by J Grace
I remembered bits and pieces after I passed out. It was like I was flickering in and out, caught between life and death. I felt thick and heavy one minute and then light and airy the next. I had thought that once I passed out I would feel nothing, but that wasn’t the case at all. I could feel everything, the slowing of my pulse, the shallowness of my breathing. It was calming and soothing, dying. It was amazing to feel something other than fear and heartache. I was cocooned in darkness, wrapped in its warmth and then there was a pinprick of light ahead of me. Whether it was the light of Heaven that so many claim to have seen, I couldn’t say because the next thing I knew I was being jostled and shaken violently.
A male voice rang loudly in my ear as he screamed my name, yelling at me to ‘wake the fuck up’. I tried to open my eyes, to speak, to push him away but I couldn’t move. I was slipping into death slowly but surely, and then there was silence and stillness. I was dead. For how long I don’t know; seconds, minutes, hours, days could have passed between me dying and them bringing me back to life, until the pain and pressure I felt on my chest bloomed as they pounded on me in an effort to start my heart beating again. Once. Twice. Three times before it held a steady rhythm. I felt the snap of a face mask and the coolness of oxygen cover my nose and mouth as they worked my arms with needles and tubes.
The blaring of the ambulance siren sounded in the background as the EMT’s worked to keep me alive. Again I could hear that same male voice begging me not to die. There was a haunting sadness in his voice and I wondered who this stranger was, how he could care whether I lived or died when everyone who had ever shown me kindness had abandoned me. Suddenly something was shoved into my mouth and a disgusting chalky liquid slid down my throat causing me to vomit the entirety of my stomach contents. It hurt, a lot, and when it was over I felt weak and exhausted. I knew they had saved me. I knew I would live. And I was angry. I didn’t want to live anymore. My own mother wanted me dead. I wanted to be with Sierra, to be free of the burden of blame and the emptiness that had consumed me since the day she died. I was a broken husk of a girl. I had no one. I was no one. Why didn’t they just let me die?
The pain of living, of knowing I would have to go back home with the realization that my mother wanted me dead was insurmountable at that moment, so when the darkness of utter exhaustion came I ran into it with open arms and let it consume me.
I woke up in the hospital with the worst headache and sorest throat ever. I didn't remember where I was at first until I heard the beeping of machines. Suddenly I was flooded with the memory of what happened and rage like I had never felt before built within me. This isn’t what I wanted. I wanted to die, to be with Sierra. But then I saw the look of hurt and anger in my brother’s hazel eyes as he sat by my bedside, and I realized that it was his voice telling me to wake up, not to die, and I folded in on myself. It was too much. I felt guilty. And stupid. And ashamed. Before Sierra, there was Carson, the only person in my family to show me love and kindness. I knew that I had hurt him deeply. But the truth was I didn’t even think about him when I decided to end my life. He hadn’t been home for nearly two years. He hadn’t called, texted or sent so much as a smoke signal to let me know he knew I was even still alive. He left me alone with our parents, knowing what kind of hell they put me through, and never looked back, so why would I consider his feelings? The more I thought about it the angrier I became with him. Why did he come home? Why that day? But then ice-cold fear slid down my spine at the sound of my mother’s voice.
“Well, look who’s awake, Randall. The prodigal daughter back from the dead. Lucky, lucky us. Tell me, Marjorie, did the fires of hell keep you warm while your body was cold or did they burn just a little too much?” Her voice was dripping with disdain and loathing, fists clenched at her side and I knew that she wanted to lash out or at least shake the life out of me. Ironic.
“Now is not the time Muriel. She’s been through enough.” Her head swung towards my dad at neck break speed and the vein in her neck pulsed wildly.
“She? She has been through enough? How can you possibly say that? After what she’s done to us. People will talk, whisper about us as we pass them. She’s ruined us in the community and all because she can’t see past the nose on her face.” I sat there in my bed looking up at her from under my lashes. She looked none the worse for wear. Her blonde hair was done in her signature bun at the nape of her neck, her face clean of any makeup and her yellow cotton button-down dress wrinkle-free. Her eyes were trained on me and though tears streamed down her face, her brown eyes were hard and unflinching in their hatred. Of course, I already knew what stare would greet me when I looked at my mother. I wanted nothing more than to hide from her judgement, her total hatred of me. Which is why I did what I did in the first place. Well, one of the reasons.
I could feel my mother’s angry eyes burning holes into my face. She was daring me to look at her even though she knew I wouldn’t, not fully. She had taught me never to look her in the eyes. But she wouldn’t look away. She was furious. Probably because I couldn’t even kill myself correctly and definitely because I had called negative attention to her perfectly cultivated reputation. My skin started to itch the longer she stared at me and all I wanted to do was crawl out of it.
Just yell at me already! Tell me what a total fuck-up I am! But please stop staring at me!
I finally felt some sort of relief from her ocular abuse when the Doctor came in, thinking that at least he would be kind, gentle. But then he went straight to her, of course to comfort the grieving mother. Never mind the victim of her abuse laying in bed.
“Rest assured, Mrs. Long, Marjorie will be just fine,” she cried harder at that. No doubt she had held out hope that I could still die in the night and she could finally be free of me.
Then the Doctor turned his hardened, steely-eyed gaze to me. I recognized him as a parishioner of our family church and instantly knew that he would hold no kindness in his heart for me, the sinner. Never mind the sinner he just embraced. I resigned myself to the fact that there would be no one in this room on my side and my soul sunk further still. I couldn’t talk, both from pain and fear, so I had no other recourse but to sit and listen to them all expound about how I was selfish and cruel and insensitive, and so much more. I had to sit and listen to the Doctor ream me about how if my brother hadn’t found me when he did I would have succeeded in my task, leaving my parents with a great burden on their hearts.
If only he knew the truth.
My eyes kept flitting to Carson, but he never looked my way. He just sat there slumped in his chair with a scowl on his face. I wondered where the kindness he had before had gone.
“Marjorie, are you listening?” the Doctor chastised, bringing my attention back to him. I chanced a glance at my mother; her eyes were narrowed, her face now dry of tears, and she was gripping her purse tightly in her hands.
“Your parents have agreed to admit you to the psychiatric ward for a seventy-two hour hold. From there they will decide what steps need to be taken to get you back on track,” I thought my heart was going to explode from my chest. I vehemently shook my head no, causing spots to appear in my peripheral. She was punishing me for embarrassing her. Tears fell from my eyes and I saw a smile slide up the side of her face. She was pleased by my fear. And then she did something she had never done before.
“Marjorie, sweetheart. We know you’re scared, but this is for the best. We just want you to get better so that you can come home to us,” I could see my brother react to her false show of affection from the corner of my eye and even my father flinched a little. Once it was sorted, the doctor left and my mother dropped the facade. But I lay there frozen with fear. I wasn’t crazy. I was heartbroken and lonely and longing to be free of the pain and emptiness I felt my entire life, which had only magnified with Sierra's death, but I didn’t deserve to be admitted. The doctor said it was mandatory after all suicide attempts, but it didn’t ease the ache of not knowing what would be in store for me the next
three days. And yet a small part of me knew that it couldn’t be worse than having to go home and live through whatever torment my mother would come up with.
In the end it didn’t matter what I wanted because I’m a minor, and as such, have no autonomy. So after I was discharged from the ICU I was wheeled up to the Psychiatric ward.
My parents were already there when I exited the elevator; my brother was nowhere in sight.
He left me alone again.
As my mother stepped up to me, the sudden need to vomit crept up. Her face was soft until she got really close and bent down to hug me, her eyes quickly hardened over mine forcing me to look away. She handed me a large brown paper bag which she said was filled with a change of clothes. My dad made no effort to embrace me, instead, he simply gave me a tight smile, turned away from me and headed to the elevator, leaving me with my mother. She pinched my arm to bring my attention back to her and I winced.
“Marjorie, would you consider going to a treatment facility after you’re discharged from the Hospital? There’s an excellent facility only an hour from here and we think it would be good for you,” Her voice was soft and soothing and yet it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand. She had asked the question as though she was giving me a choice; she wasn’t. No, she was asking to save face. I nodded my consent, “Good, I’ll make arrangements,” With that, she stood and turned to go. I realized that my mom had hugged me and that it was the first time since I’d been in the hospital that anyone had touched me; it was the first time in maybe my entire life she had ever embraced me willingly. It felt wrong and I knew it was for the nurse standing beside me. I mean, they didn’t even try to comfort me when I woke up. They just wanted the staff to believe that I was crazy and that nothing I did should reflect poorly on them or their treatment of me.
I sat there, numb, as the elevator door closed with them inside. They were gone along with the heaviness that clouded the air and yet, I could still feel myself shutting down. It was as if she draped me in despair with her touch, which may have been her goal because the weight of everything suddenly hit me hard.
The nurse who escorted me was talking, but I couldn’t make out the words. It was like I was underwater, and if I wasn’t in a wheelchair I probably would have fallen into a puddle on the floor. I think she must have realized that I was out of it because somewhere in the middle of entering the psychiatric ward and being assigned a room she undressed me; relieving me of my bra, underwear, shoes, and anything else that might aid me in another suicide attempt, leaving me with sweats and a pair of socks. Once I was appropriately dressed, she helped me onto the bed and covered me with a blanket to help alleviate the shaking fit my body was currently experiencing. She administered a sedative and soon enough I closed my eyes and faded into a black oblivion.
Chapter 3
Marjorie
When I woke up the next day I felt groggy and when I tried to sit up a wave of nausea rolled over me. I groaned and clutched my head trying to stop the slight spin that was happening.
“You’ve got a hangover from the meds.”
I screamed and shuffled back on the bed until I hit the wall, and clutched the thin blanket that was draped over me to my chest. I was so scared by the fact that there was a stranger in my room that I forgot to be scared into silence; or maybe it was the drugs still making their way around my system that caused the temporary loosening of my lips.
“Who are you and what are you doing in my room?” my head was pounding even harder now from the rush of blood coursing through my veins. The girl snickered and uncrossed her legs to dangle them over the side of her bed.
“I’m Sophie and this is our room for at least the next seventy-two hours,” she must have seen the terrified look on my face because her demeanor changed almost immediately, “Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m into hurting myself, not others, and I’m guessing you are too since you’re here in the suicide wing of this fine establishment.” she rolled her eyes and laughed as she looked around the room. I sat there for a minute and watched her. She was petite, maybe a little over five feet, with short pink hair, large golden-brown eyes, pale skin, high cheekbones, and a dimpled chin. She was skinny too, and not in a healthy way so it was hard to guess her age. When my eyes moved back to hers she was staring at me. “You’re not very talkative, are you? Did you try to off yourself by cutting out your tongue?”
“What, no!” I shook my head and immediately regretted it. Spots danced in my eyes and even my hair hurt.
“Oh, good you can talk. So what’s your name? Is this your first visit to Club Suicide, or are you a frequent flyer? How old are you? Do you have a boyfriend, a girlfriend? Any..” I put my hands up to stop her rambling. She was making me sick with all the questions.
“Please stop. I can’t right now with all the questions. My head is killing me.” I squeezed my eyes shut and took a few deep breaths to calm my heart. I was surprised that I hadn’t passed out yet from this exchange. I heard the soft rustling of sheets and when I opened my eyes she was gone. I relaxed a bit and lay back down. Question after question ran through my mind:
What will happen to me? Can I stay in this room the whole time? Do I have to participate?
I squeezed myself into a ball and threw the blanket over my head as tears fell without permission.
Why did Carson have to come home? Why did Sierra have to die? Oh God Sierra, I miss you. What do I do without you? If I stay still and make myself small they won’t notice me. It had never worked with Mom, but they aren’t Mom…
“Marjorie Long,” the voice was firm; not cruel, but not comforting or kind either, and I knew instantly that there would be no compassion to be found in this place, “it’s time to get out of bed. Dr. Wilson is waiting for you.”
After being practically yanked from my bed I was escorted to the bathroom where I was allowed to pee and brush my teeth. There was a girl about my age with greasy hair and sallow skin staring at herself in the mirror when I walked in. She turned and set her vacant eyes on me. I sucked in a breath; she looked incredibly sick. She shuffled past me and out the door, a sour smell trailing her. I let out the breath I was holding and said a prayer for her, and myself. A few minutes later a knock on the door and a stern voice telling me to ‘hurry up’ rang through the bathroom. I sprinkled some cold water on my face and took one last look in the mirror. A stranger looked back at me. Tears welled in my eyes but before they fell my stomach growled loudly, changing my focus. I exited the bathroom and met the stare of an annoyed-looking nurse. Without a word he turned and I followed him down to Dr. Wilson’s office.
As soon as I walked in I wanted to leave. It was cold and sterile in there. There was nothing that indicated the person who worked here cared about creating a welcoming environment. I felt bile rise, but I swallowed it down.
Just do what they say Marjorie, be a good girl, don’t embarrass Mom or Dad.
“Sit in the chair and don’t touch anything. Dr. Wilson will be in shortly.”
It wasn’t shortly. Minutes passed and with them, the ache in my head grew. I began to itch all over and I couldn’t stop my legs from bouncing. I was going to pass out if he didn’t get here soon. Another wave of nausea hit me and this time I couldn’t hold it in. I shot up from the chair and ran around the office looking for a trashcan. Just as I found it and spilled the bile from my stomach, Dr. Wilson walked in. A look of annoyance flashed across his face before he crossed over to me. I continued to dry heave for a minute or two before I was able to stand, feeling even weaker.
“I’m…”
‘If you are done, put the trashcan in the hall and then sit,” he said curtly, walking to his desk. Tears threatened to fall, but I held them back and did as he said.
Don’t rock the boat Marjorie, be a good girl.
Another five minutes passed as we sat there silently while he wrote notes in a file. He was tall, lanky even, with white hair that sparkled under the lights. His skin was a bronze color like he baked in the sun a
little too often. He had a few wrinkles, but there was something off-putting about the juxtaposition of his hair and relative smoothness of his skin. He had to be at least sixty if the spots and fine lines covering his hands were any indications. His lips were thin and his nose was narrow, but his brown eyes were cold and hard. He reminded me of a man I saw on a KFC commercial once, but without the cheerful disposition.
I was becoming irritable the longer we sat there in an uncompanionable silence.
Why am I here if he’s not going to talk to me? Is this part of the therapy? I could be in bed or eating. I’m starving.
Just then my stomach growled. I clamped my hands over my belly as if that was going to muffle the sound of my innards revolting. Dr. Wilson looked up at me with a look of annoyance once again plastered on his face.
Maybe that’s just the way his face looks.
“Have you not eaten this morning?” I shook my head and he let out a sigh, reaching into a drawer on the side of his desk. He pulled out a granola bar and a small bottle of water and placed them on the edge of the desk, then went back to his scribbling. I was just finishing my water when he finally put the pen down and looked at me.
“Marjorie, do you know why you’re here?” I was confused.
Is this a trick question? Doesn’t he know why I’m here?
“Uh, because I tried to kill myself?” His lips pursed and he tapped his fingers on his desk once before leaning back into his chair.
“No, that’s why you ended up in the hospital. What brought you here, to my floor, is that your parents are at their wits end with you,” I couldn’t hide the shock on my face.
Is he serious?
“I know your parents, they’re fine people and don’t deserve the heartache that you’ve put them through so while you’re here you are going to work on being a better daughter by looking into yourself and finding ways to better express whatever angst it is you teenagers suffer from these days.” He sat forward and placed his elbows on the desk, lacing his hands together as he looked over them at me with anger in his eyes. “You know, teenage rebellion isn’t a new thing. We had plenty of that in my day and while it was fun to stick it to our parents every once in a while we never did anything as selfish as try to kill ourselves. Death is irreversible Marjorie, and suicide is a sin. Don’t you want to see your parents in Heaven? Do you want them to suffer from the knowledge that your soul is burning in hell?”
