as fun for him with me just laying there and not fighting back because after about ten minutes, he just stopped and walked out. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kill him. But I wanted to kill myself more.
Getting up was rather difficult and painful and by the time I was up, I was gasping for breath and I had broke out in a sweat. But I refused to stop before I was done. I grabbed the keys to my car and struggled to walk to the door. I stepped outside and noticed the sun had painted the horizon blood red.
** I struggled to walk to my car because the pain in my ribs was excruciating but I made it to my car, turned it on and thought about my next move. I backed up then stopped. I put my car in drive and floored the gas. My tires spun in place for a moment then I felt the impact of the front of my car hitting the back end of my father’s ’64 Mustang; his pride and joy. The blow sent pain shooting all through my body and I cried out in pain but it felt good seeing the back of my father’s car totaled. I continued backing out of the driveway and began driving.
Dusk was setting in and my headlights painted the road in front of me. I didn’t exactly know where I was going but at that time, I didn’t care. I knew that when I got there, I would know. Trees melted together as I drive on and on. Cars began to dwindle from existence as I drove onward down the old, country roads. The air in the car got hot and seemed to drop on my face. I rolled the window down and was stung with a blast of cold air. It hit my upper lip, swollen and cut open and made it feel like it was on the brink of shattering. I continued driving.
And then I was there.
I had drive into the city somehow. After two hours of old, back roads, I had ended up in the city. And before me stood the most beautiful building I had ever seen. Thirty-two stories high, slate grey, hauntingly beautiful gargoyles spying on the city, tall, black windows sporadically lit up. It was gorgeous. I knew it the one.
It was only 9:17 pm so everything was still open. I carefully parallel parked in front of the building and got out. It was difficult to walk but most of the pain had gone. Every now and then, I got a sharp pain in my ribs but I brushed it aside. I’m sure I looked like hell because I kept getting bug-eyed stares. I walked to the nearest store and walking in, the florescent lights hurt my eyes. The lady behind the counter paid no attention to me so I stole a coke and walked back out. A guy outside the store was smoking and I bummed one off him. I coughed when I inhaled and felt the nicotine running through my body, blackening my lungs. The guy chuckled at me and said,
"Ya know, you’d be pretty cute without those bruises on your face."
I inhaled again, blew smoke in his face, and said,
"Ya know, you’d be cute after having plastic surgery,"
and started walking to my building.
I rode the elevator up thirty-two floors and it was all very surreal. Only four people got on and off: an elderly man who smelled like cabbage, a lady who looked like she was about to drop any minute with a baby cradled in her arms, and a man, probably in his late twenties, early thirties, with torn jeans and an old TooL teeshirt. He was the last one to get off, save myself.
"You win?"
He was talking to me.
"Pardon?"
"The fight. Did you win?"
"…Yea. I’m about to win…"
He looked at me a little funny but nodded and accepted the answer. He got off a floor below my stop.
"Take care of yourself,"
he said, exiting the elevator. I only nodded.
The elevator bell dinged and the doors opened to level thirty-two. My legs weren’t working that well and I almost stumbled getting off but I caught myself and scraped my arm on the door. Right beside the elevator were the stairs leading to the roof. Walking up the stairs, time seemed to slow down and the stairs seemed to stretch forever, but finally, after reaching the door and opening it, a wave of crisp air hit my face and the skyline greeted me, blurred around the edges like it was raining. I walked over to the edge slowly and a few pidegons flew off when I came near. Vertigo hit when I stepped up on the ledge and looked down on the city. The guy I bummed a cigarette from was still standing by the store, talking to some girl with hot shorts and a halter top {I remember hoping he got an STD for some reason} The wind was picking up speed and the sky looked like it might break open in a storm any minute. I closed my eyes and let the wind wrap around my broken body. I felt like a baby bird who was about to fly for the first time. I looked up at the sky, watched the stars blink for a moment and then
I took flight.
My mind rushed a million thoughts per second.
My entire life flashed in my head.
The wind wrapped my body and stole my soul-
Protecting it.
It took my breath away.
My lungs screamed for air.
But I was in no pain.
I was finally flying.
I had finally been given my wings.
And then it all went black.
They said I resembled a fallen angel, but the bruises on my face took away from it. The fall broke both my legs, my right collarbone and right arm, my neck and split my skull, but it wasn’t a gruesome scene. There was a trickle of blood from my mouth and, of course, blood from my split skull but my limbs weren’t contorted and they said it looked like I was asleep.
I was cremated and my ashes were taken home by my best friend. He got together with my other close friends, built a tiny boat-like device, put the urn containing my ashes on it and put it in the ocean to be taken away by the waves. They did it at sunset and it was breathtaking. The water was calm and the air was cool. The sky was a mixture of crimson red, royal purple, amber, and golden yellow. The sun was shooting rays through the clouds. They waited until the sun was barely peeking above the horizon and my urn had disappeared into the sun.
I’ll never forget the only time I ever flew. It was amazing. It had to have been better than anything imaginable. Sex, drugs, anything. It took me to another plane. One without any pain or suffering. One where I finally felt beautiful and happy. The bruises were gone, the bloody lip and black eye were gone, the two broken ribs were gone. It was beautiful. I was free.
