I got this knife from my ex-boyfriend, Jordan. Well, I didn’t get it from him, I guess I sort of stole it from him, but it wasn’t on purpose. He left it in my car and I just never gave it back to him. He said it’s called a butterfly knife, and he showed me all these flippy things he could do with it. He would whip it around and do tricks, the same way he used to do with his Zippo lighter. Sometimes I would smoke cigarettes with him when it wasn’t swim season, but these days I’m always in training. I’m not allowed to smoke, but it doesn’t matter now because I won’t be at practice tomorrow. I won’t ever be at practice again.
There isn’t any blood yet because I haven’t pushed down, but there are red welts rising up on my wrist. I saw my dad gut a fish once, and it seemed so effortless. I know if I just push down a little bit, I’ll break the skin. And then once I break the skin, it’ll be a lot easier to get down to the veins. I made sure to get the dog’s towels from the garage, because I know my mother would pitch a fit if I got blood on any of the good towels. She still brings up that time I got my period when I was thirteen and ruined the sheets. That was almost four years ago, and she still won’t let it go.
My parents aren’t home, and they won’t be back until late because there’s an event at the club tonight, and they’ll drink too much and pass out when they get home. I wonder how long it’ll take for them to realize I’m gone.
Sometimes I wish I could fake my death and then go to my own funeral, just to hear what people have to say. I wonder if they’ll finally care about me—the real me, not just the trophy child, the champion swimmer. They’ll probably list my best swim times, and the mean girls will pretend they were my best friends, and Jordan will pretend I was the love of his life and he didn’t cheat on me with Sharon Murdock at the spring formal. Whatever they say, I won’t hear them because I’ll be all dressed up in some designer dress, with too much makeup on my colorless face, cold and dead in a long pine box. I don’t even have it in me to get angry anymore. I’m almost seventeen years old and I’ve lost all the highs and lows. I live somewhere in the middle—somewhere where I never feel anything more than a dull ache.
I know I’m just distracting myself with all these thoughts now—delaying the inevitable. I’m doing this, it’s the only way. I’m doing it tonight. I’ve been thinking about this date for months, and I said I would be dead before midnight, so I really only have a couple of hours to go, and I have to make sure that the scene is set for whoever finds me.
I fed Dante and gave him his arthritis medicine. I’m going to miss him. Dante is the only one who cares about me. He sleeps in bed with me every night. He’s a giant German shepherd and we just barely fit in my little bed. I sleep on my side, and he curls up behind my knees. He wakes up every morning five minutes before my alarm goes off and starts licking my toes. Normally, he’d be sitting right here with me, but I was afraid he would look at me with his huge brown eyes and I wouldn’t be able to go through with it, so I left him outside. As if he can hear me thinking about him, Dante starts barking. He probably wants to come in.
My watch says 9:57 p.m.
I still have time.
The only stability I know is when my hand falls at my side and Dante slides in beside me and my fingers twirl the long hair of his German shepherd mane. But it’s only so comforting to ask a dog all my life’s questions and be met endlessly with a cocked head, a wet snout poking at my listless hands, and truly unconditional love. Undeserved and boundlessly available. I will miss Dante more than he will ever know. Hearing him barking now, I head downstairs to open the door to the porch and whistle through the screen into the night. The crickets and tree frogs are so loud, and it’s not even summer yet.
“Dante!” I call into the darkness. The lights by the pool are on but I can’t see the dog. I whistle again. He’s not coming. His barks are getting more frequent and louder.
“Dante! Shut up!” But he doesn’t shut up. I grab a jar of peanut butter from the cupboard and head outside to get him.
“Dante,” I whisper once I’m outside. I whistle softly and follow the sound of his barks. He always comes when I call him—he’s well-trained and obedient—but tonight he’s not listening to me.
My watch says 10:02 p.m.
I still have time.
I see the dog standing in front of the shed out behind the pool. We haven’t used that shed since a family of raccoons clawed through the walls and ate the pool noodles and kickboards we stored in there. My parents never bothered to replace it or knock it down. Now Dante is standing with his ears pricked up, eyes trained on the door. His barks are sharp and alert. There’s something in there.
I open the jar of peanut butter and waft it near his face. “Come on, Dante. Come back inside and I’ll give you all the peanut butter you want.” He doesn’t even sniff in my direction. He maintains his posture and stares at the door of the shed. I loop two fingers under his thick leather collar and gently pull him toward the house. “Come on,” I whine, tugging at him. “Let’s go.”
He lets out a loud bark and shakes my hand from his collar. He sits down, tail straight out behind him, and stares at the shed. It occurs to me that I should be apprehensive about whatever is hiding in there. Dante has never defied commands, and he’s never shown any interest in this broken-down old box. I’m not scared of what’s hiding in my shed, because what do I have left to lose? Being fearful comes from being afraid of losing something. Losing your safety, your precious well-being. Mine is gone. I have nothing left.
I still have the memories of what it felt like for adrenaline to pump in my veins. When I find myself in a situation that warrants an adrenaline rush, I almost look down and expect to see my veins coursing with something other than plain, boring, slow and steady misery. I remember what it was supposed to feel like, but the further away I get from the memories, the foggier they become. If I were to live, I would lose sight completely of what it all felt like.
With the jar of Skippy in one hand, I reach out to the door of the shed. Once the animal is out, I’m sure Dante will scare him off. I have plans, and I can’t waste my time with some creature hiding in the darkness. I’ve already lost enough time.
Suddenly Dante jumps up and throws himself between me and the shed, preventing me from reaching the door. He uses his big anvil head to push me out of the way and stands protectively in front of me. He is agitated, and his lips are curling up over his teeth. There’s something dangerous in there. I should be scared of whatever is making Dante behave this way. If he senses danger, I should react to it, too. All I feel is exhausted.
He’s pushing me back toward the safety of the house. He stopped barking, but his hackles are up. Is there a person in there? Does someone know that I am home alone tonight?
I back away slowly, holding on to the peanut butter as if it were a weapon. I shouldn’t have left that stupid butterfly knife upstairs in the bathroom. I pull Dante’s collar, and it strikes me how absurd this situation is. If there’s a murderer in there, I might as well let him kill me. Maybe it’ll be easier than pushing the knife down through my own flesh. I pause, rationalizing the thoughts in my head. I knew I was going to die tonight, I just didn’t realize that someone else was going to kill me.
I have butterflies in my stomach for the first time in as long as I can remember. It’s not fear, it’s more like excitement. I move toward the shed, trying my best to hold Dante behind me as he snarls and pulls and tries to protect me. If he hadn’t been barking I wouldn’t be out here in the first place, now he’s trying to pull me back into the house.
“I’m going to kill myself anyway, you silly dog,” I whisper to him. My palms are sweating, and I creep closer. I’m holding my breath, but I hardly realize it as I lunge forward and throw the door open. Before the light from the pool can shine on the face of the murderer, Dante launches himself into the shed, and furiously snaps and barks at the figure inside.
“Stop, s
top! Help!” A desperate and terrified voice screams from the darkness. It’s not a huge, deep murderer’s voice. It’s small and scared and not at all what I thought I would find in here. I drop the peanut butter and yank at Dante’s collar with both hands. He’s pulling against me, but he seems just as surprised as I am that the figure in the shed isn’t that of a dangerous killer. He’s a kid, probably just a couple of years younger than I am. Terrified in the corner, with his arms in defense up over his face.
Dante lets me pull him away and retreats out onto the lawn. I step back and push the door open, so the light can illuminate the kid’s features.
“Please,” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m not trying to hurt anyone. Please, don’t let him bite me.” He’s still shielding his face, and his dirty sneakers and frayed backpack look like that of any typical teenager around here.
“Who are you?” I ask, more disappointed than anything else.
“Vince,” he says, lowering his arms so I can see his face. “My name is Vince. I’m sorry I scared you.”
“What are you doing in my shed?” I finally release the breath I’ve been holding, and the butterflies in my stomach disappear.
“I was hiding, but I’ll leave.” He starts to stand up and feels around on the floor for the strap of his backpack.
“No, you don’t have to leave.” I hear the words as I’m saying them, and I have no idea why I’m inviting Vince to stay in my shed. “Well, I mean, if you want to go, you can go, but you don’t have to.” I look behind me out at the lawn and see Dante still watching me.
“You’re Mia Jensen, aren’t you?” he asks, cowering back down on the ground.
“What?” I step back. “How do you know my name?”
“I go to Whitmore,” he says. “I’m a few years behind you. You’re a junior, right?”
“Yeah, what grade are you in?”
“I’m in eighth grade,” Vince says, looking around at the inside of the shed now that the light from the pool area is exposing the details.
“And what did you say you were doing in my shed?” He’s younger, and he knows who I am, which makes me feel like I need to live up to my reputation. I am supposed to be a young leader in my community. The sports stars are always looked at this way.
“I was hiding in your shed, but now that you and your dog are here, I should probably go.” He starts to get up again, this time going so far as to sling his backpack over one shoulder.
“No,” I say, still unsure why. “Stay here.” I look at my watch, realizing Vince probably isn’t going to kill me, so I’ll have to do it myself.
It’s 10:18 p.m.
I still have time.
“Are you sure? Aren’t your parents going to be mad?”
“My parents won’t be home for hours, and they wouldn’t even notice.” I sigh and slump down on the damp, rotten slats across from him.
There’s something flashing behind my eyes that could be the beginning of a migraine, or it could be a sliver of hope. There’s something about his face, his gangly knees and hard-bitten fingernails. Even though I’m in a place where I fear no harm, it’s his harmlessness that appeals to me. I should have been scared. I wasn’t. So, I invite him to stay. Stay, and show me how harmless people can be. Please. It’s what I need my last experience to be. Show me that expectations can be wrong. Show me that someone has some care and some compassion and some humanity. Please. Just so I can see it before I go.
“You’re bleeding,” Vince says, as he pulls a white deli napkin from his pocket. “Did the dog get you?”
I look down at my wrist and see the cuts from Jordan’s old butterfly knife are bleeding. “Dante would never bite me.” I take the napkin and put pressure on the small cuts.
I whistle softly, calling the dog into the shed. He glides in the door, and promptly lies down with his face on my lap.
“So how come you’re bleeding?” Vince asks.
I stroke Dante’s velvet ears. I didn’t think I would find myself in a position tonight where I would have to explain what I was doing. That’s why I picked tonight, because I would be alone, and no one would ask questions. I knew my parents would be out. I knew no one in the neighborhood would be home because everyone who’s anyone is at the club. Bidding on luxurious auction items and lubricating themselves with more and more alcohol so they can be comfortable parting with more and more of their money.
The grown-ups have been talking about tonight for months, gossiping about which items they planned to bid on, and what they donated. My parents even toyed with the idea of auctioning off swim lessons with me. They got into a fight because my mother said the bidding should start at a thousand dollars, and my father said that was a ridiculously high price to pay just to swim with me. I listened to them fighting from my room. In the end, they didn’t donate anything at all, so they feel even more compelled to bid tonight.
“I cut myself,” I respond, my mind refocusing on my plan for the evening.
“On purpose?” Vince asks.
I breathe in deeply through my nose and hold the air in my chest for as long as I can. This is what makes me the best swimmer in our town, probably in the state. I have excellent breath control. My coach keeps telling me I’ll make the Olympics. Once my lungs begin to burn, I let out the breath and answer Vince’s question.
“Yes, on purpose.”
“How come? Are you trying to kill yourself?”
Only teenagers can talk to each other this way. If a grown-up asked me this same question, I would never answer honestly. Vince just wants to know what’s wrong, but a grown-up wants someone to blame. A grown-up would ask me this, ignore my response, and start pointing fingers at anyone they could find. I would be lost in the finger-pointing and no one would notice as I slit my wrists in the bathtub, listening to Nirvana, on April 5, 1995, the one-year anniversary of the day Kurt killed himself and gave me the strength to finally go through with it. That’s what would happen if a grown-up asked. But since Vince is asking, and Vince is younger than I am, I tell him the truth.
“Yes.” A sense of calm falls over me as I admit my plans to a stranger in my shed. I feel a slow, creaky relief, like I loosened a fist I’ve been clenching for years.
“Why do you want to kill yourself?” Vince asks honestly and without any judgment in his voice.
“Does it really matter what I say right now?” I’ve rehearsed this conversation in my head a thousand times. Knowing if I ever told anyone, I would have to convince them that I have reason enough. That I feel bad enough. That I’ve thought of every other solution already. “Whatever I tell you, you’ll try to talk me out of it.”
He shrugs his narrow shoulders. “Try me.”
“You think you’ll really listen to what I have to say? And not just try to find a reason to think I’m making the wrong decision?” I don’t want to be talked out of this. I have talked myself into and out of suicide a hundred times before. The last thing I need is someone else’s opinion.
“What do you mean?” Vince shifts his weight around, leaning his bony elbows on his bony knees.
“I read these articles about people who committed suicide. The writers are always talking about how the victim was good-looking, rich, and privileged, as if it’s supposed to make a difference. As if poor people, or ugly people, or stupid people all have a reason to kill themselves, but beautiful people don’t. I think it’s terrible. What they’re saying is that it would be understandable if the victim didn’t have all these things that society forces you to think equal happiness. Just because I’m tall and people think I’m pretty, it doesn’t make me happy. You see how stupid that sounds? Just because I’m a good swimmer doesn’t mean I’m happy. Everyone is allowed to be miserable, no matter how much good stuff you have. Look at Kurt Cobain. He had everything. But he was miserable.” My response comes out too forcefully. I’ve been holding these thoughts in for too long
, and they’re coming out like the whining tirade of a misguided preacher. I just want someone to understand me. I’ve been so afraid that people can’t understand that just because I have these things that other people might not have, I still don’t want this life.
“Are you miserable?” It sounds like Vince is trying to grasp what I’m saying, but he clearly hasn’t spent months rolling the virtues of suicide over in his mind.
“I don’t like it here. I don’t belong here, and I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s as simple as that.” The promises of youth, teenage invincibility—I’m supposed to think I know it all. I’m supposed to see the brightest future before me. I must be missing a chip or something, because all I’ve ever felt is lost.
“But it seems like you’re doing such a good job in your life, you know?” His innocence is tugging at my heartstrings. “You’re popular, you’re smart, you’re a great swimmer. Everyone knows you, they all think you’re great.” He still thinks that if you can just check all those boxes then you’ll be happy.
“It doesn’t matter if everyone thinks I’m great if I don’t agree with them.”
Vince shakes his head, confused. “So, you’re killing yourself because you don’t think you’re great?”
“Sounds stupid when you say it like that.” I look away from him. Maybe eventually he’ll comprehend, but for now he’s just confirming that no one gets me.
“That’s what you just said. I didn’t say it like that.”
“What are you doing hiding in my shed?” I’m feeling defensive now.
“I ran away from home.” He responds without hesitation.
“Why did you run away?” I feel exposed, worried that I’ve said too much, and I want to even the playing field.
A Thousand Doors Page 16
