by AE Woodward
Realizing that two weeks have already passed makes my breath hitch. All of a sudden, I can’t breathe again. The air feels thick and stale. The antiseptic smell makes my stomach churn, and my mouth waters as bile rises in my throat. I turn my head away, breaking Tommy’s gaze as I bite back the nausea. I don’t need him staring into my soul and making me feel guilty for grieving. My whole world is gone, and it’s my fault. How am I even supposed to begin “dealing with things.”
“Katie, please, you’ve got to start talking to someone… anyone. Don’t go back there, please, Katie. You need help, more help than the drugs can give you.” He pauses and clears his throat. “You know, the doctors aren’t going to let you stay here forever. You’re going to have to leave sooner or later, and I’d like you to be ready for it.”
I can hear the strain in his voice as he begins to choke on his own words, “I can only keep Mom off your back for so long.”
I feel terrible for inflicting more pain on my brother, whom I love dearly, but I don’t see the need for communication, the need to convey thoughts and feelings to other people. Being alone with these familiar feelings—the anxiety, the guilt, the sadness—reminds me of that little girl I once was. The one who had withdrawn before.
I have no thoughts.
I have no feelings.
I am nothing but a broken person.
A shell of the woman I had worked so hard to become.
I shake my head as a single tear streams down my cheek. I know I’m letting my past control me, but I can’t find it within me to fight anymore. My whole world, my reason for fighting, is gone. The devil inside of me was slowly taking control again. I’m no longer of worth. There is no reason for me to keep on keeping on.
Tommy stands up so fast his chair skids backwards across the floor, creating an unbearable screeching sound. I flinch.
“You’re a coward, Katie.”
The harshness in his voice cuts me to the core, shattering me somewhere deep within. And deep down I know he’s right. “Michael, Zoe, the baby… they’re all dead, but they would want you to keep living. But you’re not. You’re nothing but a ghost. You might as well spit in their faces, because you’re throwing away your second chance at life.”
He thinks he knows, but he doesn’t. No one does. This is all my fault. They’re dead because of me. I’m here to serve my punishment. This is the universe’s way of making things right. Payback for my past and the mistakes I made. For him to think that I deserve a second chance at life is ludicrous. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it. Tommy just needs to understand that there is no saving me. I’m not worth the trouble. I want to be alone with nothing but my own despair.
So, in order to get what I want, I turn my head towards him, the hurt visible on my face. We make eye contact as I start to open my mouth and I can tell that, for a split second, he’s hopeful.
And then I begin to scream, growing louder with each release of sound.
His face falls and he immediately turns to leave. I watch helplessly, feeling sad for my brother as he walks away, brushing past the nurses who are rushing in to sedate me. My screams grow to sound foreign, so much so that I don’t even recognize the noise as the nurses scramble with needles and medication. It doesn’t take them long this time—they’re getting more efficient.
Within seconds, the numbness spreads through my body and the tortured sounds coming from my mouth stop. My eyes fall shut. I hear nothing but the sounds of my own breathing as I drift off, away from the hurt.
Darkness.
Complete and utter loneliness.
Nothing to disturb me, nothing to make me sad. Just a blank canvas lying before me. These are the moments that I feel okay, the times where I don’t know where, or who, I am. Unaware of what has happened to me, lying here without so much as a care in the world.
I hear a voice calling to me, but I ignore it. I don’t want to disturb my moment of peace. But the voice persists. “Katie?” I hear them call to me again. The voice is unfamiliar and it piques my interest.
My eyelids are so heavy. I want to see who it is but I can’t manage to open them. I faintly hear the person continue to speak to me. Despite my interest I press my eyes shut, attempting to block them out from my restful slumber. I’m not ready to wake up yet. The darkness surrounds me and there hasn’t been a nightmare yet, which means the drugs are still coursing through my veins.
I like the loneliness.
“Katie,” the voice says again, but this time there’s an agitation that the last call did not possess.
I don’t care. Whoever it is can continue to be pissed with me because I don’t plan on opening my eyes for anyone, or anything. I still have time before the haunting of my conscious begins again. With the haunting imminent, I deserve to escape for a little bit, so why can’t they let me suffer in silence like I want to?
“Katie, you need to open your eyes,” the voice pleads, “I’m just here to try and help you.”
My curiosity stirs. Finally, some honesty. Everyone always promises they’re there to help. This one, whoever it is, actually understands that they’re only trying, because there is no helping me. I am already lost, and they realize it.
I let my eyes flutter. It’s a struggle but I eventually manage to keep them open. The room is dark, with only a slight light peeking from between the curtains, illuminating a man sitting in a chair pulled close to my bed. He’s older, perhaps in his forties, with peppered white hair, his rugged face covered with a five o’clock shadow. He leans forward in his chair as I make eye contact with him.
“There you are,” he says, “I knew you were still in there somewhere.” He sticks his hand out, hoping to shake mine, but I just look away. “Katie, I’m Dr. Stevenson,” he continues, despite my lack of interaction.
I roll my eyes at the wall. Another doctor. Someone else to study me. I’d met more doctors in my few weeks here than I could have ever imagined, and that was saying something, given that I’d seen a lot of doctors in my life.
I started at an early age. Therapy sessions, speech language pathologist appointments, psychologists… but this? This level of attention was impressive. I didn’t think I was that interesting.
It was as though I was a project for each of them. I was shocked every time a new one made their way in. They’d try to get me to open up to them, then excuse themselves into the hallway. Thinking I couldn’t hear them, they’d discuss me at great length. Apparently, I was unusual, and it made me that much more appealing to them.
I had to hand it to the place, they didn’t give up easily, that was for sure. But the truth is, there’s nothing for them to study.
Because I’m not crazy.
I’m heartbroken.
I’m guilty.
I’m living the life I deserve, and there is no fix for me. Not unless this guy is offering me a ride in a time machine—a chance for me to fix all my mistakes, so that this wouldn’t have happened. But even though I’d love nothing more than a second chance, I seriously doubt that is about to be offered.
Instead of listening, I look up and start counting ceiling tiles.
One… two…
The counting doesn’t work and my thoughts start spinning out of control. It’s not fair, they left me here.
Alone.
Alone with nothing but remorse.
I want to be with them. I want to die. But I’d never take my own life because I don’t deserve the easy way out. No, I deserve every breath I can’t breathe, and every tear I can no longer cry. This is what was meant to happen. This is my punishment.
The doctor’s voice cuts through my thoughts again. “Katie, I know you’ve been through a lot. You’re hurting badly. All of us desperately want to try and help you, but we can’t do our job if you won’t talk to us.” He pauses as if waiting for me to respond. He’s obviously an optimist. “You know, physically you’re healed. The cuts and scrapes, the bruises, they’re all healing. We’ll be sending you home soon.”
I�
�d been pulled from the wreck with no more than a few deep cuts. A grand total of ten stitches were needed in order to fix my shell of a body. Just ten stitches. Tommy had fallen off his skateboard when he was twelve landing on a shingle and thus cutting his forearm. There had been so much blood for a tiny graze and Mom had rushed him to the doctor, where he got five stitches. If I’d gotten a total of ten stitches from this accident, did that make it only twice as bad as Tommy’s fall? Regardless of the amount of stitches I received, my inner self would never completely be the same again. I was sure of that. The pain I have bottled up deep within me is greater than I could ever have imagined. There were days when I wondered how I would make it through the next minute, but somehow I always did. Without fail, just as expected, I made it through, even though I didn’t want to.
The doctor continues talking, even though I’m not looking at him. “But you still have issues in there that you are going to need to work out. I’m hoping that you’ll be willing to work with me.”
I turn my attention to the doctor and study him for a moment. Offering me a half-hearted smile, he looks sincere enough,. Obviously my mother is getting her way.
I know I’m going home soon. It was inevitable, and it worries me. There will no longer be intravenous drugs to aide my sleep whenever I needed them. Family will surround me. Chances are I will see him, and it will remind me of all that I have done, and mostly, of all I have lost.
He leans closer to me, his piercing icy blue eyes staring deep into my soul. “From what I understand, this isn’t the first time you’ve experienced something like this.”
He breaks his stare and flips through my very thick file. “You know what, you don’t even have to talk to me during our visits. There’s no pressure at all. I’ll even come visit you at home so that you don’t have to endure the smell of the hospital.”
The promise sounds appealing. Nobody likes a hospital, and once I leave here I know I’ll never want to come back. I let out a deep breath, thinking about the only positive this place has to offer. The drugs. While they are definitely a perk, if I never spend another second here it will be all too soon.
“So what do you say, Katie? Do we have a deal?”
Dr. Stevenson offers up a clipboard with some papers, and as he places the clipboard in my lap, I quickly glance over the documents, using my thumb and forefinger to flip the pages. I know even before reading them that they are consent forms. What else would he be offering me? I scan them quickly, noting that they are standard consent forms. “I want you to know, Katie, that these not only give me permission to work with you on your treatment, but they allow me to discuss things with your family and any other people that may have an integral part in your recovery.”
I nod, and without so much as another thought, I grab the pen attached to the top of the board. I know that Dr. Stevenson just wants to get me to talk, but that isn’t going to happen. There is nothing for me to discuss.
But even though I know that I’m not going to open up, I know that it wouldn’t hurt to have someone other than my family there to talk at me.
I start to sign my name along the bottom of the page, but I freeze after scratching my first name.
Katie…
My heart thumps in my chest. Writing my name, that’s when it hits me. Knowing that I’m really no longer a “Baker”, makes my lip quiver uncontrollably and I bite back the tears that are threatening to out my emotions. The pressure of my teeth on my bottom lip is so hard that I’m sure I’ll taste blood any second. I hold the pen in place, focusing on steadying my breathing.
Dr. Stevenson shares a look with me before speaking again. “It’s okay, Katie. Anyone in your shoes would have a hard time with this. You’ve lost yourself, and that’s what I’m here to help with.”
A lump forms in my throat and a scream threatens to break out. I can’t help but wonder if he planned this. Did I really have to sign consent for treatment, considering the state I am in? Couldn’t they mandate it, purely based on the fact that my mental health is precarious at best.
“I know this must be terribly difficult for you, Katie,” he says calmly. “I cannot even begin to fathom what you are experiencing.”
I shove the pen back under the clipboard and push it back toward him. Just “Katie” will have to be good enough for now. He glances down at my half finished signature.
“It’s a start,” he mutters to himself, before stuffing the clipboard under his left arm and standing up.
It’s only then that I realize that “Katie” was my first form of communication since that fateful day. My first word, written or spoken, that has conveyed meaning to someone, outside of my own head.
I realize that this guy is good, and knowing that makes me slightly nervous. But then I remember I am too far gone. Saving me will be impossible, of this I’m sure.
I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping to be able to return to the dark slumber I had abandoned earlier. I also hope he will take the hint and leave. But mostly, I want him to know that he hasn’t won.
“I’ll be seeing you soon, Katie,” he promises before he stands to leave.
My heart races as I lie on top of the sheets, wearing the standard hospital Johnny and some scrub pants that one of the nurses gave me in order to hide my hairy legs. She tried to talk me into getting back into some personal grooming habits, but I just didn’t see the point. She blathered on about it making me feel better, but I knew it wouldn’t help.
The television is on, but I’m not really watching. More like just absently staring at the screen. My fingers twirl a strand of my once vibrant, dirty-blonde hair. It has grown dull and lifeless, just like me, but I can’t find an ounce of me that actually cares.
I have come to a realization. The good doctor, whom I won’t refer to as a doctor from here on out, seems to think that there is hope for me, but I know better. I know what I did, and I know that this is my punishment for all the lies I told—all the truths that went unspoken. There are things that nobody knows about me, things that brought all this pain and heartache to me, and the longer I lie here, the more I understand that this is what was meant to happen. If I’d only done things differently then maybe things would be better, but they’re not.
My pain is my reminder.
Fate can be a beautiful thing. The universe works in mysterious ways. It brings you hope, makes you feel alive, like the world if full of possibilities. But the truth is that fate can also be a cruel bitch. Fate has a darker side to it that most people don’t like to think about. You make choices that lead to your fate, but what about when you don’t have a choice in the matter? Then it’s no longer your fate. It becomes something predetermined that you have no control over. Some may call it destiny. I call it kismet.
I can remember of learning the word kismet during SAT prep. I remember Mrs. Saxton, my English teacher, standing in front of the room reading the Webster definition straight from the dictionary. “A power that is believed to control what happens in the future.” Everyone took it at face value, that it was just another word for fate, but for me it seemed like so much more.
Why have it be just another word for fate? There must be something to differ it from a word that was supposed to be so beautiful. It was then that I imagined kismet to be the darker side of fate. The evil twin. The side that no one likes to talk about.
I had no choice in all this, the death and despair. Instead, I am paying for my poor decisions. To refer to all of this as my fate seems unjust, a cruel and unusual punishment, in fact. So as bad as it hurts, I realize that this is the dark side of fate for me.
This is my kismet…
Time passes.
How much, I’m not exactly sure—a day, maybe two. Despite the haze, and my attempts at forgetting, the interaction with Dr. Stevenson is still fresh in my mind. To make him less intimidating I decide to just refer to him as Stevenson. There’s something about him that makes me feel like my carefully constructed walls are in jeopardy. Like they’re not as strong as I thought
, filling me with doubts about my resolve to be alone. Perhaps it’s because I want to remain tucked safely behind those walls, and I fear that he can chip it all away until it crumbles down around me. He seems confident and somewhat cocky, things that I wish I could be. Things that I never was. I can’t remember a time where I felt sure of myself. It was always about just making it one day at a time.
Despite the fact that Stevenson, scares me, I refuse to cave. My walls are up. Permanently. I am glued in place with my anguish.
My pain.
My tears.
My guilt.
They are all reminders to me. Reminders of all the love and the life I lost, and of all the hurt that has filled my short time on this planet. I have lived through more heartache than one person ever should.
It started when I was only five. I had never been very sure of myself, and making friends was always something difficult for me. My only friend outside of my brother and his friends was a girl over at the farm next to us. Olivia spent her days with me, roaming the barn and fields. We grew anxious to start school that summer, nervous… excited even. Especially when we found out that we were going to be in the same class. My excitement grew into uncertainty, so much so that I was so scared that first day. I’d always been an anxious child, and the only thing that helped was knowing that Olivia would be there to hold my hand.
I got to school that morning and found my seat marked by my nametag. I sat quietly, sneaking peeks at her empty desk, waiting for her to come. Only she never made it to school that day. My only friend, Olivia, fell in the pond near her house as she walked to the end of her road to catch the bus. Her parents found her when they left for work a mere half an hour later.
That was the first time I ever felt alone. My parents were aware that I struggled with anxiety, but after losing someone so close to me, I didn’t know how to cope with my grief. I cried for days, and once I ran out of tears, I turned it all off.
