“It’s okay, Clara. I understand. You had school and work and life. You can’t put everything on hold because of your psycho baby brother.”
“You are
not
a psycho,” she berates. “If you
ever
say that again, I’ll be sure to give you something to be upset about.”
She might even mean that too. She became a bit of a legend in our old high school. When she was in her senior year of high school, she found her boyfriend (I can’t remember his name) had been cheating on her. Right in the middle of the hallway she walked up to him, and she punched him right in the face, making sure to spill blood. She ended up breaking his nose for the whole school to see. After that day, no one would ever mess with my dear, sweet sister again. She wasn’t even expelled. Just a few days’ suspension. That was what she got for being friends with all the teachers and the principal.
She mocks a punch, and I pretend to flinch, and the two of us break out into laughter; mine isn’t even faked. Clara has always been one of the few people to bring out the lightness in me. It’s like she can puncture all the darkness in me, to get to the goodness trapped underneath. I guess that makes me the damsel in distress trapped in the tower and my sister the knight in shining armor.
“So what is your word of the day?” she goes on to ask, apparently trying to change the subject.
“Beguile.”
“What does that one mean?” She has a small smile on her face. I think she already knows what it means.
“To be attracted to or mesmerized by something or someone.”
“I like that word. Beguile, it’s pretty.”
There is a small silence, and then Clara asks the other question I was waiting for. There are three questions she always asks me:
1. How are you?
2. Have you had any
dark days
recently?
And 3….
“So are there any guys in your life?”
Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner. What do I get for guessing the question she was going to ask next? Absolutely nothing.
“Nope.”
I decide not to tell her about Adam, because honestly what is there to tell? I met a cute guy with a stutter? I may or may not have accidentally stalked him? Yeah, there isn’t much to really say now, is there.
“I know you’re going to meet someone. I can feel it in my bones. You’re too good of a guy to not have that happen for you.”
At twenty-two, she still believes in fairy tales and happy endings. It’s why I love her. Sadly, my eyes have been opened to reality. I’m nineteen, and I still haven’t had a serious relationship—or even found a guy who somewhat cared about me. The closest I’ve ever gotten to having romance is by reading about it in a novel.
“This is real life, Clara, not a fairy tale.”
She sighs. “I know… but I still like to believe it happens.”
“Is there anyone you have your eye on?”
She just gives me a small smile. “No. I spend so much time studying that I kind of lose track of dating or having a social life. It’s a bit much. You know I’ve never been very good at juggling these two areas of life with one another. This past month I haven’t seen one friend at all because I’ve been in the library or my dorm room the entire time studying or working on my projects and essays. I just never have time for dating.”
That makes two lonely, loveless losers (I do love alliteration) in this family now. Clara kisses my forehead and says she is going to finish unpacking. I don’t know why she bothers. She’s only going to be home for a couple of days. I get up and head back to my room. With nothing to do, I grab a book off my nightstand and open it to where I left off. It’s a novel about a young man suffering from depression and is contemplating suicide. Most people like books to escape from life, and while I do love that, it’s nice to read a book I can relate to. I sometimes want a book about someone like me. It won’t let me escape, but it will show me that there are at least other people who know what I’m going through. The truth of the matter is that unless a person has depression, they don’t know what it is like to actually be depressed. So many people think it’s so easy to just get over it. My dad used to tell me “just take a deep breath, and stay calm,” as if that was the answer to all my problems. If that is the secret cure to depression, then everyone must be a fucking moron. I’m going to give you a hint; it’s not the cure we’re all looking for. My parents didn’t really take any of it seriously for the longest time. One would think that a perpetually depressed child would be a cause of alarm. Not to my parents. They just thought I was a very emotional child. Yeah, I’m emotional all right—emotionally unstable.
I put the book back on the nightstand. Sometimes reading just doesn’t stop my thoughts. If there were one thing I wish could end, it would be my never-ending thoughts. Sometimes they’re just torture. My own mind has this cruel idea that torturing me is fun. It’s waiting for the moment that something strikes and brings back the darkness. The medication does a good job of keeping the darkness away, but how long can it stay like that? Like any war—and I fight this war every day of my life—the enemy will find a way to get inside. It always waits for the right moment to strike, and when it happens, when this outside force gives my mind motivation, that is when my mind will attack. It will pull me back into the darkness, and if it happens again, I honestly have no idea if I will ever escape.
When I got away before, it was barely an escape. All I remember is taking a razor blade to my wrists. There was so much blood. It just kept spilling all over my arms and my clothes. It was all over the carpet and my bed. It had even gotten on my walls. It looked like a morbid painting. I became faint, and everything went to black. I was so ready to say good-bye to everything. I left behind the note, and I thought it was over. I was getting ready to never see light again.
When my eyes opened, I was surprised. At first I thought my ideas on atheism were wrong and there was a heaven after all. Then I saw the hospital. For a quick second, I thought,
Shit. I’m in hell
… but that was wrong too. It was worse. I was in a mental hospital. My wrists were bandaged up, and tubes were stuck into my pale flesh. I looked undernourished. The doctors told me I had passed out for two days. I lost a lot of blood. Mom and Dad came running into the room. Mom was crying. She apologized repeatedly and told me how she should have paid more attention to me. She felt it was her fault. That was the first time I felt guilty over what I did. I didn’t think of my family or anyone else. Clara took a short leave of absence from school to come see me. She hugged me close and told me she loved me. Like Mom, she said sorry for not being there for me. I told her the same thing I told our mother: it’s not their fault. I’m just an incredibly sad person.
Dad, on the other hand, took a more standoffish approach. He said it was good to see me awake, but he didn’t say he loved me. At first I saw anger in his eyes, but then I realized it wasn’t anger. It was disappointment. I had disappointed him, and that I will never forget. To this day, I still feel as if I’m just one big, embarrassing disappointment to my father. My mother has smothered me ever since. I love her, but she stopped letting me breathe, and my sister tried to act as normal as she could. Clara is too compassionate to truly look at me differently. She is so motherly that she became more of a second mother than a sister to me sometimes.
When the doctors discovered my other scars, they wanted to keep me in for testing and to get mental help. I ended up staying there for an arduous seven months. I stayed in a special ward for suicidal teens. I hate being in my own mind, so why would I want to be with other people like me? I’d much rather read about them than actually talk to them. They all seemed so despondent and far off. There was one guy; his name was Jake, and he was crazy. Every day he would show off his scars. He was covered in scars everywhere. They were on his legs, his arms, and his chest. They were even on his damn face. I think he was proud of his scars. It’s like he wanted to be there in the hospital. I had a theory that he was happy to be depressed in some fucked-up way. He was sent home before I was, and the last thing I heard about him, he’d found gasoline and matches. He’d set himself on fire. He apparently just couldn’t take being in his body anymore.
Tommy couldn’t bring himself to visit me. I think he was scared of me. When it comes to being scared, Tommy doesn’t like to admit it. He feels it makes him look pathetic. Alex visited me quite a few times. The hospital made him uncomfortable, but the days he came were sometimes fun. We would walk around the grounds outside or he would just bring new books for my stay there. He always had words of encouragement, telling me he knew I would be out soon. He always told me I wasn’t crazy and that I was strong and brave. I’m still not sure if I believe most of that. I’m neither strong nor brave. Those are just the things you’re supposed to say to a sick friend, and sick I was. I’m still sick. I might always be sick. The key is just to learn how to deal with my sickness and to stop those malicious voices that tell me all the negative things about myself or command me to do all the heinous acts to myself. I need to learn to finally mute the record, so to speak.
ADAM STILL
hasn’t come back to the bookshop. Every time the bell would ring I would find myself looking up at the door, but it was never Adam. It has now been a week since I last saw him on the swings that late autumn evening. I still haven’t told a soul about him or about our three bizarre encounters in one day. I haven’t been able to get his face out of my head, especially those icy blue eyes. They were so light and had a grayish hue to them. His eyes reminded me of the ocean during a storm. As I stand in the bookshop, I have the door in view, and I wish more than anything to see him walk through the door, so I can look into his magnificent eyes and drown in them once again.
It’s a slow day as usual, and hardly anyone comes through the door. Jill is working today at the cash register, and I’m working my way through the aisles just to make sure everything is where it should be. Roger is in today. He’s asleep on one of the chairs. Peter is too hungover to even realize that Roger is in here. Jill and I let Roger sleep, feeling sympathy for the man, who must be cold from the autumn nights. I really do hope he finds a warm place to sleep at night.
The jingle of the bell resonates through the quiet little shop, and my head instantly turns toward the door, feeling hopeful, my heart pounding and my mind praying to see his face. To my chagrin, I see that it isn’t Adam. Instead it’s a woman with gray hair and a body made mostly of fat rolls, and her “skinny as a rake but totally not anorexic”—or so she says—daughter coming in. The woman is Mrs. Rattree, pronounced the way it looks, Rat-Tree, and her daughter is Charlotte. Their eyes turn toward me, and I watch as they whisper to each other. I look away, trying to ignore them, but I can’t escape their staring eyes. I catch Mrs. Rattree staring down at my arms, and I look away from her prying eyes. I dig my fingernails in my skin, feeling itchy all over. Mrs. Rattree continues to stare, as does her bitch of a teenage daughter. And trust me, I know she’s a bitch; I graduated with her. I want to look away. I want to not care, but it doesn’t work that way. I wish for them to leave, but they don’t move. I just watch as their lips move, with their fake stage whispers, but I hear every word.
“Did you see his scars?”
“Yes, Mom. They’re disgusting.”
“How could such a young man destroy his body like that?”
“Who knows? I’d never do that to myself. It’d ruin my skin.”
“If you did that to yourself, I’d lock you up like him.”
I hear their low cruel chuckles, and I continue to scratch away at my arms, underneath their scrutinizing eyes. My body feels like it is on fire. I feel the heat rise to my cheeks, turning them bright red. I continue scratching, but I can’t get rid of the itch. I dig deeper, but the itch is still there. Their voices sound in my head like an alarm.
Disgusting.
Jill looks up, and I see the anger flare behind her dark brown eyes. Her slanted bright blue bangs fall into one of her eyes.
“Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Oh no, dear.” Mrs. Rattree sounds incredibly fake, with her faux politeness.
“Okay, then you can get the fuck out.”
Mrs. Rattree acts offended, and she shoos her daughter out of the store. Jill gives their retreating backs the middle fingers, both of her middle fingers. She turns back toward me, and all the anger leaves her body. I see the pity and the sympathy. I don’t know what is worse: the snide remarks or the pity. Both make me uneasy.
“Damn bitches. Are you okay, Jess?”
I simply nod, not able to find any words. Jill jumps over the counter in a swift dancer-like maneuver and stands in front of me. She takes my hands and pulls them apart to stop me from scratching. The heat in my body begins to die down, and I realize that my hands are trembling.
“Do you need to go home?”
I shake my head. What use will that do? I’m going to have to deal with people like this every day. This is what my life has come down to.
“Okay. Well, I’m here for you, okay?” She runs a hand through her wild, messy hair, which falls down to her chin.
I nod once again.
“Damn, Mrs. Rattree really lives up to her name. She’s a real rat.”
I know she is trying to make me laugh, but not even a smile forms on my face. I slowly walk away and continue my trek through the bookshop. I quietly fix all the overturned books and place anything out of order back where they need to be. Pain begins to shoot through my arms. I’ve left many long, thin scratches, some having drawn blood.
“Shit.”
I roll my sleeves down, and I try to ignore the pain throughout the rest of the day. Jill and I are alone in closing down the shop that night, and she offers me a ride home, but I decline. I need the fresh air. Walking home, the cold air helps cool down my arms, and I try to forget about today, but I just can’t.
Those stares. Those words. The laughter. It’s all too much. It could drive a person crazy.