Impulse

by Ellen Hopkins

  for hasty interventions

  by loved ones. Or Fate.

  Three

  people, with nothing

  at all in common

  except age, proximity,

  and a wish to die.

  Three

  tapestries, tattered

  at the edges and come

  unwoven to reveal

  a single mutual thread.

  The Thread

  Wish

  you could turn off

  the questions, turn

  off the voices,

  turn off all sound.

  Yearn

  to close out

  the ugliness, close

  out the filthiness,

  close out all light.

  Long

  to cast away

  yesterday, cast

  away memory,

  cast away all jeopardy.

  Pray

  you could somehow stop

  the uncertainty, somehow

  stop the loathing,

  somehow stop the pain.

  Act

  on your impulse,

  swallow the bottle,

  cut a little deeper,

  put the gun to your chest.

  Conner

  Arrival

  The glass doors swing open,

  in perfect sync, precisely

  timed so you don’t have

  to think. Just stroll right in.

  I doubt it’s quite as easy

  to turn around and walk

  back outside, retreat to

  unstable ground. Home turf.

  An orderly escorts me down

  spit-shined corridors, past

  tinted Plexiglas and closed,

  unmarked doors. Mysteries.

  One foot in front of the other,

  counting tiles on the floor so

  I don’t have to focus the blur

  of painted smiles, fake faces.

  A mannequin in a tight blue

  suit, with a too-short skirt

  (and legs that can wear it),

  in a Betty Boop voice halts us.

  I’m Dr. Boston. Welcome to

  Aspen Springs. I’ll give you

  the tour. Paul, please take his

  things to the Redwood Room.

  Aspen Springs. Redwood Room.

  As if this place were a five-star

  resort, instead of a lockdown

  where crazies pace. Waiting.

  At Least

  It doesn’t have a hospital

  stink. Oh yes, it’s all very

  clean, from cafeteria chairs

  to the bathroom sink. Spotless.

  But the clean comes minus

  the gag-me smell, steeping

  every inch of that antiseptic

  hell where they excised

  the damnable bullet. I

  wonder what Dad said when

  he heard I tried to put myself

  six feet under—and failed.

  I should have put the gun

  to my head, worried less

  about brain damage, more

  about getting dead. Finis.

  Instead, I decided a shot

  through the heart would

  make it stop beating, rip

  it apart to bleed me out.

  I couldn’t even do that

  right. The bullet hit bone,

  left my heart in one piece.

  In hindsight, luck wasn’t

  with me that day. Mom

  found me too soon, or my

  pitiful life might have ebbed

  to the ground in arterial flow.

  I thought she might die too,

  at the sight of so much blood

  and the thought of it staining

  her white Armani blouse.

  Conner, what have you done?

  she said. Tell me this was just

  an accident. She never heard

  my reply, never shed a tear.

  I Don’t Remember

  Much after that, except

  for speed. Ghostly red lights,

  spinning faster and faster,

  as I began to recede from

  consciousness. Floating

  through the ER doors,

  frenzied motion. A needle’s

  sting. But I do remember,

  just before the black hole

  swallowed me, seeing Mom’s

  face. Her furious eyes

  followed me down into sleep.

  It’s a curious place, the

  Land of Blood Loss and

  Anesthesia, floating through it

  like swimming in sand. Taxing.

  After a while, you think you

  should reach for the shimmering

  surface. You can’t hold your

  breath, and even if you could,

  it’s dark and deep and bitter

  cold, where nightmares and truth

  collide, and you wonder if death

  could unfold fear so real. Palpable.

  So you grope your way up into

  the light, to find you can’t

  move, with your arms strapped

  tight and overflowing tubes.

  And everything hits you like

  a train at full speed. Voices.

  Strange faces. A witches’ stewpot

  of smells. Pain. Most of all,

  pain.

  Tony

  Just Saw

  A new guy check in. Tall,

  built, with a way fine face,

  and acting too tough to tumble.

  He’s a nutshell asking to crack.

  Wonder if he’s ever let a guy

  touch that pumped-up bod.

  They gave him the Redwood

  Room. It’s right across

  from mine—the Pacific

  Room. Pretty peaceful in

  here most of the time, long

  as my meds are on time.

  Ha. Get it? Most of the time,

  if my meds are on time. If you

  don’t get it, you’ve never

  been in a place like this,

  never hung tough from one

  call till the next.

  Wasted. That’s the only way

  to get by in this “treatment

  center.” Nice name for a loony

  bin. Everyone in here is crazy

  one way or another. Everyone.

  Even the so-called doctors.

  Most of ’em are druggies.

  Fucking loser meth freaks.

  I mean, if you’re gonna

  purposely lose your mind,

  you want to get it back some

  day. Don’t you? Okay, maybe not.

  I Lost My Mind

  A long time ago, but it

  wasn’t exactly my idea.

  Shit happens, as they say,

  and my shit literally hit

  the fan. But enough sappy

  crap. We were talking drugs.

  I won’t tell you I never tried

  crystal, but it really wasn’t

  my thing. I saw enough

  people, all wound up, drop

  over the edge, that I guess

  I decided not to take that leap.

  I always preferred creeping

  into a giant, deep hole where

  no bad feelings could follow.

  At least till I had to come up

  for air. I diddled with pot first, but

  that tasty green weed couldn’t drag

  me low enough. Which mostly

  left downers, “borrowed” from

  medicine cabinets and kitchen

  cabinets and nightstands.

  Wherever I could find them.

  And once in a while—not often,

  because it was pricey and tough

  to score—once in a while, I

  tumbled way low, took a ride

  on the H train. Oh yeah,

  that’s what I’m talkin
g about.

  A hot shot clear to hell.

  I Wasn’t Worried

  About getting hooked, though

  I knew plenty of heroin addicts.

  I didn’t do it enough, for one

  thing. Anyway, I figured

  I’d be graveyard rot before

  my eighteenth birthday.

  It hasn’t quite worked out

  that way, though I’ve got

  a few months to go. And

  once I get out of here, I’ll

  have a better shot at it. Maybe

  next time I won’t try pills.

  I mean, you’d think half a bottle

  of Valium would do the trick.

  Maybe it would have, but I had

  to toss in a fifth of Jack Daniels.

  Passed out, just as I would

  have expected. What I didn’t

  expect was waking up, head stuck

  to the sidewalk, mired in puke.

  Oh yeah, I heaved the whole

  fucking mess. Better yet, guess

  who happened by? You got it.

  One of the city’s finest.

  Poor cop didn’t know what

  to do—clean me up, haul

  me in, or puke himself. So

  he did all three, only dispatch

  said to take me to the ER.

  Hospital first. Loony bin

  later.

  Vanessa

  Cloistered

  I can’t remember

  when it has snowed

  so much, yards

  and yards of lacy ribbons,

  wrapping the world in white.

  Was it three years ago? Ten?

  Memory is a tenuous thing,

  like a rainbow’s end

  or a camera with a failing lens.

  Sometimes my focus

  is sharp, every detail

  clear as the splashes

  of ice, fringing the eaves;

  other times it is a hazy

  field of frost, like the meadow

  outside my window.

  I think it might be a meadow.

  A lawn? A parking lot?

  Is it even a window

  I’m looking through,

  or only cloudy panes

  of vision, opening

  on drifts of ivory

  linens—soft cotton,

  crisp percale—

  my snow just

  a blizzard of white

  noise?

  I Hate This Feeling

  Like I’m here, but I’m not.

  Like someone cares.

  But they don’t.

  Like I belong somewhere

  else, anywhere but here,

  and escape lies just past

  that snowy window,

  cool and crisp as the February

  air. I consider the streets

  beyond, bleak as the bleached

  bones of wilderness

  scaffolding my heart.

  Just a stone’s throw away.

  But she’s out there,

  stalking me, haunting me.

  I know she can’t get me

  in here. Besides, I’m too

  tired to pick myself up

  and make a break for it.

  So I just sit here, brain

  wobbling. Tipping.

  Tripping on Prozac.

  I wonder if they give

  everyone Prozac on their twice-daily

  med deliveries.

  Do they actually try to

  diagnose first, or do they

  think everyone is depressed,

  just by virtue of being here?

  My arm throbs

  and I look at the bandage,

  a small red stain

  beginning to slither.

  Did I pop a stitch?

  Wouldn’t that be luscious?

  The First Cut

  Wasn’t the deepest.

  No, not at all.

  It was like the others,

  a subtle rend of anxious skin,

  a gentle pulse of crimson,

  just enough to hush the demons

  shrieking inside my brain.

  But this time they wouldn’t

  shut up. Just kept on

  howling, like Mama,

  when she was in a bad way.

  Worst thing was, the older

  I got, the more I began to see

  how much I resembled Mama,

  falling in and out of the blue,

  then lifting up into the white.

  That day I actually

  thought about howling.

  So I gave myself to the knife,

  asked it to bite a little

  harder, chew a little deeper.

  The hot, scarlet rush

  felt so delicious

  I couldn’t stop there.

  The blade might have reached

  bone, but my little

  brother, Bryan,

  barged into the bathroom,

  found me leaning against

  Grandma’s new porcelain

  tub, turning its unstained

  white pink.

  You should

  have heard

  him scream.

  Conner

  Pain Isn’t the Worst Thing

  At least you know you’re not

  just a shadow, darkening

  someone’s wall, a silhouette

  thrust haphazardly into their lives.

  My fingers trace the sunken

  scar as I pace the plain room,

  counting steps from near wall

  to far, right to left. Eight by ten.

  Eighty square feet to call my

  own for the next how many

  days? Eighty square feet, with no

  television or phone, only two

  tiny beds, a closet, and one

  vinyl chair near the window—

  a window that doesn’t open,

  not even a crack for air.

  Two beds. Does that mean I

  might get a roommate soon?

  Some paranoid schizo, rambling

  on through the suffocating night?

  Well, hey. Maybe he’d think

  that he was the one who drew

  the short straw, having to share

  a room with some totally

  whacked-out freak. I wonder

  how long it would take him

  to realize I’m right as sin—it’s

  the rest of the world that’s wrong.

  I’m not even sure how I

  qualify for admission to

  Aspen Springs. Does wanting

  to die equal losing your mind?

  It Doesn’t Seem

  So incredibly insane to me.

  In fact, it seems courageous

  to, for once in your life, make

  others react to a plan you set

  in motion. Not that I meant

  to cause anyone pain, only

  to make them realize that

  everyone has flaws. Even me.

  Especially me. Hell, I’m

  so flawed I wound up here,

  with sixty defective humans.

  Odd, to think I made the A-list.

  I open the dresser drawers,

  start to put away my neatly

  folded clothes. No Sears. No

  Wal-Mart, but Macy’s. Nordstrom’s.

  I can see my mom, stalking

  aisle after aisle of designer

  jeans, intent on the latest

  style, perfect eye-catching fit.

  I hear her tell the silicone

  saleslady, Nothing for me

  today. I’m shopping for my

  son. He fails to comprehend

  fashion. If it wasn’t for me,

  I swear he’d choose nothing

  but T-shirts and khaki. Now

  where will I find the Calvin Klein?

  I Reach

  For a lavender Ralph Lauren />
  shirt, ironed into submission,

  collar starched into crisp, straight

  Vs, no hint of dirt or sweat.

  Back at school, clothes like this

  made me the cream of my senior

  class, at least in the eyes of

  twisted dream girls and cheerleaders.

  Oh yes, Mom’s expensive tastes

  went a long way toward getting

  me laid. Did she have a clue

  that all those dollars spent on

  haute couture allowed her sweet

  young son to feed his appetite

  for carnal pleasure—to divvy

  himself among a stable of fillies?

  As the vile green walls defy

  my stare, some evil makes me

  wad Lauren shirt and Jockey

  underwear into a wrinkled lump.

  Okay, maybe that’s a little

  crazy. Maybe I belong here,

  after all. Maybe crazy is

  preferable to staying strong

  when you just want to break down

  and weep. But big boys don’t cry.

  Do they? So instead I’ll just

  keep jamming clothes into drawers,

  grinning.

  Tony

  When You Try

  The big S, the first thing

  they do is lock you away

  by yourself, like you

  might try to do someone

  else in, ’cause you didn’t

  do yourself good enough.

  Then some lame nurse’s aide

  checks in on you every

  fifteen minutes, probably

  hoping you’ve found a way

  to finish yourself off and save

  them a whole lot of trouble.

  After a couple of days