by Matthew Fish
“Died?” I mutter in a stupor.
“Do you have any family that can bring you into city—is there anyone else that we should notify?” The nurse asks.
“It’s just me now… I don’t have the car.”
“Hold on,” the nurse says as I can hear the voice of a man speaking in the background.
“Emma…,” A man says as he takes over the conversation.
“Yeah,” I whisper, not knowing what more I could state at that moment.
“This is Brian Metcalfe—I’m very sorry that you had to find out this way,” The man says as he attempts to speak in a tone which I imagine he would find comforting to me. The truth is no tone or manner of speaking will bring me back from my sense of complete withdrawal from reality. “I was your mother’s boss—you remember me right? I want you to just stay there and sit and wait. I will be there as quickly as I can, alright? Everything is going to be okay.”
“Sure,” I quietly speak as I wrap a bit of the phone cord around my arm. I hear a click on the other end followed by the familiar drone of the dial tone. I collapse to the floor as the phone crashes down beside my feet. I feel as though my world has completely ended. My mind returns to the idea of ending it all. After all, I have no one now. Not my mother, nor Alexis, nor a father—no family that I am close to remotely, no good friends…at least, not since I withdrew from society after my sister killed herself. I pushed them all away; one by one they fell away from me like dominoes.
I look around for some kind of way to end it. Perhaps, I should go into the kitchen and slit my wrists—then the idea pops into my mind that I will not do it right and that I’ll end up like my grandfather, in pain slowly dying in a smelly depressing hospital. I know that I do not have much time, this Brian Metcalfe guy will be here soon—I do not remember him, and I am sure that everything is not going to be okay. I’ll be forced to ride with this stranger to a hospital to see my mother’s dead body. I’ll be forced to attend another funeral. I can’t deal with any of this. Just the thought alone sends my mind spiraling into throes of anxiety. Despite the overwhelming urges, I find it impossible to remove myself from my spot. It is almost as though I am glued to the floor with a small length of phone cord wrapped around my arm like so many bracelets. Moments and moments pass. I curse my mother’s dead name when the door opens without any resistance. Once again, she has failed to lock the door despite my constant requests that she do so.
With heavy tears flowing down from my eyes, the large old man picks me up in his arms and carries me like a firefighter from a burning building—only it is not the building that is on fire, instead… it is me. The rage, desperation, depression, and overwhelming sense of loss are so great that I feel that I might simply explode from all the pressure.
7/23/2012
It has been a little over a year since my mother passed away. I went through the motions, despite not feeling as though I had a single ounce of strength to do so. I attended her funeral. With the help of Brian Metcalfe, I filed all the paperwork necessary. I inherited all of her possessions, the car, the house, and the savings account with a little over three-hundred thousand dollars in it. To an outsider this would seem partially like a blessing—all that money, the nice house, the newer car—yet, to me it is a curse. I do not want any of it. I mean it is great to not be homeless, or poor, but what I want most out of life is to not be alone. I do not have that comfort. Instead, all I am left with is depression.
I am sitting in a waiting room. The décor around me is adorned with different sized earthen pots that sit upon the floor. A dark marble table sits across from a brunneous couch. Different shades of brown seem to be the major choice of color for the waiting room aside from a large paneled painting of a foggy road that travels through a brilliantly emerald green forest of Elm and Dogwood trees.
“Emma?” My therapist asks as she nudges me from my relapse into memory.
“Julie,” I quietly say as I nod and follow her into the office.
The office is filled with shelves containing numerous books on psychology and its various disorders and supposed treatments of said disorders. I suppose I am, however, a bit jaded. More pictures of serene countryside landscapes fill the wooden slatted walls and a tiny waterfall spills over a small pile of polished stones on an end table. I sit on a different couch that is also brown; however, contains many variations of brown in a crisscross pattern of different shaded lines. Julie Riley sits in a huge black brown office chair with bronze metal supports for its armrests. She relaxes in her chair as she thumbs through a small notebook that she holds in her hand.
“So today is a very big day for you…” Julie says as she averts her brown eyes towards me and nods.
“Today is the day that my sister killed herself, today… three years ago.” I respond almost robotically.
“And how have you been holding up?”
“I thought it would feel different today…but it really doesn’t. I woke up today and drove into city. It was on my mind all last night. I was dreading it. Today though, I feel just empty—kind of indifferent. Is that bad?”
“There is no good or bad here,” Mrs. Riley says as she wheels herself over and adjusts her large frame in the chair. “There is no concrete way on how you should be feeling right this very moment. If you feel a certain way then that is how it is. It is what it is. Every day is going to be a little bit different. The main thing here is that you are improving.”
“I do not feel like I have improved much,” I say as I think back. I still mostly stay at home—although I do get out a little bit more. I don’t go grocery shopping; I get all my food delivered. However, I attend these sessions three times a week. I pick up medication to help control my severe depression.
“You have improved a great deal I would say. Do you remember the depressed girl who would sit for nearly the entire hour without saying a single word?”
“I do…I’m still depressed.”
“But you opened up. You learned how to talk to me. All you need to do now is to allow others into your life the same way that you allowed me in.”
“I don’t trust people very easily…and if I do—what is to say that they just won’t die? I almost feel that it is better for me to be alone even if I hate it. At least then I don’t have to lose anyone.” I say as I look away and attempt to hold back a tear that threatens to trace down the slender features of my face.
“Eventually you’ll come to realize that you have to accept that life and allowing others in—is ultimately unpredictable,” Mrs. Riley says as she places a hand reassuringly upon my knee. “Just because there is a possibility that the worst could happen does not mean that you should deprive yourself of any happiness. I know you’ve been dealt a bad hand.”
“A series of them…”
“Yes, a series, but you cannot give up. You have come so far. You took responsibility for yourself and did what you needed to do in order to survive. You did not give up on your own life. Now the next step would be to not give up on other aspects of your life.”
“I’m only here because I’ve always been too scared to kill myself,” I say honestly as I finally break and allow a single tear to escape which I quickly wipe away with the cuff of my sleeve from my light jacket. “I only do what I have to do to live because I do not want to die a slow or painful death…”
“You said there was more… That you wanted to be remembered, that you wanted to matter.”
“I cannot see any possible way that I could ever matter to anyone. I see no opportunity to be remembered well, or even cared about when I do finally die,” I say sadly. I regret disclosing that bit of information for I knew that it could be easily used against me—even if that was not the intention.
“That will come later,” Julie says as she nods, “You do small things for yourself and eventually you’ll be able to overcome the larger tasks that you need to get yourself back on track. It could be small—you could go to the beach.”
“It’s not a beach, it’
s more just some sand and a lake,” I say out of spite.
“Well you have the money to travel, leave Wisconsin for a while and see some of the world—go and visit a proper beach.”
“The thought of leaving this area, sometimes even my house, seems impossible. It is almost as if I get these hooks buried into my skin and they pull me back. “I’ve tried to go somewhere else…it just doesn’t work.”
“Then that is another thing you should work on…” Julie says as she fills out a short list and hands it to me. “You have made great progress in the past six months. I just want you to work on a few simple tasks. The first one being: Try getting out more, small steps. I know it’s not an ideal beach, but I’ve been told that it’s nearly indistinguishable from the ocean… Second: Try and make contact with someone…anyone that could bring you the slightest amount of happiness, and finally: Do something. Travel, return to college. Work on something artistic—I know you say that you have no ability but perhaps you just haven’t discovered your talent yet. This last one you can take all the time you need—but the first two…those are important first steps. Can you do this for yourself?”
I take the list and fold it up and place it in my jacket pocket. I sit silently for a moment as I bite my bottom lip apprehensively. “I’ll give it a try.”
“Good.”
“How do I meet someone?” I ask, genuinely confused by this task. After all, if it were just that easy, wouldn’t I already have met someone? I see people wandering the streets on my way here, or in line waiting for my prescription at the Walgreens. I see other troubled people in the waiting room as I am leaving. None of these people seem remotely approachable to me in the slightest bit.
“You could try and volunteer somewhere—an animal shelter perhaps. Do you like animals?”
“I’m not particularly fond of them as pets or being around them for that matter…” I say honestly. “They’re messy and not as interesting as people make them out to be.”
“Well then that is perhaps not your avenue,” Julie says with a short pause as she attempts to think of something more suitable. “Would you like to get a part time job somewhere? That could be a great way to meet new people. From what I tend to know, the easiest places to make friends are either through some kind of volunteer group, work, or school.”
“So it should be one of those then?”
“It doesn’t have to be specifically,” Julie says as she rubs her chin with the top of her silver pen. “You could even take a chance and just approach the first person you find attractive.”
“I doubt that I could pull that off.”
“Life will never surprise you unless you give it a chance to.”
“Did you read that off of a bumper sticker?” I say rather rudely, and then ultimately end up feeling bad for it.
“I think in a book actually,” Dr. Riley says in reply. Sometimes I forget that she is used to my snarkiness. “But it is a valid statement.”
“I think that I’m not an interesting person,” I finally concede. “I look at myself and I see nothing redeeming. I am not good at anything. I’m unusually critical of people. I’m even kind of rude. I don’t mean to be—it is just that I don’t know how to act or respond properly.”
“Well then we will have to add that as number four on the list: work on yourself and be happy with who you are.”
“I don’t think I’ll ever get to a point where I’m happy with myself.”
“That doesn’t mean that someone else will see something within you and help you draw it out.”
“I’m not saying I won’t try,” I whisper as I sigh heavily. “I’ll do my best.”
“Then that’s all I am asking for.”
*
I pass the beach on my drive home. I contemplate stopping for a moment. It is a nice day after all. The midday sun hangs brightly in the sky and envelopes me through my car windows with the same familiar warmth that reminds me of being a part of those I have lost. I pull into a parking lot. I stare for a moment as the glittering water sparkles and the waves gently lap against the tan sanded shore. For a moment I am overcome with sadness once more for the water reminds me of Alexis’s beautiful eyes. I see her face in my mind. A terrible flash of a false memory encroaches its way into my head—the image of her hanging lifeless and swaying gently from the cord around her neck. In tears I drive away. I head out of city and into the country as I make the short drive home. I think about swinging by the cemetery. It seems like something I should do—but mom is there with her. I don’t need to go, I don’t want to go. I arrive back home. I pull the car, a silver 2010 impala, into the rock driveway and park beneath the shade of a tall oak tree.
A rabbit crosses my path as I walk the short path that leads to my front door. A red door stands at the top of three weather worn concrete steps with black iron rails on each side. I place a silver key into the lock and give it a turn. The door creakily opens. I keep meaning to oil the door so that it is not so noisy; however, I am constantly forgetting to do so. It is on a short list of things that either need repaired or replaced in the house, such as the screen on the back door, a window on the second floor doesn’t shut all the way, and the basement needs to be swept for spider webs—but like I said before, I dislike going down there and will avoid doing so as cleaning the cobwebs ranks very low on my priority list.
I enter the house. In the warm spring sun I can smell the faint scent of cedar hanging about the air. I pass the main hallway that once had pictures of my mother and sister upon them—I have taken most of them down months ago as I could no longer stand to see them. A taped up moving box full of family photos now resides in the basement. I wonder if the pictures miss me, as sometimes I do miss them.
I make my way up the iron spiral staircase, which squeaks with each footfall, and head up to the second floor. I pause for a moment as I stop and think back to when things in this house weren’t so quiet. Now it is just me—me and the house. A house that is far too big for one person. I have given some thought to moving, but I find that the thought of leaving gives me much more terror than the idea of simply staying. After all, despite everything that has happened here, it is where I am most comfortable. My therapist says that I should work on leaving my comfort zones if I want to get better. I disagree when it comes to this house.
I think of going back into my mother’s room. There is still some paperwork that I have to go through. I have been tossing old statements and documents over the past few months. Today I do not feel like it. Most days I do not feel motivated. Today I feel depressed. It could be because that today is the day my sister died—but it is most likely not, most days I feel like this. I wish I didn’t. Then again, if wishes were granted so easily then no one would ever want for anything. I am not naïve enough to believe that I am the only one in the world who feels this way—I just wish it weren’t me. Then again, I suppose that is the fate of anyone who has depression. They don’t want to feel the way they do. They envy those who can operate normal lives the same way that I imagine that the dead envy the living.
I continue up to my room. I kick off my shoes and peel out of my jeans and kick them beside my bed. I adjust my pink panties with the little red flowers to be a bit more comfortable against my skin as I lie upon the old couch. The sun feels warm against my bare legs. I pull my shirt over my head and remove my bra allowing my bare breasts to be exposed to the sunlight. I then arch my back and push down my panties, tossing them onto the pile of clothing on the hardwood floor beside me. I allow the warmth of the sun to cover my naked body like a calming blanket of radiance. I close my eyes—even with my eyes closed, in the sun, there is never a sense of darkness. I clear my mind of all thought. I brush my fingertips against the soft, warm skin of my stomach. I allow my hand to slide down between my legs and begin to stimulate myself. I bite my lip to keep all the noises that want to quip out at bay. I begin to rub my wet fingers more roughly against my body. I can feel a bead of sweat dripping down from my neck; it both tickles a
nd excites me further. I let out a short whimper as a hot, pulsating feeling of pleasure overwhelms me as I come. I let out a contented sigh as my damp hand drops down to the floor. I curl up into a ball and bury my face against the side of the couch. The side of my naked body is warmed in the sunlight. I fall asleep in the ambit of its comforting glow.
That afternoon I have a nightmare. It is not the first time. In my dream, the sun descends to earth and comes for me. A massive glowing ball of white, it blinds me. It does not blind me with darkness—instead, a forever endless brilliant white. I can feel hands all over my naked body. They are not here to comfort; instead they pull me into the flames. I scream out as I burn alive. Then, after I burn away to nothing, there is finally peace. However, that peace does not last long as I find myself blindly trying to make my way down a dark hallway that extends seemingly forever. Behind me a terrible sound of scratching—like a thousand nails on chalkboard—chases me. I begin to run, but constantly stumble. I cannot outrun the strange grinding noises. I am thrown to the ground as my chin strikes against the floor. I feel a crushing sensation, like a thousand hands against me squeezing all of the air out of my body. Eventually I die. I always die in my dreams.
My heart races as I awaken. My body is covered in a heavy sweat. My chest rises and falls quickly as I attempt to regain a sense of calmness. My body feels hot. I look to my side and see that my skin has turned slightly red from the sun. I turn to my other side. Despite the nightmares, I still feel comforted by the sunlight. I suppose, in a way—I am disturbed. I suppose if I weren’t, I would not be seeing a therapist. The same sun that terrifies and haunts me—allows me to remove myself from my situation in life and give myself some small amount of physical pleasure and peace. I do not know why I also allow it to bring me pain as I constantly burn from staying too long in its sanctuary. I suppose I have a kind of skewered relationship with the light. Almost an abusive relationship—even I know how messed up that sounds. This is the one secret that I have kept from my therapist. My one strange pleasure that I feel would make her think less of me in some way. I cannot explain it. Perhaps, in a way, I am crazy. I certainly feel that way sometimes… both crazy and depressed.
