by Jessica Park
Left Drowning
JESSICA PARK
Copyright © Jessica Park
ISBN: 978-0-9893607-0-8
This publication may only be reproduced with the prior permission in writing of the publishers.
Cover Design by Damonza
Interior Design by Benjamin Carrancho
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic , mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and accidental.
Dedication
For Tommy, who is and will always be, my Sabin.
This book is for everyone who has survived. You are not broken. You can love and be loved, despite what may feel like the eternally brutal nature of the world. Even when you’re drowning and so far under, there is always time to reach for someone who will teach you how to breathe again.
CHAPTER ONE
Baseline
I catch my foot on the first step outside of my dorm and fall unceremoniously onto the concrete. I stay where I am for a moment, thinking that the set of keys digging into my hand should probably hurt more. Not to mention my knees, since they just endured a direct blow. “Awesome,” I mumble as I push to a wobbly stand and careen toward the door. I giggle slightly while struggling to fit the key into the lock. The good news here is that if I banged the shit out of myself like I think I just did, I might just feel something tomorrow. It has to be better than feeling nothing, right? How’s that for a goddamn silver lining? I brace myself against the giant door, steadying myself. Wait, what’s less than silver? Iron? Zinc? Could there be a zinc lining?
It takes a few failed attempts at working the lock for me to realize that the key to the house I grew up in near Boston will not, understandably, unlock a dorm in Wisconsin. I finally shove the proper key in the hole and turn the lock. “I’ve opened the door!” I whisper triumphantly to no one. The thick metal door is unbearably heavy and resists opening fully, so I slam my shoulder hard against the door frame as I try to slither through the narrow opening. Yet another victory! I think hazily. The hangover I’m sure to have tomorrow, plus the injuries from smashing into objects, is definitely going to hurt. So continues my endless search for physical feeling, sensation. Anything. Still, even in my decidedly inebriated state, I know that the bruises from a drunken night can hardly be equated with any sort of positive emotional step forward. At least it will be something, though. Something other than numbness. It will be a distraction, and distractions are always welcome.
The stairwell is flooded with hideous fluorescent light. It’s empty, although at this time of night, I realize one of my drunken peers might stagger past me with a one-night stand in tow at any minute. I really don’t understand how people ever get laid on campus. Anyone who looks even vaguely attractive in a normal setting becomes drastically less appealing on the way back to a dorm room. Beer goggles are no match for atrocious lighting. I lean against the wall on the second-story landing and yank my phone from my pocket. My reflection in the small black screen confirms my suspicion. My already messy curls have popped out of my ponytail so there’s a frizzy halo around my head, and even on my dark phone I can see the puffiness under my eyes. I look bananas.
“I look bananas!” I holler, noting the echo of my slurred words. Maybe I always look like this? Not that I care. I don’t spend a lot of time in front of the mirror or concerning myself with my appearance in any way, really. I look however I look, and that is that. In the scheme of things, it just doesn’t matter. And no one is paying attention. However, I do indeed look bananas.
When I get to my room, I practically fall through the unlocked door. Luckily, I don’t have a roommate who might complain about my noisy entrance. She moved out a few days before—presumably to go live with someone less catatonic—so the double is now all mine. I don’t blame the poor girl. If you’re going to be trapped on a relatively small campus outside of Madison, Wisconsin, it’s best to surround yourself with cheerful people.
I walk through the dark room, stub my toe on what I’m pretty sure is an anthropology textbook, and collapse onto the futon. Oh, the irony of my having replaced the dorm-provided single bed with a full-size futon. Anyone seeing it might imagine I was the type to bring home boys.
But I am a failure in that area. Add it to the fucking list, I tell myself. I’ve lost track of the guys on campus that I’ve drunkenly led on and then pushed away before anything could happen. The thought of anyone else’s hands on my body makes me want to retch. This is not normal; I understand that. Which is why I always have that moment when I’m drunk and the idea of fun, no-strings sex seems like a bright idea. For God’s sake, if I could ever go through with it, I’d be in good company. Plenty of other twenty-one-year-olds were making walks of shame home in the wee hours of the morning. I’ve heard those supposedly shameful nights retold with plenty of laughs and sordid details.
I can lure a guy in when I want to. Alcohol gives me that. And boys respond, although I have no idea why. It’s natural to want to connect with other people, I guess. Except I don’t want to. Not really. Which must be why I don’t have any real friends. But I drink and play the role, holding out hope that self-fulfilling prophecies exist, and that I might make a connection and feel whole again if I pretend long enough. The act is fun for me initially, yet it leaves me even worse off by the end of the night, when reality hits and my intolerable loneliness engulfs me.
I know it’s not especially smart to lead guys on and then bolt the minute they try to touch me. But I have my strategies. I often mumble something about being a virgin, a revelation that effectively puts a damper on most guys’ interest. Discovering this did sort of amuse me. I’d have thought guys would like the idea of being a girl’s first. No pressure to perform acrobatic-style maneuvers and whatnot since I wouldn’t know any better. But it seems that the generally smart, decent guys at this small liberal college in the middle of Wisconsin’s snow tundra don’t want the responsibility of deflowering a drunken coed. Go figure. Either way, I make sure nothing physical ever happens, despite my fervent desire to find an escape, however temporary. God knows it wouldn’t be fun for me anyway, considering I have the arousal level of a rock.
So I add frigid to the list. To that stupid mental inventory I try so hard not to keep. An increasingly large list of all of my flaws. My inadequacies. My failures.
There has to be a list of my successes, too, doesn’t there? Or at least my… adequacies? I try to focus. All the fucking liquor makes it hard, but I try. This is important.
I’m a not-terrible student.
I shower regularly.
I know a lot about tides.
I will eat nearly anything, except for raisins.
Christ. I refocus. I may be drunk, but I can do better.
I have mastered the art of melancholy.
I have my doubts about whether this can even vaguely be considered a “success.” I think again, determined to find something I’ve done that is worth recognition.
I lived.
The laugh that escapes my lips is awful. The bitter sound echoes throughout my sparse room. “I’m a regular fucking Harry Potter!” I shriek. “Fuck!”
I sit up and kick off my shoes. My phone is still in my hand, and I look dizzily at it.
I never give up on my brother. That at least should go on the “success” list. Without thinking about or planning what to say, I grab my phone and call him.
“Jesus Christ, Blythe. What do you want?” James grumbles.
“Sorry. I woke you, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you woke m
e up. It’s three in the morning.”
“Is it that late? Well, you’re in college, too. Thought you’d just be getting home.” I wait, but he says nothing. “How’s school? How’s the leg? I bet you’re getting stronger every day still.”
“School is fine, and knock it off with the leg questions, all right? You bring it up every time I talk to you. Enough. It’s as good as it’s going to get, which is shitty. Stop asking.” My brother yawns. “Seriously, just go to bed.” The clear irritation, the disgust, in his voice sears through me.
“James, please. I’m sorry.” Damn it. I can’t disguise the drunken edge to my voice. “We never talk. I wanted to hear your voice. See if you’re okay.”
He sighs. “Yes. I’m as fine as I can be. You sound like a disaster, though.”
“Gee, that’s nice.”
“Well, you do.” James pauses. “Mom and Dad wouldn’t like this crap. You know that. Can you just… Can we do this another time?”
“I’m so sorry for everything. I need you to know that. To really know that. Things can be better for you. I want—”
“Don’t. Not now. Not again. We’re not having this fucking conversation again.”
“Okay.” I stare out the window into the dark. It’s late September in the wee hours, and I know what is coming. Nothing good. The same as it is every year. “Sure thing, James.” The ridiculous attempt at conveying a cheerful, nonchalant tone makes my voice crack. “We’ll talk soon. Take care, James.”
So that went well. Not that I should have expected better. Inebriated middle-of-the-night calls are sort of destined to fail. I know because I’ve made them before. What’s tragic is that after each dumb call to my brother, I resolve that the next one will go more smoothly. What sucks is that sober calls during the day aren’t any better; they always result in exchanges that are stilted and uncomfortable.
I sigh heavily, then turn on the flashlight app on my phone. I love that not only does it make normal white light, but it lets me select whatever damn color I want. I set the phone down on my bed, and it illuminates part of the room with haunting blue electronic light.
As I stand and shuffle to the small sink, my body feels drained of all its alcohol-fueled energy. It takes a few tries, but I eventually shove my long, messy hair into a knot on the top of my head. A few curls fall from the tie and hang by my face. I can’t look at myself because I cannot stomach looking at a girl who has so little hope left, who is inexcusably weak. I am humiliated by my own inability to do better. I vow to spend at least the next twenty-four hours booze-free.
The water that comes from the tap is ice cold. Minute after minute goes by as I collect handfuls of water and toss them over my face. I don’t stop until there are no more hot tears to wash away.
CHAPTER TWO
Important Gestures
Six o’clock on a Saturday morning is not exactly my preferred time to wake up. I glare at the clock. Well, there is nothing to be done. I am awake. My choice is either get up and deal with the day or stay in bed and spend the next several hours being sucked into the unpleasant and familiar vortex of racing thoughts, panic, depression, and listlessness that has dominated my life for the last four years. Better to get out of bed. As I blink into the dark, I am again hit with how tired I am and how little fight I have in me.
My lack of fight was clear enough yesterday when I met with my fifth, and presumably final, academic adviser, some woman named Tracey. A woman who seemed to think that reviving my career at this liberal arts college might be easy. She clearly doesn’t know who she’s dealing with. Or maybe she forgot to factor in that I only have eight months to drag through until graduation.
I take a deep breath and wiggle my toes. At least I am not hungover, since I’ve stayed true to my vow and gotten through a whole twenty-four hours without drinking. It’s a nice change of pace. After that disastrous phone call with my brother two nights ago, I’m filled with regret over what I’m capable of while drunk. Not to mention how horrifying it was to meet with my advisor while dealing with the hangover of a lifetime. I’m quite sure that I left a pool of alcohol-laced sweat on the seat of her office chair.
I turn on the light by my bed and push the sheets down with my feet, again grateful that I do not have a roommate to growl at me for my odd hours. The yellow light shines over my body, and I involuntarily wince as I sit up and see my legs, which are covered in bruises from falling down while wasted two nights before. As a general rule, I give little thought to my appearance, but even I can see that it’s not just the bruises that make me look like a mess. My legs and bikini line are in dire need of a good shave. Upon further examination, I accept that I could probably stand to work out once in a while. Surviving on little food and too much beer and tequila is, unsurprisingly, not serving my body well. I tap my feet together and watch my thighs. They’re both bony and jiggly; it’s a super-attractive combination.
The shade that covers the one large window in my room retracts with hurricane force when I tug on it, and I flinch at the loud noise it makes. It’s still dark outside, but the act of opening the shade seems like something that people—normal people—should do when they get up. It’s an important gesture, and for some reason I think that today should possibly be a day of important gestures, if not actual connectedness with the real world. I have already made the decision to get out of bed early and not drink for another twenty-four hours, and that’s better than I’ve done in a while.
After pulling on jeans and a hoodie, knotting my hair into a twist, and brushing my teeth, I stuff a few things into a backpack and head for the student union. If I hope to make any other important gestures today, I will need coffee.
Although it’s normally swarming with students, the union is empty at this hour, save for the unfortunate work-study victim who is behind the register at the café. “Coffee?” he asks.
I nod. “Two, please. Extra large. Black.”
He peers behind me.
“Yes, they’re both for me.”
I tap my fingers rhythmically on the counter as I watch him pour.
“Here you go.” He snaps a lid onto the top of each cup and swipes my student ID card.
I thank him and look around the room. Normally I sit by the wall near the emergency exit door, but since the place is so empty today, I decide to sit down in a chair in the center of the room and kick my legs up on the seat of another. The first big sip of coffee is so strong and bitter that it makes me cringe, but I know that by the fourth sip it will go down easier. Just like shots! I think.
I check my phone. It’s been two days, and still no message from James. Not that I expect one, really, but it is hard not to hope. Aha, I think. There it is again. Hope. Maybe one night he will call me after a college party, drunk and full of rambling, incoherent questions that symbolize everything that’s wrong with our hideously damaged relationship. All of a sudden, I feel like an idiot. Could there be a stupider thing to hope for? What I should want is for the two of us to have a sober, heartfelt conversation in which we work out all of our unspoken issues and wind up the best of friends. The way that we used to be. I grimace to myself. Like that’s gonna happen. It’s probably good that he goes to college in Colorado, far away from me, so that he does not have to deal with my being able to just stop by his dorm anytime I want.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Just get through the day, Blythe. You can fucking do this. It would have helped if I hadn’t woken up at the crack of dawn, thereby making this day longer than necessary. But I’m out of bed, out of my room, I have coffee, and I even have my earphones so that I can listen to NPR. I don’t listen to music much. Not anymore. Before—when everything was good—I would spend hours flipping through radio stations, downloading music, and dancing around my room. I’d drive around in my parents’ Honda and get lost in music. Music that had heart. That moved me. It used to be fun to fantasize about the future.
I open up the NPR Web site and scroll through stories until I settle on a rather
disgusting-sounding piece about a former vegan learning to embrace butchering. Just as I near the end of the story and am learning that said former vegan’s favorite cut of meat is pig’s feet, someone crashes into the seat across from me.
“Hey! You got me a coffee! That was very thoughtful.”
Startled, I look up. A scruffy-looking guy in a ripped T-shirt and jeans faces me. He removes a cowboy hat, revealing black hair that is sticking out every which way—although in an admittedly adorable manner—and he has at least three days of good stubble going. Even though they’re bloodshot, his eyes are sharply blue. He is a big guy. Not fat, just bulky. Based on his general aroma, I guess he’s carrying a fair amount of beer weight. What’s most noticeable, however, is the big grin plastered across his face. Well, that and the fact that he is helping himself to the second cup of coffee that I so recently purchased.
He takes a sip. “You know, this really isn’t bad coffee. Sure, sure, everyone likes to make a fuss and complain that campus coffee is grotesque sludge, but that’s just an excuse to get Mommy and Daddy to fund repeated trips to that overpriced coffee shop down the street. What’s it called? Beans, Beans, right? What a dumb name. Not, however, a dumb name for the show that I’m producing, called Beans, Beans: The Musical. Since you generously got me this coffee, I shall thank you for your kindness by giving you front-row seats. And backstage passes! Wait until you meet the guy who plays Evil Grinder Number Three. He’ll scare the hell out of you in the show, but he’s a really good person deep down.” He pauses to take a long drink from the cup, and then bangs his fist on the table and grins. “This is hot as shit, huh? Just how I like it.”
I blink a few times and wait to see if his one-man show is over. He tips his head to the side and continues looking at me while I try to figure out what to do next.
