GODDAMN VIRGIN ANGEL BABY: SURVIVING MY STEPDAD & SELF-DESTRUCTION
ONE DOOR CLOSES
I'm watching Susan Boyle's Britain's Got Talent audition, ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from Les Miserable, over and over again, on repeat. By on repeat, I mean I call out of work, self-isolate, and watch it over, and over, and over again, compulsively. I can’t stop crying. Considering I have a handful of problems already, this pattern isn’t exactly helping.
I’m pathetic. I’m suicidal over a dude who never even loved me to begin with, who’s British but lives in Hong Kong, who I dreamed of marrying on the daily. I’d say this is an all time low, even for me. I don’t want to be around anyone ever again, myself included, just the pixelated version of Susan Boyle belting her heart out to a crowd of non-believers, proving them all wrong.
It’s not so much that I want to kill myself, but it’s that I’m planning my death. And that it’s over a man? Gross. I always thought more of myself! Thought I’d off myself for some higher purpose. Kill myself, but not before acting in some epic work that changed someone’s life for the better. But not over a man. Never a man.
And yet, here we are. My sickly heart feels like it has actually exploded inside of my chest and is now bleeding out a blood that is poisoning my system from the inside which will inevitably lead me to die. Which might be a relief considering the amount of pain I feel.
All this death talk has my mom worried. Real worried. Usually I spare my mother all the gory details, the depression, the suicidal ideation. When we talk, I take care of her, not vice versa, mainly because my mother has a knack for making me feel lower when I’m low. When I don’t think there’s any possible way I could get lower, I will somehow go down another notch or three. But this time, I can’t keep my mouth shut.
“I can’t go on, Mom. I can’t.”
“Yes, you can. You can and you will. There is no other choice.”
While my mom has never been able to comfort me, it’s nice that she wants me to live. It seems like she’s actively trying to keep me breathing. Since she lives in Georgia and I don’t, and since she understands what it’s like to be treated like a Solo Cup at a frat party, she wants me to go on meds.
“Dad can prescribe you something.”
Zoloft again. Nope. Didn't work then. Won't work now. No more drugs.
"Well then, therapy's all you got,” Mama says.
I have no motivation or willpower to find a therapist and actually go to them. No, I’m too depressed, too holed up in my studio apartment with Chik’n nuggets, Brownie Bites, a bottle of Jack, and Susan Boyle to step foot in the real world to get help.
That is also another area where my mother has stepped up to the plate. She’s spoon fed me this therapist who’s located in an office that’s about five minutes away from where I live.
Dang. No real excuse on why I can’t go. My fish died? I’m pregnant? Explosive diarrhea?
“Just go.”
“I look like hell, Mom.”
“It’s not a fashion show, Becky. You might really like her. It might help.”
“Oh yeah, sure, this woman might be my Lord and Savior who can somehow solve all of my psychological problems and save me from myself!”
“Rebecca! Stop that! You should go to St. John’s Church-"
“Yeah, yeah, Mom. I’m going to go to the therapist.”
#
I'm sitting in the waiting room waiting to spill my deepest, darkest secrets to this stranger, and I can't help but wonder why every therapist's office always has a little tiny waterfall with a motor louder than the sound of the falling water itself.
The clock strikes 6PM and on the nose, a tall, thin, pretty woman opens the door. Not what I was expecting. I thought more squatty, glasses, librarian type. Then again, this is Los Angeles!
Dr. Cynthia Lermond greets me with blonde hair, blue eyes, and a petite nose. She wears professional clothing that makes me take her seriously, but also not too seriously. She looks like a professional, not an asshole, and wears heels even though she’s already insanely tall. You go, girl.
We both sit down and I scan the room. Four purple walls surround me. Into it. Except there’s a shower curtain over one wall as a piece of art? Some decoration? Hmm. Not to mention, the Furby in the corner staring at me. What kind of weird shit goes on in here?
I let it slip as I remember this isn’t her room, not her decorations, she rents this space. Breathe.
“So, what brings you in today?”
Funny you should ask.
“Well, I’m in love with this guy who’s Mom went missing in the Philippines but he definitely doesn’t love me because he untagged all of our photos together and said it was because he didn’t want to make his ex-girlfriend feel bad but I know that’s a crock, he’s a man so he’s definitely cheating on me with her or someone else and he doesn’t care about me and I can’t pretend to understand what it’s like to have a Mom missing but he literally should’ve just let me go the two times I tried to leave instead of pulling me back in and giving me hope and fucking me. I’m obliterated.”
I take a deep breath.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Cynthia responds empathetically.
Cynthia listens to me jabber on and on and on and on about Jai, and then she asks me.
“Is there anything else you think you might want to work through in therapy?”
Are all therapists mind readers, or am I just an easy read?
“Yeah. Well. There was some sex stuff growing up, ya know, but I’m over that. Already worked through it.”
Cynthia looks at me, raises her eyebrows a bit.
“I talked with a therapist about it once, so I’m good. It’s the past.”
I don’t know if I believe myself, but I know she doesn’t believe me. She thinks my past is my present. She thinks what I’m not dealing with is dealing with me.
To be honest, she’s probably right. That pain, those memories, they’re festering deep within me, bubbling up from below, rearing their ugly heads at the most inconvenient moments.
I can’t just come out and say what happened with my stepdad. What he did to me. He’s still in my life and still with my mom and still revered in my family. He’s the person who pays for my college loans, the one who helps keep a roof over my head and the Tom Kha Gai takeout on the table.
But more than that, I can’t just come out and say what happened with my stepdad because sometimes, I can’t admit it to myself. Sometimes speaking something out loud makes it real. I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I don’t know if my mom is ready for that. I’ve stuffed these memories so far down for so long, I’ve told myself lies to keep up with the reality I want everyone to believe, myself included, that sometimes it’s hard to know what’s real anymore. I don’t know what I know.
“Alright then,” Cynthia responds. She lets my past go. For now, anyway.
I guess the real question is, Have I let my past go?
#
I’ve always loved flying. Going to another place. Leaving it all behind. Feeling lifted. The weightlessness. The freedom. Nothing quite like it.
I'm on a plane flying approximately 7,233 miles to doorstep the man I love, my ex-ish. If for some reason you’re unfamiliar with my term ex-ish, it means he didn’t ever commit to me. If for some reason you’re unfamiliar with the term ‘doorstep’, it means I’m showing up on his doorstep without his knowledge or permission. Which seems like a great idea, especially when traveling this distance.
I’m traveling to Hong Kong to see Jai. Yes, I technically texted him to ask if we could video chat during the timeframe that I arrive in Hong Kong, but he’s probably forgotten. His mother is still missing in the Philippines, pretty sure a budding romance isn’t his first concern.
That’s just it. Now I’m thinking it wasn’t fair of me to ask for commitment from him. I know love isn’t all heart and stars, and I know I’m in love. How could I ask for anything for myself when he’s in such pain?
Speaking of pain, I can’t go a full three minutes without thinking of him, looking at his social media, checking to see if he’s online, fantasizing about him walking through my door. Hell, I’ll even take flowers sent to my doorstep, yeah, that’ll work, too.
But I haven’t received those hydrangeas yet and this, this is exhausting. I can’t sustain this, I can’t even get by at this rate. I’ve been seeing Dr. Cynthia once a week and bawling my eyes out three times a day.
Additionally, I’ve been pooping my brains out for six months straight, which is impressive considering the amount of food I’m not eating and how constipated I generally am. This throbbing headache prevents me from hearing myself think. I’m drowning in the unknown and I need to either come up for air, or die.
Hence this flight. I’m finding out once and for all where Jai stands, and damnit, I hope it’s love! I hope I arrive and his face lights up, that he’s beaming from ear to ear as he takes me in his arms, squeezes me so tight my head implodes, then he may or may not dip me backwards, but he definitely kisses me. Yeah. And then we, you know, and then I don’t have diarrhea anymore. Because reciprocated love is the ultimate Pepto-Bismol.
Luckily the lady on the plane beside me told me he’s still in love with me and that it’s all going to go beautifully. She knows because she has psychic tendencies, and I know that because she told me, so it’s got to be true. She also has a trustworthy face which helps her case. That and it’s what I want to hear.
This is going to be the best story, the most triumphant moment of my life. I know it. I’m positively affirming it. I’m visualizing it and making it my reality. I’ve seen Bridget Jones’ Diary enough times to know that if you chase after the somewhat dismissive British guy half naked in the rain, he receives your love with open arms. He even buys you another diary.
I’m writing in my diary when the pilot says we’re preparing for landing. Somehow the flight manages to take forever and no time at all. The psychic gives me her number so we can hang out on the off chance her prophecy isn’t true, even though we both know it is. I am lovable and he does love me. I just know it.
After leaving the gate, I find the ground transportation area with little difficulty. Yes universe, you are on my side. I hop in the cab at 9:45 PM and give Jai’s address to the taxi driver, written in English. He looks at me like it’s Chinese. I mean, ai yah, it would go over way better if it was written in Mandarin. I didn’t exactly think this one through, did I?
I’d call someone, maybe even Jai, but the only snafu is that my friend at home has my phone. She’s posing as me through texts to my family, most importantly, my mother. Mama can’t know my plans, so instead of a lifeline, my phone, I have my iPad, which allows me to text with the Internet. That doesn’t come in handy at this exact moment though, does it?
The cab driver speaks in what I believe to be Mandarin, then I speak in English, then he pulls over the car and we play charades for a bit. At which point he pulls out his phone and types something in. Then looks back at me, then points to an address, in what I believe to still be Mandarin.
Yes? Sure? It's worth a try, let’s go there. I nod and I can feel my belly acting up, not here, not now. Universe, please, find this house. Please.
Forty five minutes later, when he pulls up the long driveway, I feel like I’ve won the golden ticket. It’s his house, his multiple-story, tall, floor to ceiling glass, modern-ass house I’ve been to before. I’m here. The cab driver drops me off, writing down the actual address in Mandarin for me to use later, and I tip him royally. He deserves it.
Once he drives away though, the fog lifts and I suddenly realize where I am, like I’ve been sleepwalking this whole time. That’s when my heart sinks. My gut rises up to my throat. My eyes fully open.
What the hell am I doing? I’m a psycho, I can’t be here, I can’t, this is-
And then I see him. Through the glass, on the first story. In his boxers only. His hairy chest, his ripped abs, his strong thighs, oh my God, he’s taking off his-
Oh God, oh God, I’m a creep, I can’t be here. Oh God, turn back now.
I look down the long driveway and it hits me, I can’t turn back. There’s no one to call, there’s nowhere to go, and I have to knock on this door.
I have to knock on this door.
Okay, I’m going to knock on this door.
No really, I’m knocking on this door.
Ba, Ba, Ba, Ba, dah-
He opens the door and there is no doubt in my mind, he’s seen a ghost of his American past.
“Oh my, oh God, what are you doing here?!” he asks.
Uh oh. No hug, no embrace, no wide eyes, but said in the cutest, sweetest British accent. Yikes, this isn’t how I saw it in my mind, this isn’t how the airplane psychic said it would go. I have to sit, I need to sit down.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
He reluctantly lets me in, completely confused as to what’s going on, as to whether this is all a figment of his imagination. I need to sit before I fall.
As we move to the kitchen, he leans on the oven, and I follow suit, leaning on the counter at a healthy distance. Apparently we’re both about to fall.
“What are you doing here, man?”
Man? He’s distancing himself, uh oh, he hates me, he wants me gone, he-
“Just thought I’d stop by!”
No one laughs, not even an awkward one.
“How long are you in town for?” he questions.
“Only a few days, like two more.”
“Whoa, dude, short trip! Where are you staying?”
He’s onto me. I look down.
“Can I stay here?”
I can’t look at his face, until it’s silent for too long, and then I plead.
“Please?”
“Sure man, stay as long as you need.”
Okay man, so he’s not a total jackass. I want to cry, this feels like too much. I flew all this way to be a nuisance.
No. Be positive, create your reality! I won’t be stuck in Hong Kong in a motel by myself for two days, I’ll be stuck in a house in Hong Kong with my ex-ish for two days.
He leads me upstairs and opens a door, and like something straight out of a classic horror film, a black cat jumps out and runs downstairs.
He’s tossing me into his adopted brother’s messy room, he doesn’t live at home anymore, which is not exactly what you do when you’re in love with someone. This is not my rom-com dream.
“You can stay in here. I’m really tired, I need to-”
And then it happens. The monologue that I’ve planned to spout out to get him back, the words I’d eloquently written to say in this crucial moment, none of that comes out. This does:
“I, know I broke things off, but I can’t stop thinking about you, even when I try to date other people, I’m still thinking of you and it’s too much because, they don’t take kindly to it and, I really, think I do, and I know the circumstances are messed up, that’s an understatement, and I’m so sorry Jai, I’m so sorry, but I’d love to be here for you, and give this another go if, you know, you feel, I thought. I’m sorry. Would you please say something?”
He’s still silent.
“Please, Jai, can you say something?”
“I don’t know what to say, you’re such a good person.”
Um. Uh. Did a record just scratch, what?
“What?”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Say you love me, you asshole!
“Do you like me, Jai?”
“Of course I do.”
“No, do you like me?”
“I don’t know, it’s been so long, I’m not sure.” It’s literally been a few months.
“But I know, and it’s been so long. I’m batshit about you, I really like you.”
“Oh come on, you don’t mean that, Bee.”
Please don’t call me that unless you want to sex and makeup.
“I do mean it, I’m here now, aren’t I? So?”
“So what?”
“Please, Jai, I need you to tell me how you feel.”
“I don’t know, I don’t know what I’m feeling because of the time.”
“Yes, you do, please. I need you to tell me.”
“I’m not sure,” he says.
He won't say it. Why won't he just say it?
And then after what feels like days of the same call and response on repeat, which is about three minutes of the same back and forth, something comes over me. I surprise even myself.
“I need you to tell me you don’t love me anymore, even though you never said you loved me to begin with.”
What am I doing? Stop! No, don’t ask for that-
“Bee, I’m confused-“
“I love you, Jai. I know I love you. I need you to tell me you don’t love me.”
Stop! No! You love him, you-
“Bee-”
“Now. I need you to tell me you don’t love me. I need you to say it, please, I’m begging you, please say it.”
You’ve done it now, Bee. You really have.
It feels like an eternity passes, like the galaxies have been created before my eyes, before he speaks.
“I don’t have the same feelings anymore.”
He gives me what I needed all along, but what I wouldn’t admit to myself. I can hear my exhale, feel a tear or two fall from my eyes, see my soft smirk in my mind’s eye.
“Thank you.”
Thank you is my response?!
“Can I sleep in your room, Jai? I promise I won’t try to have sex with you, I just don’t want to be alone,” I say, eloquent as always.
Jai gives me a brief tour of his home, as if I've never been here before.
His brother’s room, his room, and his mother’s room. Just like last time, her belongings haven’t been touched. Her perfume and makeup, all her toiletries are strewn haphazardly about. There are even clothes of hers still on the bed, as if she’s coming back tonight.
And finally Jai reshows me his beautiful rooftop overlooking his town. I love rooftops. Jai agrees to let me sleep beside him, sex-free.
I lay beside Jai, in his bed, and I cry the whole night. Fortunately he can’t hear my sniffling over his own heavy breathing. It appears my arrival has not deterred his sleep schedule in the least.
I look up past his headboard, which is almost fully illuminated due to street lights and no curtains, and I see red fingernail scratches on the bright white walls.
I knew it, I knew there was another woman. It’s her, I’m not good enough, I’ll never be-
And then a flashback, to my last time with Jai, quite a while ago. Those scratches, they’re mine. I scratched my freshly painted red nails deep against that wall because he was so rough I had to brace myself to disperse the pain. Yeah, I bled, I remember he made me bleed. My vagina feels like this gaping wound that never heals, anyway. No matter how many times you clean it or bandage it, it'll never heal and grow back together.
I stare at the red nail polish on the white wall until I feel the sunlight on my face.
Maybe I don’t want to suffer anymore.
#
What do you do when you fly halfway across the world and tell someone you love them and want to be with them and then they tell you they don’t love you and don’t want to be with you and you’re still halfway across the world and you don’t have any money to get home early and you’re staying with them for another few days?
Where the heck is that rom-com, huh? Because right now I have no way of knowing exactly what I’m supposed to do.
Yes, I know. It did briefly cross my mind this could be an outcome I would need to prepare for, but honestly, I didn’t think it would actually happen. I thought Jai and I had something, something undeniable.
Sheesh, was I wrong. Now I’m questioning it all. If we ever had something. Did he always want to be with his ex. Was he with someone else in HK, dragging me along for the American ride. Maybe my gut was right all along. Believe me, I know how men are. I know what they do.
But what do I do? Jai’s working all day so I’m left to my own devices.
Okay, I’m in Hong Kong, so that’s pretty cool. Yes, I have been miserably rejected, horribly heartbroken, but I also begged for that. In some ways, I got what I wanted.
But what do I need? Because that’s what I should do. That.
I need to be by the water. Desperately.
Well, it turns out this is an island, that seems relatively small, so I think that can be arranged!
I look up a beach nearby, haphazardly take a few buses, and before I know it, bam, here I am, by the water.
But as I sit here looking at the water, reaching for the beauty, all I can think of is him. Jai. I wish I could enjoy this terribly murky, weird smelling water with you. I wish we could gaze at this polluted sky, side by side. I wish we could feel the gritty, questionable sand between both of our toes. Yeah, questionable is the right word. I think this sand actually cut through my big toe.
Nevermind! I am here, and there is beauty in this moment. If I want a better feeling, a higher feeling, I need to reach for one.
And as I’m reaching for that higher feeling, as I attempt to tap into gratitude, whatever that means, the bride and groom come traipsing by me. Yes. The literal bride and groom. Well, also the photographer, and a few friends as well. And as the groom carries his bride lovingly so her dress doesn’t turn the color of shit stain, and presumably so her bare feet don’t turn red, I am captivated. They set up shop right in front of me. Luckily, I have a front row seat.
Laugh, come on, laugh. This is hilarious. This is the com in your rom.
But I don’t laugh. Not a chuckle. Not even a pah, the beginning of a stopped laugh. No, I do not make light of this hilarious situation. I do not reach for a higher feeling. I reach for the lowest feeling and I cry.
And cry.
Even though I want to be a monster and sit here staring at the newlyweds, crying through their whole photo shoot, something clicks. I gotta go. This should be the happiest moment of their lives or something, they don’t need a crying American girl in the background ruining their joyous moment.
I pull myself up by my now soggy, poop stained looking britches, and leave the waterfront. I need to be away from the water, desperately.
By now it’s dark and I’ve lost track of time. While I’m fairly sure I’m on the right bus, I don’t think I paid close enough attention to the stop I’m supposed to get off at. Jai told me to get home a little before dark, just to be safe. Yikes.
With each stop that we pass, I become more and more anxious. I would ask someone in English for help, but I don’t even know what the stop is called, I don’t know where Jai lives in any language, and I can’t remember where I placed that sheet of paper with his address in Mandarin. Hmm. I really set myself up for success on this one.
Alright, listen to your gut. Get off when the spirit moves you.
But the spirit ain’t moving me. ‘Cause I know once I get off this crowded bus full of people, I have another ten minutes or so to walk alone in the darkness before the street lights- because they don’t exactly have street lights ‘round these parts- to where exactly I’m not sure, with no one to call, and no way to do so. It’s me, all alone, again. About that.
I let out a pah, a little one, because I don’t know why I continue to do this. Any of this.
Dear Spirit, if there is a spirit, please move me.
Nope. Nothing. Not moved. There’s no hope.
I look across the bus to this ancient looking old man with a smile plastered across his face.
And why are you so happy?
Probably because you’re about to die.
I keep looking at him, staring, waiting for him to drop that smile, that cartoon grin, and nope. Nothing. Not moved.
Sir. What, pray tell, is it? Tell me, what’s the secret to life?
The more I look, the more he smiles, the less I know.
Welp. I guess I’m riding this bus to the end. I guess I’m riding this bus all night, if they’ll let me, until the sun comes up with this googly eyed smiling son of a gun.
The bus stops and Smiley’s staring at me. Yes, Smiley? How can I help you? He's still smiling directly at me, but I can honestly say it does feel warm, more comforting and less menacing, when it’s directed at me.
I find myself smiling back and then he points. He points out the door and smiles.
What, what Smiley?
And then he mumbles, he mumbles something and points out the door and then I point out the door and make a motion to get off.
“I should get off?”
He nods his head up and down, up and down, smiling and pointing out the door, much like the scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. That way, go that way.
To trust Smiley or not to trust Smiley, that is the question.
And right when it looks like the bus driver’s about to take us all on our merry way into the night, I look at Smiley charade-ing to me it’s now or never. I need to get off now.
I take a deep breath, bow my head down at him, hold my hand over my heart, and get off the bus. Yes, I did just obey a random, maniacally grinning stranger who doesn’t know where I’m trying to go. But. What do I actually have to lose?
Wait, wait now. Maybe this is serendipitous. Maybe there is a God, a merciful one, who is guiding me on my path. Who put Smiley on that bus there to keep me safe. This is an act of God himself.
Nah. Probs not.
What gave me away, Smiley, might have been my pasty skin or blonde hair or my American stench. While Jai isn’t American, he also happens to be pasty, and blonde, and rides this bus often. He’s probably the only pale dude within a 50 mile radius of this small town, so I’m banking on the fact that he can put two and two together. I think, yeah, I think. Don’t let me down, Smiles.
Off into the darkness I go with a building amount of confidence for being completely insecure. Yeah, this looks familiar, I think, yeah. I’m going the right way, alone, in the dark, to a home where I’m not wanted.
It’s okay, Becky. You’re going to find his home, and when you get there, he’ll be there, waiting for you. He’s probably worried. No, it won’t be a kiss, maybe not even a hug, but once you’re there, once you see him, you’ll feel better.
No, I won’t. I can’t imagine feeling any better, ever. I feel like kaka on a pupu platter. I feel hopeless. I feel alone.
But I’m following this wooden gate in the darkness down this path because I think I remember this gate and I believe it will lead me, through these winding roads, home. I mean, I got nothing to lose.
When I see his home, I’m partially relieved, partially not. Did a part of me want to drown out there in the darkness?
Luckily, Jai’s home is particularly dark as well, so I can drown in here. All the lights are off, the doors are locked, no sign of Jai. I am alone.
I unlock the front door and sit in the kitchen at the dinner table, three empty chairs surrounding me. I don’t bother turning on the lights.
I don’t want to be here anymore. It’s not one describable, fixable thing. It’s an indescribable, unfixable thing, always looming over me. And the faster I run, the louder the voice.
Kill yourself.
How sweet, how free, death must feel. Not to be burdened by all of this. Not to be silenced, rejected, abandoned, assaulted, or bored even. Not to be in this much pain.
Realistically, my best option is to jump off a building. I would love to fly. But sometimes I fantasize about blowing my brains out. Literally going out with a bang. Apparently females don’t do that, they think about the person who has to clean up their brains. Even in death, women are always caretaking. I’m over it.
Whether my body splats on the ground or my brain splatter goes everywhere, I’m still going to be making a mess, and the reality is that someone will have to clean it up for me.
Yeah, I’m being over dramatic, but this thought isn’t isolated. I’ve thought this a million times over. I’ve thought about killing myself for as long as I can remember having thoughts. I average about three to four suicidal thoughts a day when I’m happy, about eight to twenty when I’m not. The thoughts never go away, it’s just if I’m lucky, there’s less of ‘em.
Well, there ain’t less of ‘em right now, I can tell you that. That higher feeling ain’t coming, the lower one’s suffocating me, wrapping it’s sausage fingers around my throat, ripping open my mouth, crawling inside my esophagus into my belly, taking over my organs, my limbs, my bloodstream, commandeering my mind, my will, my hope, and ultimately killing me.
I mean, not yet. I guess I’m not dead yet. But it feels like it. ‘Cause no matter how much I try, it never goes away, ya know? This monster inside never goes away, these thoughts never go away. They are always here, will always be here. Sometimes more, sometimes less, but I can never make them go away forever. So how long do I want to battle? How long can I fight? How long do I want to fight for this? Whatever this is?
I don’t want to. I don’t.
Yeah.
So, how do you want to do this, huh?
I’ve always loved flying. Going to another place. Leaving it all behind. Feeling lifted. The weightlessness. The freedom. Nothing quite like it.
That beautiful rooftop overlooking the city.
I’m not delusional. I’m not even that obsessed with Jai that his rejection alone would cause me to end my life. I don’t think so, anyway.
This feels like the final rejection. The final pain. Suffering. It’s all I can take. I’ve maxed out. Hell, I too wanted more for myself. I never wanted to go out because of a man, how pathetic, but at this point, who gives. Who gives why, how, and what they say about me, what they think. I can’t even imagine anyone who would mourn me, except maybe my mom to garner sympathy, and my brother, truly, and for that I’m sorry, but I know he’ll understand. He thinks the same way I do. I know he’s one rooftop away. Maybe I’ll see him soon. God, I hope not. I hope one of us makes it out alive, well, makes it out naturally.
Look, I’m not crazy. I’m not going to just jump now. No, I’m going to drink as much of this booze as I can before I go on the beautiful rooftop. You gotta help ease the blow, ya know? And I don’t want to talk myself out of this, no, not this time. This time, I want to fly, I want that weightless feeling, I want to slow down time right before I’m gone.
Is my whole life going to flash before my eyes as I’m falling, or is that bullshit? Because if I have to sit through my whole life before I die, maybe death isn’t worth it. Nah. If I have to sit through my whole life, then I’ll have to eventually, so no need to delay the inevitable. Yeah, it’s probably bullshit, anyway.
No need to delay the inevitable.
This whiskey feels like home, finally, I’ve found my home, my whole body tingles, and I’m happy. In this dark, foreign kitchen, I’m home and happy because I’ve done it, I’ve reached a finish line. Not really, but I did what I could. Yeah. I promise, I did what I could. That has to be enough.
My fingers prickle. I can’t wipe this smirk off my face. I see you Smiley, should I bring the bottle with me? No need to be dramatic.
I’m floating, my body floats up the flights of stairs, effortlessly, I’m gliding, I’m warm and fuzzy.
The door, I’m at the rooftop door, that was easy. When I walk through, that’s it, I can’t go back. I’m being dramatic, everybody dies, that’s all we have in common.
I hope I’m relatively easy to clean up, poor cleaning guy. Maybe he’ll get a bonus for mopping up my splattered guts.
Probably not. Ha. Poor guy. Probably not.
Ahh. I’m here. At the door that’s calling out my name, that I’ve been fated to open since birth.
The doorknob.
My hand’s on the doorknob.
I’m turning the doorknob.
I’m doing it.
I’m turning the doorknob.
I’m shaking the doorknob.
I’m shaking the door.
I’m kicking the door.
I’m bashing the door.
The door’s locked. How? It was open. Now it’s locked. Jai left it open. I made sure of it.
Now I’m sliding down the door and I’m bashing myself on the head. Repeatedly. Over and over. Banshee cries are coming from my core. I’m wailing.
You can’t even kill yourself good. You failure. You can’t do anything good. You can’t-
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When I wake up, it’s dark and no one is anywhere in sight. So I get off the floor and go to Jai’s empty bed, because that’s all I can think to do. Sleep. Who knew trying to off yourself could be this exhausting?
When I wake up for the second time, I feel my brain trying to escape out of my head. Like my skull can’t hold the contents anymore. I’m going to burst, the throbbing is unrelenting. Jai is beside me this time, in a deep sleep.
Did I dream up last night? Did that actually happen? I’m sure I was drunk and emotional and that I was probably hallucinating.
Classic me, nothing if not dramatic. Guess I’m glad I didn’t have what it took last night to open a door. To turn a goddamn door knob. I couldn’t do it.
I couldn’t do it.
As I lay in bed next to Jai, waiting patiently for him to get up, one question lingers.
Not if I would actually jump or not.
I mean, I wouldn’t have jumped. Yeah, I probably wouldn’t have gone kersplat, willingly. I would have come to my senses. It probably wasn’t even high enough.
But that door.
When Jai wakes up at noon, I spring up, anxious to go to the rooftop. I run up all the stairs, stare for a second, and then, the wildest thing happens.
I go to open the door, sure I’ll be able to figure it out sober, aware, and slightly less suicidal, but that’s simply not the case.
The door is jammed shut, completely. To the point where I get nervous. To the point where I try to shake the door, again. To the point where I call Jai.
“What happened?”
I can hear the anger in his voice.
“I don’t know. I don’t know why the door won’t open. I wanted to go to the rooftop-”
Jai slams all of his weight on the door, all two hundred pounds of solid, British muscle, to no avail.
Yes, the door could've just jammed. Hell, the door probably jammed for some explainable reason.
“Who did this, huh?”
A tear streams down my cheek, which he incorrectly assumes is because of his scolding.
I remain silent and opt to answer in my head instead.
I don’t know, Jai, not me. It wasn't me.
While a part of me feels horrid that I might have broken Jai’s rooftop door forever, the other part of me feels like, in some itty-bitty cosmic way, that maybe it wasn't my time, wasn't my way. Maybe this is my chance to break the cycle.
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