The Last Time I Died

by Joe Nelms

  Even if she had the inclination, she could not tell you the cause for this never-ending torque of anxiety twisting her consciousness at all hours. She might refer to herself as high-strung, although her closest girlfriends would laugh and say That’s just Ella! But there is genetically wired anxiety and there is man-made, unconscious, low-grade terror of forgotten childhood trauma. That is not just Ella.

  29

  *It’s two years and four months ago.

  I’m in Vegas for my friend Jack’s bachelor party.

  We’re on the top of the Luxor or the Venetian or the Wynn in a penthouse that must have cost him a shitload, but none of us care. There are four or five whores running around the suite and on the table in front of me there’s a mound of coke the size of a fat baby’s head. I’m indulging in neither so far.

  I’m appropriately drunk for the occasion and continuing the process without a governor. That’s what you do. Someone calls for a round of shots. I think it was the blonde with the outline of Texas tattooed above her left hip. She’s rented by the hour and, apparently, her game is to consume as much booze and coke as possible. Oh, and dicks. I’ve seen her go into the back bedroom with at least three of my friends so far tonight. Yes, one of them was Jack.

  I’m handed a shot and down it without thinking, as I’m in a rabid discussion with a fellow attendee regarding the merits of a new Yankee relief pitcher. The blonde sits on my lap and tries to flirt with a thick southern accent that must work on some guys but only makes me think she’s super-racist or an idiot or both.

  —Who wants a blow job?

  Her perfume is making my eyes water. In tasteful doses it’s probably delightful, but she has absolutely marinated herself in the stuff and from this brief interaction alone I know I’ll still smell like her three days from now.

  Honestly, as hot as she is, I’d rather finish making my point than get head from this idiot so I slide her off my lap without too much interaction beyond politely declining.

  —Thanks, maybe later.

  The guy I’m talking to looks at me like I’m crazy and accepts the offer she didn’t make him.

  —Fuck, I do.

  The whore cuts a thick line, snorts it up, and grabs the guy’s hand, dragging him back to the bedroom. As they leave, she asks him if he has cash. He asks if she can break a hundred.

  I don’t have a specific moral code in terms of prostitutes. I’m fine with them and have paid for sex a few times when the occasion seemed right. Like a bachelor party. But I’m not feeling it tonight.

  I head for the kitchen to grab another beer and notice I’m unsteady on my feet. I wonder how many shots I’ve had. No clue.

  Five minutes later (I’m guessing), I’m talking to the goth whore and she’s laughing hysterically.

  Later we’re playing beer pong and the goth chick is topless. Jack is passed out and someone got arrested I think.

  The last thing I remember is throwing a lamp out the window to see if I could hit the pool. I did. The goth whore thought it was hilarious.

  The rest is gone. Blackout.

  I wake up at three o’clock the next afternoon.

  The whores are gone. The coke is gone. There’s no more booze. There’s no money in my wallet. Lisa won’t answer my calls or texts. I check my phone to see if I called her the night before. I’m assuming I said something dumb or picked a fight or something.

  Ah.

  Looks like there was an outgoing call to our home number placed right before ten thirty last night. And it went on for forty-eight minutes. No way I talked to her for that long in the middle of a bachelor party. Plus I was relatively sober at that point. I remember arguing about baseball around that time. It takes a second, but my rickety brain finally figures out that I pocket-dialed Lisa. My phone was in my front pocket having been used to dial up ERA stats to buttress my inane argument. She was my last call before the party. An accidental redial.

  Smooth.

  I reconstruct what I can of what she might have overheard, but I can’t remember all of it so I have to go with what I know of myself and deduce my actions based on past performance.

  I probably didn’t do any coke. If I did, I’d still be up. She hates when I do coke. Doesn’t like the person I become. I don’t either but it feels so fucking good.

  I probably didn’t say anything bad about Lisa. I tend to keep that to myself and unsheathe it when we’re alone together, so chances are I wasn’t mouthing off about her last night.

  I probably didn’t fuck that goth whore. She was smoking hot and mine for the asking but I don’t think I did it. My fingers don’t smell like anything but cigarette smoke. No latex. No vagina. I probably didn’t do anything.

  So that puts my mind at ease somewhat. The bigger problem will be convincing Lisa that nothing happened. I doubt she’ll be interested in smelling my fingers.

  I could roust Jack and the other guys and ask them but that opens a Pandora’s box I don’t want to look into. They’ll either lie about me fucking all the whores to break my balls or confirm that I nailed the goth girl for real. Not interested in going any deeper down that path. I’m fine with my own investigation and decide to leave it at that.

  I lie back on the couch and try to sleep this off until the rest of the crew wakes up. We’ve got an eight o’clock flight tonight.

  God dammit.

  30

  I’m standing outside Ella’s house.

  It’s easily four thousand feet of smarmy family-oriented accoutrement. A good inch and a half of edging between the grass and the curb. Alarm company sign planted boldly before the front hedges. Volvo in the driveway next to a Lexus. Jesus. How safe can you play it?

  She opens the door and it’s obvious she saw me walking up the drive. I don’t fit into her schedule. Probably messing up her Yogalates lesson or whatever. I should have shaved.

  —Christian. What are you doing here?

  My niece runs up and grabs her mom’s leg. She’s three.

  —Who’s that, Mommy?

  —This is your Uncle Christian, Sarah. You were probably too young to remember meeting him.

  Sarah is too shy or smart to say hello to me. She looks like her mom, only happy and unguarded.

  —Hi, Sarah. You got big.

  I’m worn out already from this minor, phony attempt at pleasantry. Ella dismisses Sarah and stands aside. I guess she’s letting me in. She doesn’t move too far from the door or let go of the handle, so I guess she’s only letting me in briefly.

  —So?

  —I have to talk to you. About Dad.

  Ella deflates. I might as well have punched her in the stomach. This is unfair. I should have called first. But, then she would have told me not to come or made sure to be gone when I did. Besides, she has no idea what’s been going on and it’s not like I can explain my situation over the phone.

  —You look terrible.

  —I’ve been remembering things.

  Ella sighs and looks much older than when she opened the door. But she still plays dumb. She hates talking about this. When she was a teenager it was all she talked about. She was so angry. All the black clothes and dumb haircuts and bad boy crushes and cutting. I probably should have been more open to discussing it, but I couldn’t back then. I can barely do it now. Later when the Internet made things too easy to resist temptation, I know she scoured newspaper sites for old articles and rumors. I know she found plenty because when she did get me to talk about things, she knew far more than she did when she was younger and none of it was anything I had told her. Because I never told her anything.

  —What kind of things?

  This will be exactly as hard as I expected it would be. The only question is do I have the balance of stamina and patience to wear her down. I know she won’t respond to anger so I leave that at the front door and go with quiet honesty.

  —Things from the night he shot her. I want to know—

  Ella switches quickly into Desperate Housewives mode. She smiles and cla
sps her hands together. I’m being handled.

  —Oh, Christian. We’ve been over this. I told you I remember nothing. I can’t help you like you want me to. I’m happy to listen and I’ll always be here for you, but I can’t answer questions. I don’t remember and it was a long time ago. Are you hungry?

  She moves toward the kitchen. I follow, but slowly. This will end badly within the next two minutes. The splinters of my mind that still function race to think of something/anything to turn the tide as she prattles on, avoiding my purpose.

  —You’re in luck. I made brownies. Double fudge. Tim loves them. He’ll be here any minute. Maybe you two can watch the game together. Do you still like good cigars?

  I have nothing but the single track I came in on. I am too focused for much tact or strategy or couth. I know this is a waste of time but there is no one else. I have to say the words.

  —I need you to think back.

  Ella stops. She’s holding back.

  —Maybe you should leave.

  —But you were there. I know you remember.

  —No. I wasn’t. There’s nothing to tell you.

  —Yes, you w—

  Ella hurls a plate at my head. I don’t move. It misses my face and hits the wall next to me. She screams and I know she’s thinking of something that I’ll never see.

  —I DON’T REMEMBER!

  She remembers. I fucking knew it. I just have to convince her to talk to me.

  I’ll be back.

  31

  *It’s two years and two to four months ago.

  —I’m sick of this shit.

  —I already told you why.

  —We need to talk about this.

  —You’re not listening to me.

  —Why is it always my fault?

  —You’re not being fair.

  —That’s not what I said.

  —I’m done with this conversation.

  —You’re twisting my words.

  —Why do you insist on pulling this shit?

  —That’s what you said last time.

  —You’re not going anywhere.

  —Then maybe you should just do that.

  Chemistry. That was always our problem. No matter how hard we fought it, we always had chemistry.

  32

  (Well, it’s about time.)

  The old boy positions himself delicately on the chair. You know how persnickety modern furniture can be. He’s attached his noose to the same bar on which he used to perform chin-ups for the entertainment of his wife. It’s already proven to handily bear his weight and so should serve as a smashing good gallows today.

  His front door has been made to allow easy entry and a small ruse has been arranged to prevent the neighbors from interfering with the emergency response team’s entrance.

  Our man positions the rope carefully about his neck, rings up the authorities and makes known his situation.

  —Hi, I’d like to report an attempted suicide. Would you please send an ambulance to one thirteen Prince street, apartment seven B, as in boy…. That’s correct, ‘boy.’ Thank you. Oh, and please hurry…. No, I can’t.

  Like a well-oiled machine. Two minutes and twenty-five seconds to go.

  33

  I kick away the chair I’m standing on, fall, and hang by my neck.

  It hurts more than I thought it would. Good.

  I’m stone-cold sober so I’m scared out of my fucking mind. The noose ends up positioned nicely, which is lucky because if it lands wrong it will break your neck and then you’ve defeated the whole purpose of the effort. I try not to struggle, although it’s tough to stop the most primitive part of my brain from making my body wriggle around. I’m gasping for air even though the last thing I want is to breathe right now. I can’t help it. I try to focus on something else. Think about baseball. Think about car repair. Think about Lisa.

  That’s the real agenda here, isn’t it? Lisa by way of rehabilitation? Restoration of my self?

  No. Not restoration. I’m a tear-down. I need to be razed and rebuilt from scratch if I have any chance at all. Reconstructed, only this time with integrity and honesty and all the care and planning that wasn’t there the first time around. And none of the scars.

  I need tools. I need a blueprint. I need my insides stripped and laid bare to see what I have to work with. What was there before? Where are the cracks in the foundation? What’s clogging up my emotional air ducts?

  I’ve been given an opportunity. A chance.

  This will work or it won’t. My master plan. If it works, I have the key to everything. I can fix what I’ve broken so badly. I can alter my fundamental being and become the man Lisa thought I was. The man that, at least for a while, she believed I could be.

  If I succeed, I can change.

  If I fail, then it doesn’t matter. Either way, the issue has become one of black and white. Black, I’m gone. White, I win.

  If it doesn’t go as I hope, what will be the last thing I ever see? The bed I used to share with Lisa? The night table she left her earrings on? The empty half of the closet I haven’t used since she left? Is it possible to look at nothing? I wish I had nothing in this apartment. I wish it were bare and empty and alone. It should be. It deserves it.

  I’ve been up here a full minute and I’m only now getting tunnel vision. I’m doing it wrong. There’s too much oxygen getting to my brain. My neck must be in a position that allows some air to get through. Dammit.

  I raise my arms to grab the rope above the noose and hoist myself up a little to readjust. The tension in my throat goes away and I can’t help but suck in a huge breath. Oh, that feels so good. Best breath I ever took. My biceps are already aching from holding myself up. Maybe I should pull my head out of this and rethink the plan. No. I was afraid leaving my arms unbound might lead to this. Doubt. Weakness. Not now. Don’t be scared. Don’t give up. You have a plan. Stick with it. Let go.

  I turn my head slightly, lower myself slowly into a position that I know instantly will kill me. Not a molecule of oxygen is getting through and I’m too weak to lift myself again. This is it. I think my body is wrenching around involuntarily but I can’t be sure because I’m not even positive I’m here anymore. My brain screams adrenaline at me but my mind whispers sweet nothings right back. Relax. This is what you want.

  The room sways back and forth a few times before the view begins to defocus again. Quicker this time.

  Sound fades away.

  My vision dims.

  Yes.

  Black.

  34

  Silence.

  The White.

  I’m back.

  Whatever I am is naked and fresh. It feels so good. Better than I remember.

  I love it here. I love it so much.

  I couldn’t feel anger if I tried. I have no ego to crush. I love you.

  I hear the whisper and then the wail and then the whoosh.

  Ten thousand express trains of memories race past me. I have no body. I am pure concentration. I am a flat line. I am complete.

  I look to my right and strain to slow the images. I’m successful enough to see my ninth-grade baseball tryouts.

  Waiting in line for my coffee.

  Watching the cable guy work in my apartment.

  Sitting on hold.

  Biking by the river.

  Waking up in a stranger’s bed.

  Cheating in high school chemistry.

  Showering.

  Playing basketball.

  Buying a paper.

  Lying in a crib.

  I turn to my left to see myself changing a channel.

  Skipping class.

  Running late for work.

  Laughing at Stern.

  Yawning.

  Fighting with an ex-girlfriend.

  Sitting on a subway.

  I lean back. There are just as many images flying above me. I’d stay here forever if I could. In a second it will all be over.

  There. My childhood house. The laundry room.r />
  I focus.

  It’s March of whatever year I was eight.

  I’m terrified.

  Hiding in the corner behind a laundry basket. I’m watching my mother as she cries, staring at the locked door as she crouches next to the washing machine, terrified. The room is hot from the dryer. The washing machine is spinning an unbalanced load, making too much noise and offering too little protection. Her dress is a light floral pattern that seems familiar to me. She’s swimming in it. Must be fifteen pounds lighter than the last memory I saw her in. Oilier hair. Deeper lines in her face.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! Someone is pounding on the door. It might break.

  It’s my father. He’s yelling through the hollow wood.

  —Let me in there, God dammit! Open this fucking door or I’ll break it down!

  BOOMBOOMBOOM! The door cracks a little at the top. The hinges are loosening from the door frame. My mother can’t stop shivering. She’s wearing house slippers and they’re filthy as if she might have been wearing them outside as well. The smell of her perfume mixed with her sweat wafts my way. I have to remember this part. How the fuck do I sketch a scent?

  She looks back my direction but I don’t think she sees me. Her eyes are wide like an animal’s.

  —Open up!

  She grabs the sides of her head and screams. My eight-year-old self wipes a full palm of sweat beads from my forehead. How long have we been in here?

  —Leave me alone! Why can’t you leave me alone!

  She curls up tighter on the floor and convulses with sobs. I’m watching. Helpless. Paralyzed.

  She looks up at me. She does see me. Talks to me like I’m an adult.

  —Why won’t he leave me alone?

  I have no answer for her. She sobs and my father beats on the door.

  I can’t hold on much longer. I look around and force myself to remember every detail. The cluttered shelves. The sound of her sniffles. The vibration of the off-kilter washing machine. The heat of the dryer. The feel of the tension coming from the door. Everything.

  And then it’s gone.

  Black.