The Last Time I Died

by Joe Nelms

  My loft must smell awful. I have cleaned none of my messes up for weeks. My voice sounds like a bad Sam Eliot impression.

  —Christian? What are you doing?

  —I’m so close to so many answers.

  I indicate to the wall of drawings and it’s clear that she didn’t notice them when she walked in. She looks at my massive, sloppy, homemade shrine.

  —What is this?

  —Do you remember any of this? Does this trigger anything? You were there for some of these.

  —Christian—

  —What’s missing? What am I missing? I can go back but I have to know what to look for.

  —Go back where? Where are these coming from? What are they supposed to be? Why are you doing this?

  I can’t explain to her how I’m getting them. The effort would be too much. She’s back to her comfort zone of borderline hysterical and I do not have the stamina. My head is throbbing. All I can do is beg.

  —Ella, look closely. Tell me what you see. Tell me what this reminds you of.

  She looks. Ella takes a step back to stare at the wall. She takes it all in. A few moments in, she looks over to me and then back to the wall. Her eyes well up and she tries unsuccessfully to blink back tears.

  —Christian, you need help.

  —Yes, from you.

  —Yes, from me. I will help you find the professionals who can help you.

  —I’ve been to them. I have better people. What I need now is your mind. Your memories. Tell me what all this means.

  She marches over to the wall and rips a row of sketches down. And then another. I’m dumbfounded. I move toward her as fast as I can, but by the time I can grab her wrist, she’s got a dozen more drawings down, crumpled at her feet.

  —What are you doing!

  I lean my entire body into moving her away from the wall. She could fight harder but she doesn’t. Finally, she stops resisting entirely.

  —You need help.

  She’s backing away from me toward the door, forgetting she’s still got a sketch of our mother in her hand. The one that says Why won’t he leave me alone?

  Ella gets to the front door and when she realizes she’s holding the drawing, she drops it like it was on fire. Like she suddenly wants a shower.

  —You need help.

  The struggle re-aggravated my most recent injuries and her voice is a knife in my eye.

  Lisa would tell me to take her help. That despite everything, Ella is my best bet. That I should curl up on the floor and let her wait with me until someone comes to take me away to a facility with plenty of oxytocin, dopamine, norepinephrine, and phenylethylamine and the orderlies big enough to make me swallow them.

  —Just try, Ella. Try to remember.

  Ella cries harder. She turns and walks out without closing the door. I can hear her sobbing all the way down the stairs.

  Fine then. I’ll do it myself.

  —FUCK OFF!

  Oh, Lisa would have had a lot to say about all of this.

  I force myself to move across the room, shut the door, and lock it. If you’re not with me, you’re against me. I’m sweating by the time I get there and have to sit down to recover whatever energy is left in my body.

  Seven minutes later, I tie off my right arm and jam a syringe into the big fat vein running through the middle. I’ve forgotten about Ella before the plunger is all the way down.

  This is exactly what I needed.

  Black.

  73

  *It’s three months ago.

  I’m on my way into work when that twat Michelle sees me on the street and looks awkward. Surprise, surprise, she doesn’t want to see me or talk to me or acknowledge my existence. But she approaches me anyway. Makes eye contact with me, for Christ’s sake.

  Fuck, she’s gonna yell at me about all the phone calls. The point was to get Lisa’s attention not to have a sit down with her BFF. So, what are my options? Tell her to piss off and keep moving? No good. That’ll get right back to Lisa and we’ll be three steps back. Listen patiently and nod? I know she’ll use that insanely condescending voice and I’ll feel like vomiting, but that’s probably the best play. The listening, not the vomiting. Alright, bitch. Bring it on.

  Michelle walks right up to me and puts on a face that’s equal parts disgust and sympathy. Like I said, always with the condescension. She offers her condolences and I think she’s being funny or sarcastic or something.

  —If there’s anything I can do . . .

  If there’s anything you can do? What would you do for me? You can go fuck yourself to start.

  Wait.

  It dawns on me that she knows something I don’t. It dawns on her about the same time.

  Manhattan is so fucking loud.

  —Christian, I thought Lisa’s mother called you.

  —Why would she call me?

  She starts talking but I already know what she’s going to tell me. Just like I knew Dana would bring Lisa to my apartment even though I never invited her. Just like I knew I shouldn’t marry her even though I had to. I knew what Michelle was going to tell me and as much as I wanted to not hear it or run away or clamp my hand over her fat mouth I did nothing. Nothing. And her words spilled out all over me and I heard them.

  Lisa is gone. Gone. Gone. Gone.

  I turn and walk away. Michelle might still be talking.

  The details filter in through my fog as I float down the sidewalk. Lisa stepped off a curb. A bus didn’t stop. There was a head injury. Nothing they could do. Happens every day. Everyone is so sorry. It was in the Post.

  No wonder she wasn’t calling me back.

  74

  The Black releases me after two intense days.

  I wake up naked in my own filth once again. The water bottle is empty and across the room, this time crushed flat. The clothes I was wearing have been thrown out an open window. The chairs from my dining table are scattered across the floor. This appears to be the result of having been stacked and knocked over. Every dish and glass in my kitchen is broken and on the floor. My front door is still locked from the inside. I remember nothing. It’s early afternoon.

  I take a quick inventory of my body. A few scratch marks. An impression of my teeth still visible on my wrist and starting to bruise. My thumbnails have been pulled out. I feel thinner.

  Beyond that, I am fantastic.

  I feel like a new man. Refurbished. I might even be energetic. My reflection in the bathroom mirrors lacks any of the deep cuts and hideous disfigurements I was given during the beating forty-eight hours ago. As if it had never happened.

  I run my hand through my hair and a clump of it comes out easily. And then another. I shower and the water finishes the job, washing away whatever was left on my scalp. My eyebrows wipe away. My pubic hair brushes off completely. My hair clogs the drain and if I cared whether or not the tub emptied I would clear it. I am now hairless.

  I air dry standing in front of my drawings, half of which are still strewn across the floor. Staring at them. Trying to upload the arrangement into my consciousness as a whole. A shabby representation of the unfinished masterpiece constructed in a medium in which I alone work. There must be a hundred sketches. I cannot take my eyes off of them.

  My father yelling.

  My mother crying.

  The purse.

  The washing machine.

  The cop’s forearms.

  The stoop.

  The tension.

  The fat cop.

  I know I’m right about this.

  Outside, my clothes are all pretty close together. I must have thrown them out fairly recently since this is New York and you can’t leave anything of any value on the sidewalk without someone walking away with it. People watch as I go from naked to dressed in my discarded clothes right there in the open, but no one says anything.

  I walk straight over toward Cordoba’s office, eating three breakfast burritos on the way. I can feel my stomach ripping the food apart, breaking it down and shipp
ing it out to the cells who so desperately need it. My metabolism is revved. Redlining. The closer I get the better I feel. As if the magic meds took me so far down the rabbit hole I’m still slingshotting back up even now. I’m riding the momentum of recovery. Flying. I internalize the feeling and savor the tingle racing around the inside crown of my head. My brain is dancing. I don’t even want a drink. I haven’t been able to say that for years. Christ, I’m high on life. And I can’t wait to die again.

  Approaching Cordoba’s building, I remind myself that I’m that much closer to being whole again. That much closer to realizing the potential Lisa saw in me. I’m clearing out roadblocks and I’ll never again be unavailable. I’m evolving.

  I know a lot of this is mania but why can’t I make it true? Why can’t I live the dream? This is the kind of transformation that brings people back together forever.

  Her front door lock is broken. The door is slightly ajar.

  Before I can process this, I run head on into Goose’s smirking face.

  He’s on his way out of her building and in what would appear to be a rush but stops when he realizes who I am. That fucking grin. And me fully recovered. I force myself to breathe evenly. Maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is one more thing my new self can check off his to do list, huh? I’m going to kill this piece of shit and this time it’ll be a fair fight.

  —What are you doing here?

  Goose smiles a little broader as if he knows I’m ready to throw down. He jerks forward enough to make me think he’s throwing a punch and I don’t flinch one iota. He shrugs it off with a chuckle but I know he’s recalculating his attack plan.

  Why would he be in Cordoba’s building? Is he a patient? Could he possibly be seeing her as well? For what? What are the chances that the two of us would be using the same underground doctor regardless of the reason?

  Unless he’s not a patient. Unless he followed me here when I came before.

  To do what? Who even knows what’s going on in this building besides me and her? My anger and aggression and confidence has quickly curdled into a whirling eddy of questions and I have almost forgotten that I intend to murder the fucknut in front of me.

  Goose tires of waiting for me to make a move. He shakes his head, clucks his tongue, and walks past me, bumping my shoulder as he goes. Like I’m not even worth the effort. The option to follow him is wide open. Run after him. Tackle him. Beat him.

  But I’m right here. I’m ready to die. That’s what I need to be doing. I need to get to Cordoba.

  Oh shit.

  Cordoba.

  I hit the stairs running and take them two at a time. Her front door is wide open and I can smell the blood before I get into the office. Inside the stark front room, Cordoba lies sprawled across the couch with her head turned awkwardly enough that I know for sure she’s dead. My shoulder hits the doorframe as I walk backwards without even realizing it. I’m repulsed but I can’t stop staring. Her neck is broken and both eyes have syringes jammed into them. Her legs are crossed at the ankles and her arms are spread wide as if she were going to hug me for the first time. She has been posed. This is what I get for being optimistic.

  He killed her.

  He knew how important she was to me and he came up here and killed her. Why her and not me when he had the chance? What’s the point? To torture me? Squash any chance I have at rebuilding myself? Imprison me in my own life? I was so close to picking the lock and now that’s over.

  I’ll never be brought back again.

  I have nothing. I have nothing and nobody and I’ll die alone and ignorant and it won’t be long from now.

  I’m dead already.

  There’s nothing left for me. Cordoba was the last friend I had in the world. I know friend is the wrong word. Accomplice, maybe. Either way, she was it. Ella might as well be a stranger for all the honest emotional interaction she’ll allow herself with me and I’ve done such an admirable job of alienating myself from anyone else who ever showed me the smallest kindness that I am a self-made social outcast. I knew Cordoba for only days but I feel even emptier now that she’s gone. I should call the police or see if she has a next of kin that should be notified, but she’s dead and neither of those two actions will bring her back. Besides, I know she was alone like me. Dead like me.

  Cordoba’s bloody, syringe filled eyes stare up at the ceiling. I follow the gaze to see that written in blood, I assume shot from the syringes before using them to defile her face, is a message. To me. Happy now?

  Where is he?

  Where is that fucker who thinks I will not fight back?

  I’m still flying from the magic meds and feel like I could tear an ox in half. The buzz in my head is forcing euphoria on me. Cordoba lying there with needles in her eyes is infusing this internal rapture with shrill, shooting adrenaline streaks of horror. They’re feeding on each other. One amplifying the other. The realization that I am out of options fuels my absentee gunmetal gray cloud of depression to return with a vengeance, roiling and churning on top of everything else. Medically induced happiness steeped in profound shock and top notes of suicidal tendencies. My new base line.

  75

  (Sigh)

  The saddest part is that this is entirely our man’s fault.

  Every tragic turn of this hopeless tale has been effected by the old boy’s own clumsy hand. Every heartrending abomination of his recent past can be traced directly to his own actions. The inveterate self-saboteur’s predicament is bleak at best and it is plain to even the dimmest of outsiders that his best next action would be to resign himself to alerting the authorities and accepting his share of whatever blame is to be doled out. And naturally, a commitment to a hospital or mental facility is in order as well.

  But, as you must already know, he will do neither.

  His state of mind is not one of acceptance or contrition or supplication, but rather revenge. He has suffered provocation beyond endurance. There are no degrees of emotion involved. His perspective is pure and undistracted. The incandescent rage of indignation boils over and our man rejiggers his agenda accordingly. A grievous sacrilege must be avenged. Beyond that, there is no further thought.

  He calms himself, if only to focus harder on what he will do next. His eyes scan the room one last time, not for sentimental reasons, but to soak in fully the details of Cordoba’s untimely demise. He nods, now fully realized in his murderous state of grace. Calmly, he exits the good doctor’s office and moves down the stairs, gaining momentum as he goes. By the time he crosses the threshold of the building, he is running at full speed, and you would be well advised to steer clear of him. Collateral damage is no concern to our man.

  Pity, really. There was a time when the old boy held promise as a husband, as a lawyer, as a human. Not so, anymore. Not so at all.

  And now there is nothing left but to congratulate our man on his previous accomplishments and bid the malignant whelp Godspeed in what is left of his disquieting adventure.

  Best of luck, old boy.

  76

  *It’s three months ago.

  I’m alone.

  I stand in a cemetery about thirty yards away from the funeral Lisa’s family has arranged for her. I know most of the people sitting around the grave. They don’t know I’m there. Or they do and they’re ignoring me.

  Someone is talking. It must be the rabbi. I recognize the voice. Same guy who married us. The only person here who can’t hear him is Lisa. She went black. Gone. They’re all sitting around an empty vessel.

  Lisa once told me she’d prefer that no fuss be made over her body when she died. Burn it. Donate it. Toss it. Whatever. I know she told her mother the same thing, but here we are with what I’m assuming is an expensive casket and a grave with a stunning view of Southern Philadelphia that must have cost plenty. What a waste.

  Someone notices me, points me out to Lisa’s mother. They whisper together and shake their heads. They’re wondering why I’m standing out here. I don’t know if they think I�
��m being disrespectful for staying this far away or getting this close.

  I turn and walk away like it never happened.

  77

  *It’s two months ago.

  The doors close.

  I’m sitting on the subway at the beginning of what I know will be at least a four-hour ride to nowhere. I know because I’ve done it every night for the last eight nights.

  I’m staring at a secretary who’s knitting fingerless gloves for someone she cares about and wearing her riding-the-subway-home shoes when it finally hits me that Lisa is never coming back to me. I can’t explain the logic behind holding out hope this long but there it is, newly shattered on the floor in front of me.

  Okay, then.

  I stand up and walk out of the car and into the next car and then the next and then the next. I hate when other people change cars when the subway isn’t too full. I guess their point is to simply keep moving. I know that’s my point.

  The last thing she said to me was that sometimes things in life don’t work out and that we have to accept that. Worst philosophy ever. Things could have worked out. Somehow.

  I get to the end of the train and turn around. There are other people in the car. A nanny with her four-year-old charge. An Asian couple. A family of German tourists blabbering about how to get to Ground Zero. There’s a teenage boy by one of the doors. Standing there with his backpack and his earbuds and his life potential.

  The train comes to a stop. As the doors open I make sure to bump the kid’s shoulder good and strong. He’s relaxed and slack and has one of those bodies that I can already tell has to be beat a lot to feel anything. Like melted rubber.

  He doesn’t react the way I want him to so I shove his soft shoulder. Finally, the little turd reacts.

  —Yo, what the fuck?

  I swat his iPhone out of his hands. It hits the floor and we both know it’s broken. No more gangsta rap tonight, Junior.

  He swings and I lean into it making sure his fist hits me square between the eyes. This generation is so entitled they can’t even punch without a little help.