Thirty Hours: a semi memoir of psychosis and love

by KL Evans

  “That’s not what I do.”

  “That’s what the police reports say you do.”

  “Of course they say that,” Christian retorted. “The cops don’t appreciate what I have to offer. I’m trying to bring culture and beauty to my community. Uncultured swine can’t understand that.”

  “And you don’t think there are better ways to bring culture and beauty to your community than spray painting train cars and abandoned buildings?”

  “Where else am I supposed to hit that shit, Seth?”

  I shrugged. “An art studio?”

  He exhaled loudly as if I were a two-year-old to whom he had explain something for the hundredth time. “You don’t get it and I can’t make you get it. Painting—the way I paint—makes me happy.” He cut his eyes toward his mother. “Smoking makes me happy. Not going to college makes me happy. These are all my choices about my life.”

  “Christian,” I said, “it sounds like everything that makes you happy will either ruin your life or kill you.”

  “Like I said. My choice.”

  There was clearly no swaying him and I didn’t have the ability to right then anyway because my phone was suddenly buzzing in my pocket. The time on it read 12:42 PM and the caller ID read Millwood Mental Health and Substance Abuse Treatment Facility.

  “Seth McCollum,” said a voice belonging to someone who wasn’t you. “I’m calling in regards to your girlfriend, Charlotte Reid.”

  Hour Twenty-Five

  Oh Charlie. What strange territory we discovered.

  I’ve had a lot of time to think about all of this, and I wonder if what’s happened here is we’re merely a product of the emotionally-handicapped, intimacy-allergic, Netflix-and-chill generation, even though there was never any Netflix-and-chilling. Not specifically, at least. You were never my girlfriend and I was never your boyfriend and neither of us had actively sought a relationship with each other of any kind. At least not beyond my need for you as a subject and your need for me as a means to lose your virginity. And yet, we somehow stumbled into a sort of haphazard pseudo-intimacy and interconnectedness.

  You suddenly needed me in a deeper way and I was suddenly responsible for you, according to myself for reasons I couldn’t really understand, and according to you because you made me your emergency contact, and according to the psyche hospital, which released you into my care after your in-patient treatment was deemed complete. I left Missy and Christian with Ava, went across town to pick you up, helped your frailer-than-usual self into my car, and drove you back to your house.

  Despite the fact you’d proved yourself to be irresponsible with pharmaceuticals, you were loaded down with a host of prescriptions for depression, anxiety, and insomnia. The staff at the hospital told me I was to administer them to you on an as-needed basis, which meant you were that much more my responsibility and needed to be under my near-constant supervision.

  The traffic on the highway took on a hypnotic effect as I drove and each car I passed seemed to perpetually beg the question, How did this happen? How did this happen? How did this happen?

  And then I’d periodically glance at you, skinny and coiled up like garden snake in my passenger seat; your baggy clothing clinging to your bones like you were nervously in the blue with impending ecdysis.

  Is this what a marriage is like? my mind inquired of itself.

  Marriage was never even on my radar, though because of statistical likelihood, I figured it was an eventual inevitability. But, at that moment, I found myself extremely wary of the idea of even speaking to another woman for a very long time, even as a work subject. Because look how that turned out with not only you, but also with homeless Ava, unwittingly my new partner in research.

  I told myself, I’m just going to help Charlie get on her feet and then I’m going to wean her off of me, and then that’s it. This is way too much. I’m definitely not doing this again.

  Not that I’d actually done anything to cause this—or did I?

  I did. We both did. I’d needed you for work and then I was too intrigued—and admittedly attracted—and you were too hell-bent on using me.

  Contrary to my internal monologue, once we arrived at your house you appeared ready to wean yourself. Wrapping yourself in a blanket on the couch and pulling the gray cat into your lap, you told me, “Thanks, Seth. You can put that bag anywhere. Lock the doorknob on your way out if you don’t mind.”

  Again with the Seth business. Suspicious. Weird. “I think I should probably stick around for a while.”

  “You don’t need to do that. I’m fine.”

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Charlie, but you look like the furthest thing from fine. I don’t think you’re the least bit fine, especially after everything that happened.”

  “You’re really sweet for being so concerned. I’m fine.”

  You smiled at me and looked like the serpent from the Garden of Eden, while your eyes glinted and tempted me. Surely you don’t think there’s anything wrong with me, Seth. Surely you don’t believe everything those people told you at the hospital. Surely you want to come share this couch with me right now.

  Temptation indeed, and I took a seat next to you. “I think I should hang out here for a bit.”

  “You don’t need to do that, Seth. I’m not your responsibility.”

  Funny you put it that way. “Actually, Charlie, that’s exactly what this feels like now.”

  “That I’m your responsibility?”

  “Yes. Someone has to take care of you and it’s somehow fallen into my lap.”

  “Are you trying to be my boyfriend or something now?”

  “No,” I said. “Even though that’s what you told everyone on the staff.”

  “I never said that.”

  “Well, for some reason they all believe that’s what I am.”

  “You’re not my boyfriend, Seth.” Your eyes glinted silver again and that time they blatantly challenged me. “You made it clear you don't like me like that.”

  Just for the record—not that it really matters now—I totally like you like that. I’ve always liked you like that, as much as I didn’t want to admit it. Liking you like that was never the problem.

  “It's not that I don't like you like that, Charlie. I just didn't know you and you were my subject and—”

  “And now?” Still challenging me, and I shrugged. “You can go, Seth. I'll be fine.”

  “I really can’t go, Charlie. It would be irresponsible and—”

  “It would not be irresponsible,” you hissed, suddenly displaying something other than subdued indifference and beguiling eyes. “I’m not a child. I don’t need you to babysit me.”

  “Actually, the folks at the hospital said you need something like a babysitter.” I shook the bag of prescriptions I was still holding. “And I’m supposed to give you these.”

  You sniffed and rolled your eyes. “You can take those with you. I don’t need them.”

  “You do need them. Maybe if you’d been taking them before, you wouldn’t have… you know… used the hell out of them.”

  Your eyes flashed similarly to the moment right before you slapped me, but you immediately settled back into that strange, serpent-like posture.

  “Okay, Seth,” you said, sweet as lilies in May. “You can stay as long as you like.”

  Even then, your compliance seemed a little too effortless, but I didn’t harp on it. You nestled into the cushions behind you and let your head tilt affectionately toward me and I was at a loss for what to do next.

  “You’re supposed to have some of these now,” I said.

  “Okay, Seth.” So suspicious. So weird.

  I fetched you a water and you swallowed two pills. You even opened your mouth and lifted your tongue so I could check to see they were gone.

  While I was inclined toward your open mouth and checking, you kissed me and we did that for a while. For a good, long while, and I don’t know why I thought that was a good idea. Maybe I was simply complying w
ith something as well.

  We’d been doing that a lot, especially after the group therapy session, and it just seemed like the thing to do, but right then it suddenly seemed like more. The pills must have kicked in because you yawned against my mouth and it was so much like the first time that I instantly felt as drugged as you probably did.

  It didn’t help that you also murmured into my lips, “Mmm Seth.”

  Suspicious. Weird. But I was hardly paying attention anymore. I was paying even less attention to the suspicious and the weird when you finally released my lips and dusted your eyelashes against my cheek.

  “Will you take me somewhere, Seth?”

  “Depends on where.”

  You gave me what appeared to be a completely genuine look, but everything was a bit foggy because all my blood seemed to have rushed south. “To the community college. One of my to-do list items is to finally finish my program.”

  I was responsible. I saved you. You were finally going to get your life together and it was all because of me. That’s what I believed. I believed all of it.

  Hour Twenty-Six

  I’m trying to think of all the times I felt happy being with you. I wish I could say, “I’m trying to think of all the times we were happy together,” but you’ve made it clear you were never happy being with me. You were never happy, period. You faked it, of course. You were a fucking master at faking it and for a while there I really believed we were happy.

  From the moment I met you, you were always kind of a pain in the ass, but I can’t deny that I liked you even before we became what we were—or are—even though I couldn’t and still can’t figure out what this is.

  But it was that moment, when you asked me to take you to register for classes, that I noticed I felt really good all of a sudden. Really fucking good. Because the responsibility I felt for you shifted from being a thorn in my side to a personal triumph of sorts. Vindication. Validation. I was the one who saved your life when I found you and then I saved your life again because—obviously—it was all my influence and presence that made you decide to get your act together. Of course, part of it was the therapy, but you’d never have lived long enough to go to therapy if wasn’t for me. It’s too bad you’re full of shit and none of it actually did anything for you.

  Anyway. That’s when I felt happy. That’s when I noticed I was enjoying being with you. Driving you to the college, waiting for you while you met with an advisor, taking you to get your books, and then stocking your fridge with actual groceries made me feel good about myself. I was finally doing something to help someone and seeing the positive result instantly.

  I didn’t even know you knew how to cook, but there you were: in your tiny kitchen, throwing together a stir-fry or spaghetti or chicken and steamed veggies that you actually sat down and ate with me. It was unbelievable. And afterward, I washed and you dried and we were fucking adorable, like two kids playing house. Then I’d hang out with you for a little while and we’d talk. You’d flip through your textbooks and show me things in them, or I’d read to you from the paper or the latest book I’d downloaded. Before I left, I gave you your evening and morning meds, and kissed you goodbye like you were my girlfriend, but you weren’t.

  It was funny. You were very attentive to making sure I knew that’s not what this was, and I always agreed with you and never questioned why you felt the need to constantly point that out. Maybe that delineation is what made this odd anti-relationship of ours so easy and enjoyable. There was no pressure or commitment or expectations of any kind.

  Actually, there was a little pressure. Every time I kissed you, there was pressure. Pressure to continue and pressure restrain myself, and a few times, the pressure of me pushing your back against the front door while I was trying to leave. The pressure of you pulling me flush against you, but I always remembered myself and you had long since stopped asking for more. Having sexual gratification dangled in front of me only to be perpetually snatched away drove me a little mad, but it was yet another thing that compelled me to spend every single evening with you.

  Several things compelled me to come every evening, but the main thing was just you.

  You. Just you. I just wanted you. I just want you.

  Please come back.

  Charlie? Can you hear me? Are you even listening?

  That was such a good time. I wonder if it was actually as good as I’m remembering it, or if it seems better now that I know it’s probably over.

  Your EMT program began in January and I’d known you for a total of about five months at that point. Several of your classes were in the evening, so we saw each other less and less, but I still came by with your meds every day and left them in small plastic bag under the stone where you’d originally left the key I still carry to this day. I also left you notes with them.

  Behave yourself, Charlie.

  Have a good night at school.

  Call me if you need anything.

  I’ll see you on Saturday.

  On Saturday mornings, you climbed into my passenger seat with your books and I took you to different places to study. It was less to change up your studying environment and more to keep you out of your house. Your house is kind of creepy. Between the weird paint job in the living room, the freaky sign over your kitchen entrance, and all the foil on your windows, it’s a little eerie. After your overdose it was undeniably eldritch and I couldn’t help noticing you staring at the door to your sister’s bedroom with a melancholic expression, so I did what I could to get you out of there as often as possible.

  We went to different libraries and bookstores and cafes, or if the weather was uncharacteristically nice, we’d go to Trinity Park. Or the Fort Worth Botanic Garden. Oh, how you loved the Botanic Garden. Most of the flowers weren’t even in bloom when I took you the first time, but your eyes lit up like silver fireworks.

  It was still a bit early in the year for visitors and that first time we had the entire place to ourselves. We sat on a bench flanked by solid, towering oaks for a while and I realized it probably wasn’t the best place for you to study because you mostly just stared at the trees and the ponds and the sky.

  And while you stared at our surroundings, I stared at you and your insanely long hair whipping in the crispy breeze, and I thought about the group therapy session when you poured out words of gratitude for me and the feeling I felt. Which, of course, made me think of the feeling I associated with you yawning against my mouth, which, naturally, led to me thinking about every time I’d kissed you.

  “Seth McCollum.”

  “Huh?” I didn’t realize that you were now staring back.

  “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “I’m not looking at you like anything,” I said, which was a lie and I knew it. I just didn’t know everything was written all over my face.

  You raised an eyebrow at me before lifting your chin and looking at the sky again. “Maybe we should stop doing this.”

  “Stop doing what?”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t be hanging out so much. Maybe we shouldn’t be fooling around all the time.”

  “Well… I mean, maybe we shouldn’t be fooling around, but the hanging out is kind of important. You shouldn’t be holed up in your house alone all the time.”

  “I wouldn’t necessarily be alone,” you said, slapping your textbook shut and tossing it on the ground. I knew the place was too distracting for you to study, but neither of us were very inclined to leave.

  “Who would you hang out with? Dave?” I asked, attempting to conceal my distaste while you pulled a handful of grass out of the ground and shook it in your palm.

  “Oh my God,” you said, and then scoffed, and then blew the grass all over me. And that would’ve been really obnoxious had I not been distracted by the perfect O your lips created. “You’re still jealous of him.”

  I flicked the blades of grass off my clothes and scoffed back at you. “Charlie, I have
never been jealous of him.”

  “Then why bring him up? I’ve spent way more time with you than I ever spent with him and I’ve known him for like two years.”

  “I brought him up because I’m legitimately wondering who you would spend time with if I wasn’t with you all the time. Dave’s the only person I know of that even remotely qualifies as a friend of yours. Are you friends with any of the people in your classes?”

  “Please. I’m there to learn, not make friends.”

  That was such a great answer and it made me smile because you were so focused. You were getting your act together and I was responsible. “So who would you hang out with if not your classmates or Dave?”

  You looked at the sky and exhaled long and loudly. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Seth McCollum.”

  I should’ve paid attention to this. This was you dropping hints. Since your time in the psyche ward, every time you said anything appended with my full name, you were trying to tell me something. I don’t even know if you were consciously doing it. And the sudden shifting back and forth between using my full name and first name only definitely struck me as suspicious. Weird. But right then I wasn’t paying attention to that because you saying, I don’t want you to get hurt, Seth McCollum felt like being called out for something and I got defensive for God knows why.

  “What?” I feigned incredulity and chuckled. “How would I get hurt?” For good measure, I gave you a light and very platonic shove against your shoulder.

  “Because we’ve been fooling around a lot and we’ve been spending all our free time together since I got out of the hospital, so I’m worried you’re getting too attached to me.”

  “Oh come on, Charlie,” I said dismissively, and this was seriously the worst thing I could’ve said. “First of all, the fact that we randomly make out every once in a while is not a big deal. That’s like nothing. People who are just friends do that all the time.” People who are really “just friends” actually don’t do that all the time, but I was banking on you being naïve because you were a virgin and I was still on the defensive. “Second, the only way I could possibly get hurt is if I had serious feelings for you and you led me on and stabbed me in the back or something. None of which is the case here.”