AJ
A plunge into insanity.
That is what they tell me.
But I disagree.
A plunge into my arms, dropped by the weight of my own denial. A plunge into the person everyone feared, but knew lingered. A plunge into the person that everyone told me to be, but hated – myself. And as I wait outside of this quite dreary structure, two words pop into my mind.
Forgive and Forget.
Ice air, like the lips of the one I loved, licks my face, exposing my fire breath. The warmth of my pockets does not defeat the frigidness of the air.
This bleak structure, better known as the hospital, towers above me, silhouetted by the moonlight. I stare at the ground and try to deflect the ominous feeling.
A pebble finds its way between my shoes, and my shoes move to kick it. It moves back and forth between my tattered footwear, and I can’t help to think; does the rock fear me as I fear the hospital?
This, my friend, is insanity
The opening of the sliding doors causes a closing for my preparation – a preparation no well prepared for. Ice. But this time not of the air, but the fingers that lift my chin. If only you saw her face. As if I was foreign to her, she drew back, and closed her eyes.
I closed mine. Unfortunately my ears didn’t close. I managed to make out four words.
What the hell happened?
What happened is a different matter – a matter more vile. A matter that was caused by the current situation. So which was worse? The matter itself or the hands that created the monster? I wonder. I speak. Harshly.
Where the hell where you?
She holds something before me, something I have not seen in a long time. Not since her – icy lips. These things, this offer, are arms. Outstretched. Offering a hug. Awkwardly I embrace it. Shuddering. Forgive and Forget. I hope she feels it as well.
Somehow I doubt it.
Jenna
Could you imagine that drop?
The drop of your guts.
As you fall from a plane.
Stung by an invisible force. Whirled into vertigo. A place visited less than desired. Sick, twisted, I know. But without the freaks, how would the normal feel normal?
Ponder that.
You see I never intended to follow through. I never intended to release. Release. Connotative, eh? Intentions don’t always follow through. I know this – from experience. But this time is different. I will not release, not expand my lifesaver.
My parachute.
A murder so delicately planned, romantically executed. Murder so wonderful, not harming anyone. Impossible? Well if suicide is murder, than you are not hurting anyone. Why? Because I am a no one. Tormented by my own warped mind. Thrown into times that are dark.
Very dark.
And when my eyelids slip open the darkness fades. The sound of rushing air is replaced. Abolished. Abolished by the same sound every day. Right before I hit the ground. Right before it ends. I wake. A nightmare? No. More like a desire. A want. A need.
A wish upon a falling star.
If only I was the star. Falling that is. Through nothingness. A nothingness that intrigues the masses. I would give it all away – senses, to be the star. Falling through my nothingness. Someone would care. Someone would notice.
At least a little.
Zane
Could you let it visit?
Let it feast on your thoughts.
I have no choice.
Something so big with such a small name. Tumor. Something so big, but yet so small in size. Small enough to ruin a life. Ruin you own.
Feasting on your mind. Literally. Two words. Huge impact. Brain tumor. Kind of a let down. Kind of? It is a letdown, 100% smack in the face. The doctor’s words sting my brain. The half that isn’t rotted away.
Three months.
Three months could mean a variety of things. Happy things. Three months till marriage. Three months left till parenthood. Three months till you turn 21. Three months till vacation. As much as I’d like to tell you something positive, I can’t. I am not a liar.
Three months of life. Three months of enjoyment. Three months to take it all in. I wish they’d stop lying. Just say it. Loud and clear. They lie on. I know otherwise. As optimistic as I am, I know what they are trying to tell me.
Three months until death.
I do not want to die. I know where I’m going. Into the ground to rot. Heaven? Sometimes it’s easier to believe when He doesn’t damn you. My point – I am not afraid.
It’s her. Lips of warmth. Lips of comfort. Embrace. Collide. Collapse. I shut my eyes. Smile. Take in that warmth that my hospital room fails to provide. No I am not scared, my friend.
I am in love.
Three months till marriage. No. I already told you. I glance to the calendar. January 17th. A date sticks out. May 16th. Why? I shall tell you. Three months till marriage. No.
I believe it’s five.
AJ
My name is AJ.
At least part of it.
The part you need to know.
The part I hate about arrivals – arriving. Especially with mom. Remember your embarrassment when your mom dropped you off. I do. I still do. I clench my teeth.
“Just keep calm,” she says. Disregard. I’m a pro.
How to enter a room he right way: stay calm, cool, and collected. Accept questions. Don’t be afraid to lie. Don’t panic. Try to divert discussion of your issues.
How to enter a room the wrong way: freak out. Panic. Don’t know what to say. Freeze at every question. You get the idea. If I wrote a dictionary, I think the definition of entering a room the wrong way would be something like this.
The way I enter a room.
Voices collapse. Smiles fade. The room holds is breath. Here I am. Surprise. Of course I kept this thought to myself. Others seemed to struggle with this concept.
“Oh my God…” she stammers. Yes, my lovely Aunt Gretchen. She was never one for words, nor for kindness. When I think back I don’t quite blame her. Hair. Face. Skin. Breath. Personality. Many changes. I guess a person changes a lot in 10 years.
I sure did.
Five year old cousins, now fifteen. Beautiful aunts now wrinkled. Established looking uncles, now hunched over. A grey haired grandma, now white haired. A mean mom, now a monster. A 45 year old dad, now dead. A 14 year old me, now a 24 year old me. Changes.
You could call it that.
I stroke my head, tripping over thoughts. Secrets. Whispering of a dark past. Over a darker present. Somehow they relate. But that’s for later. For now I’m speechless, and it seems my family is too. You see it wasn’t the drugs that changed me. It wasn’t the alcohol. No. It was them. My family.
Funny to think they once cared.
Jenna
Well you can call me crazy.
Call me a freak.
It’s only the truth.
I’ve been swimming in Prozac dreams for 6 months now. Dreams of death. Catastrophe. Chaos. Love. Seems the dreams of death aren’t caused by the pills, but my very own imagination. You’d think I’d get rid of the pill. You’d think thoughts of suicide would be a red flag saying, see your doctor. There’s a problem.
I like these feelings.
Torment is my massage. Running up and down my back, soothing all of the pain. Hate. A freak is truly a freak when they recognize there own freakishness. Should a 13 year old girl want to end her life? Step in front of a moving car. Jump into the pool and never resurface. Fall face first into the bonfire at my friend’s party. No. She shouldn’t. Does that fact stop me? No.
Maybe I don’t want help. Maybe I prefer my arm to be covered in cuts and scratches. My I prefer the slits in my thighs. Maybe I prefer my dreams. Maybe these maybes are truths.
I believe they are.
So who do you turn to when everyone is terrified out of their right mind of you? Not your parents. They are just as scared as the “normals” are. My counselor. Ha, funny. Adults are about as useful as “don’t do drugs” signs. For those of you who didn’t pick up on that, I’ll clarify.
They’re not useful.
Besides, I don’t need any human friends. I have friends of my own. Friends I can converse with without them saying a word. My knife. My music. Myself. Yes I am my own friend. It’s kind of funny. I kind of feel like a “normal”. Wanna know why?
I’m afraid of myself.
Zane
Eternally postponed love.
Happily never after.
No wedding cake for me.
Could I reschedule? Of course. But what’s the point? Just to fade away the next week. Just to leave her crying, alone. Dark. It would fill her heart. No, I couldn’t do such a thing. Wedding cake. I never really enjoyed cake, but wedding cake. Just something about it. It makes me think, no matter how horrible it tastes, it would still be heaven on earth in my mouth. I think about this. I come up with a conclusion.
I’m sure of it.
I tend to be sure of a lot of things. Like math. Debate. Traveling. And yes, of course, my favorite – gambling. Gambling is a way of life. You can gamble many things. Toys, cars, money, people, and yes even your life. People say gambling is unhealthy, but I beg to differ. It gives you a rush. Gives you a feeling of control.
It’s like that ultimate rush you get from breaking a rule. You feel bad, terrible, but it’s so fun. It’s so fun. Just like gambling. So to all of those people who say gambling is stupid. A waste of time. A waste of money. I disagree. Gambling is fun. Betting is fun. And there is nothing wrong with it.
I’m sure of it.
Otherwise how would I be able to pay for my hospital fee? Okay, well my love does come from some money. Who am I kidding? She is bathing in money. So maybe I’m not such a good gambler. Or maybe gambling doesn’t like me. I don’t believe in good luck – oh no. Only a fool could believe in such a thing. But don’t run off thinking I don’t believe in luck. Luck is all around us. Breathing on us. Sucking the life out of us.
No, I do not believe in good luck. There is absolutely no such thing. Nothing you can say can make me think otherwise. Nothing. So don’t even try. Now I didn’t say anything about bad luck. It’s all around us. It’s there.
I’m sure of it.
