Inhale, Exhale

by Matthews, C. L.

  With that in mind, my pen connects with the paper again but this time with purpose. I list my reasons—my kids, my husband, Tobe, Ellie, and my dad. Even Nate. But with these reasons come the negatives. They’d be better without me. They would live on. They would prosper. They don’t need me. They don’t need the pain I offer. They don’t need this.

  They don’t need me.

  I write and write and write until my wrist hurts. I write until the paper is smudged and sodden with my misery. I write until I can no longer see past my tears. I write until it no longer hurts. I write until the only thing that’s left is resolve, until there is only absolution.

  Until there’s nothing left.

  As I wipe my eyes, I drag the pen across the page. I slice at it as if it hurts me to see. I jab as I imagine it’s my heart. I attack as I memorize the empty reasons to stay.

  They are selfish.

  They are worthless.

  They are lies.

  With the notebook in hand, I haul it with me to my bedroom. The paper is warped from all the careless markings I’ve carved it with. It’s disgusting with my tears and sorrow trapped on the pages. It’s defiled with my worthless self-loathing

  As soon as I’m in my bedroom, I rip the words out. I shred them with my hands, tearing until my hands are red from the force. My gaze scans the mess I’ve made, but I shake it off. Soon, it won’t matter. Soon, it will mean nothing.

  I reach for the hem of my shirt, wanting to tear it off and be done. My fingers grab and stretch at the material. They grasp for what’s left of me, yet they can’t find it. They tangle with the material and battle the stitching. When it’s finally off me, I tear at my hair, ripping it from the sloppy mess of a bun I’ve had for days. Next, I go for my loungers, stripping myself of what little coverage I have left.

  In only my bra and underwear, I stalk the cabinet for Jase’s pain meds. Before we lost everyone, he broke his ankle trying to teach Jaz to ice skate. He refused to take the pills for the sake of addiction. Not his but his stepfather’s. They were what led him down a dark path, just like my brother. It only takes six days to be codependent.

  After pilfering the bottles to find whatever I could, I press down on the childproof lid, twisting to my demise.

  The little white pills gawk at me as surely as I do them. They’re bleak and colorless. Like me. They’re my poison, my savior, my salvation in oval form. They’ll fix everything.

  My kids will be better off.

  My husband will be better off.

  They will all be better off.

  Running the water to the bath, I make sure it’s warm, make sure it’s comfortable and peaceful and everything I don’t deserve. I run the tap until it’s hot to the touch then plug the tub to fill. My eyes scan the room, realizing there could be so many worse ways to go.

  The water fills slowly, too slowly.

  Hurrying to the kitchen, I dig under the sink for the tile scraping razor. As soon as the shiny silver flashes in my mind, peace consumes me. Reaching up to the cup cabinet, I grab one, filling it with lukewarm water in the next moment. With a razor in one hand and the pills and cup of water in the other, my mind’s made up.

  All the pills I’ve cradled in my palm feel heavier with each step back to my bathroom. The tub is nearly half full, and that’s when I swallow them. I take half in the first gulp and the second in the next. The tub is nearly three-quarters full at this point. That’s when I turn the knobs and get in. The water heats my flesh, causing goosebumps to trail my body. Shivering, I try to relax. It’s not too hot or too cool. It’s the perfect blend, one I’ve found myself sleeping in from time to time.

  I sink back, resting my neck on the lip of the tub as the water warms me from the outside in. I remove the razor from its safety confines and take it to my skin. The pills absorb into me, too. I can slowly feel the high, the tiredness, the slowing of time.

  And then, I close my eyes.

  Part III

  Breathe.

  You live through this notion that, as a man, you can’t show pain, fear, sadness, or fealty. That that in itself is weakness. They were wrong. Don’t believe them when they say it’s feeble-minded. It’s not. It’s strength under the bravado of manliness. It gives you power, showing you that even if you break, overcoming that brokenness will heal you.

  I grew up learning that being a man was how strong you were, how many chicks you bagged, and how much money was in your wallet.

  It took me too long to realize the wrongness of those idealisms, and by the time I knew, it was too late.

  - Jase

  chapter thirty-four

  Past

  Funeral

  Jase

  Bitter. Resentful. Angry.

  Bitter that Lilac’s gone.

  Resentful that Lo’s not here to share this burden with me.

  Angry that the world decided to take her. Her, my baby girl.

  Did I do something wrong? Is it my fault? Did I not work hard enough, love enough, provide enough?

  These emotions flow through me as I stand above her tiny casket in the same little cemetery Lo’s mom was buried. The ground is muddy. It rained all day, even up until her service. So many people showed up, everyone but my wife. The man speaks about what a life Lilac would have had, that God took her home for a reason, that her life had meaning, one I can’t see or accept yet, but I can’t believe that. If I do, it’ll make me resentful of a God I’ve admired my entire life. It’ll make me a bitter mess with blame and guilt and regret.

  The priest talks as I watch her casket lower, but his words are a blur. Everything is a blur. It’s unreal. Her final bed is oak-encrusted with metal lilacs and vines. The plants seem to hug her, twining around her like a beautiful barbed safety-net, keeping her protected since I won’t be able to.

  Since I failed to.

  Did you know they made caskets for children that are stillborn or die at such a young age? They do. They’re tiny little things, just like our babies that are taken. Hers is a rich pine color like her tiny, barely-there little curls, the color a genetic trait she inherited from me. Perfection.

  When she came out not screaming, I knew. My gut and heart sank as the awareness hit. It furrowed deep, letting me know she was too good for this fucked-up world, too good for me. She shouldn’t have been taken from us. As Lo cried, begging for me to save Lilac, to bring her back life, to make her cry, I broke. I broke when Lo wailed as the doctor explained what happened. I broke listening to her high-pitched screams when they had to take our daughter away, but mostly, I broke from the way all the life inside my wife died with each of the doctor’s steps as he walked away with our baby.

  In her eyes, a dimness took over. All the happiness and love she always carted around dissipated in those moments. It was too much on her. Her mom. Our daughter. The funerals she isn’t attending. All of the pain and loss and stress. She isn’t supposed to carry all that weight. No one is meant to hold so much agony, yet she does. She’s completely shut off her emotions, almost numbing herself, as if a doctor injected morphine into her veins and heart and mind.

  My wife, my soul mate, the woman I’m going to spend the rest of my life with—she died. Yes, her heart beats. Yes, she still walks and breathes, but she doesn’t talk. She doesn’t eat unless I force it down her throat. And she definitely doesn’t leave our bedroom.

  To the world, she’s dead. She doesn’t do normal humanly things. You can have an entire conversation with her, but her eyes have this distant, nonexistent look. It’s like her brain no longer works. I’ve tried convincing her to go to counseling, to get help, something, any-fucking-thing to get her help. She refuses. Or, rather, she doesn’t respond. Her face doesn’t even register she’s heard me.

  I’ve lost her.

  Maybe it was the night she got the news of Anise. Maybe it was waking up covered in blood. I don’t know the exact moment. I just know she’s gone. And I don’t know how to get her back.

  How long have you gone witho
ut talking to the one you love? How about when you’re in the same room?

  Have you ever sat in the same house—same bed, perhaps—and not say a single thing? Not that you’re technically fighting. There’s just nothing to say, nothing to pass the time. Just silence.

  That’s the insanity between us.

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  Repeat.

  Is there a reset button? A button to undo where it went wrong, whenever that moment in time was, to fix everything? The moment before my daughter no longer existed, the moment before Anise died, something to start over and repair and change it all?

  They say with great change comes beauty. There’s no beauty here. That’s the biggest goddamn lie ever told.

  The ceremony is short. My baby girl’s forever home is lowered into the earth as I stand helpless to fix this. It’s so irrevocable, finalizing the separation between us. My eyes burn with the need to cry, but as I carry Jazzy and hold Ace’s shoulders, I won’t allow it.

  Be strong for them.

  Their mom can’t be strong. She can’t be anything right now.

  Until they’re asleep and Lo is surrendering to the confines of her mind, I won’t shed a tear.

  chapter thirty-five

  Past

  High School

  Jase

  It’ll be the same tonight as it always is.

  Punch. Kick. Jab. Kick again.

  Nothing is as bad as his words, though. The scars he leaves will heal. The pain he inflicts on my flesh will disappear. The bones he breaks will fix themselves eventually.

  It’s the words that stay.

  It’s the harsh belittling that lingers around me like a stale cigarette.

  It’s the rampant slurs on repeat that eat away at my sanity.

  He knows this, yet he continues. I wish he’d just keep beating me, letting his anger flow through his fists instead of through his venomous tongue. It whips harder than his belts. It stings worse than his hangers, and it damages far worse than any brutality he’d offer.

  “Such a waste. I don’t know why I let her keep you!” he roars, spit leaving his mouth from the aggression.

  His knee connects with my gut, making me keel over from the force. My knees hit the ground, sending pain up my thighs as I hold my stomach in protest. The booze on his breath seeps with his perfidious expressions, making me even more nauseous. Tonight will be much worse than expected. When he’s drowning in his own crutch, it’s more brutal. He’s fucking ruthless.

  “We should have given you up, but no, that whore wanted to keep you, so I let her. And look at you, wasting your life on a career you won’t continue with... on a life I pay for!”

  His foot connects with my abdomen and my ribs. The crack I feel takes my breath away. He pulls back, his disgust for me always apparent. The lingering saliva on his lips is wiped before he proceeds to spit on me. A small vile smirk tilts at the corner of his mouth as he raises his fists to me once again.

  When his ring hits my cheekbone, it takes everything in me not to cry out. The metal feels worse than his knuckles, making the skin rip, and I know it’ll be bleeding soon.

  “God, what I’d do to have never dipped my dick into that bitch!”

  Instead of allowing him to talk shit about my mom, I use everything I have to get up and launch at him. It’s futile really, but he wasn’t expecting me to fight back. It’s obvious in his lack of preparation as my fists collide with his face.

  “You never deserved her! You’ve ruined everything! Instead of being a father, you’re an entitled prick that wets his dick whenever and with whoever!” I keep hitting until I’m yanked back. “You did this! You!” I bark as tears stream down my face. He can call me what he wants, tear me down, beat the fuck out of me, but not her. He can’t keep hurting her. Brant’s still form is unconscious, he won’t be hurting me anymore tonight.

  When I peer back, I see my mom’s eyes glossed over. “Jason, baby. What have you done?”

  She comes closer to me, her gaze scanning my body, connecting with my face. Her hands roam over me, her eyes barely containing tears. I flinch when she touches my lip and back up a little. Usually, Brant avoids my face. Can’t have the quarterback of a State Champ team with facial bruises, but this time, he drank a little too much, spewed his shit too much, and hit wherever he desired.

  “He kept calling you names. I couldn’t have it, Mom. I couldn’t.” My chest rises and falls quickly, the heaving breaths putting too much pressure on my ribs that are sure to be cracked, if not completely broken. “I couldn’t let him degrade you like that,” I add, my heart aching more for her than all the pain surrounding it.

  “Jason,” she coos, her eyes filled to the brim with horror, as if she didn’t know he hit me, that she didn’t know it wasn’t just her he put his hands on.

  She seems to be experiencing too much emotion because she just kneels down and holds me, making the pain intensify while Brant snores nearby. Good, he’s alive. I still have a chance at a future.

  She cries, her whimpers hurting me more than the sores on my body. Her pain is the worst thing to experience. She didn’t ask for this. She deserves better.

  “You need to leave him, Ma. We can’t do this anymore.”

  “I know,” she barely whispers, her hand making circles into my back. “I know.”

  She takes me to the doctor. Two cracked ribs and eight stitches later, I’m at Denny’s house. He’s a running back and also a good friend. Ma told me not to tell Toby, that she’d make plans for us to leave, that we’d be okay.

  But it didn’t happen.

  TWELVE WEEKS PASSED, and we are still here. He still beats me, and she still tells me she’s sorry. She drinks now, drowns herself in booze and pills—whatever blocks out the sounds of my bellows.

  Tonight, though, when I fought back, he hit me worse. My eyes are black, and my stomach is hollow. Once again, I’m on my way to Denny’s.

  We’re supposed to go to the drive-in to see some Stephen King remake. I’m not there for anything other than a distraction—well, that and booze.

  As soon as I get to Denny’s, he hollers at me to help him pack the cooler with drinks and the truck bed with a couch. The other guys from the team are here, and Toby is supposed to be here, too. No matter how hard I try to not resent my brother for his father, I do. He is nearly a spitting image of him. He barely got any of Mom’s attributes. It kills me, seeing him, hating him, knowing it isn’t his fault.

  Tonight, he’ll be here, thinking he’s cool shit with an easy life, but life isn’t fucking easy. It’s a lie, the biggest and non-whitest lie ever.

  “You know, those freshman will be at this drive-in?” Denny muses, his eyes alight with joy.

  Besides him, I see Francis. His lips tilt to smile at me, almost nodding in a way to say hey, what’s up? and I return the gesture.

  “Not really interested in jail-bait, bro,” I say.

  They all laugh, some agreeing while Denny stares at me stupidly. “You’ve got to get some ass with that wicked black eye. They’ll want to make it better,” he mocks.

  I smirk. “Yeah, maybe they’ll want to comfort my dick. Not a bad idea.”

  But I’m not in it.

  Whenever I mess around with chicks, it’s for the sake of escaping, to forget the bruises on my body that I blame on football and messing around with my friends. Tonight won’t be different. I always wanted to sleep with someone under the stars. Maybe it’s my lucky night.

  We lift the couch into the truck bed, add in some pillows and blankets, and then pack the rest of the necessities. After stopping at some burger joint, we get dinner and shakes and head to the drive-in. Half the guys hide in Denny’s blacked out cab, so we don’t have to pay as much to enter.

  As soon as they wave us through, directing us to the biggest lot, we hop out and get everything set up. The theater is quaint. There are only three screens, two of which aren’t all that big. They’re for the lesser production-type movies.
>
  Each Friday, they play two movies, one right at dawn and one after that until almost two in the morning. It’s fun to hang out, but the theater is beaten up and unused most days.

  “What movie are we seeing?” Francis asks me.

  I chomp down my food. Mom always taught me that talking with a full mouth was disrespectful, but that doesn’t stop me from doing it now. “Some Stephen King remake,” I garble.

  His face scrunches, but he laughs at me. “Bro, chew your food, or you’ll choke.”

  “Okay, Mom,” I exaggerate.

  He flips me the bird and heads in the direction of the cinema café. They sell everything a normal movie theater does, so he’s probably getting popcorn. If I’m still hungry, I’ll probably pop in for cotton candy and a pretzel. I’m a sucker for movie foods.

  Everyone heads for the bathrooms, and I’m stuck sitting on the couch, waiting for the sun to set. It’s weird, being here, being a part of something normal when my life is such a mess.

  When everyone is back, the previews are taking up the screen, and I’m already bored. It’s not like me to be here and sober. Like my mom, I drink to forget.

  The sun finally settles behind the peaks. The guys bring out the cooler full of booze and toss me a Bud Light.

  “Thanks,” I say with a nod. In the next moment, I’m chugging, slurping it down, drowning in my own shitty life.

  After my third beer, I’m not even paying attention to the screen. At some point, a bunch of chicks come over, and one immediately sits beside me.

  “Hey,” she whisper-shouts, scooting to where her bare thigh touches my cargo short-clothed one.

  I lift my head, my eyes scanning her. “Sup.”

  She smiles softly, almost as if hiding the fullness of a real one. It’s not from embarrassment or shyness, but from finally winning something. I’m not even sure of what she thinks she’s won.

  My mind’s cloudy from the beers. They always go right through me. She places her palm on me, her fingers putting pressure on my thigh. The girl is hot. Brunette, long legs, nice rack, cute smile... but she isn’t what I need.