Suicide Kills, part 17

                In the common room that evening, Sandra Joe and I sat on the couch.  Marigold, Jerrilyn Veronica, and the descendant of the witches in Hamlet were in the smoking room. 

Sandra Joe had asked to braid my hair, again.  I let her.  I always enjoyed having my hair played with.  I wished she could’ve taught my Mom, since she never could get the hang of it. 

                “Why are you here, Sandra Joe?” 

                Her hands slowed slightly, then she quipped, “You sound as if you don’t want me here.” 

                “It’s not that.  Well, it is that, because this place isn’t exacting oozing with a lot of help.  I mean, Rathbone’s got the IQ of a wombat, but you--you’re just so motherly and normal.  What happened?” 

                “My granddaughter died, killed by an airbag.”  She said the words carefully, measured with just the right amount of restraint.  More was coming.  I could feel it.  “It exploded and it…she was such a small little thing, it blew her apart.  I was driving.” 

                I couldn’t imagine such a thing, but her story was only one of so many in the psychiatric ward.  Too much more of this and I could write for Lifetime.  I reached back and stopped her hands, then shook the braid loose and turned to face her.  “What happened?” 

                ‘We were on our way to see her mother.  I’d picked her up after school like I did every day.  It was such a normal, ordinary day.  The birds, the sun, my granddaughter had made an art project at school, everything was normal.  Normal.” Her voice grew raspy, and I took her hands, squeezing them to encourage her to go on.      

                “The brakes went out at an intersection between here and Andrews.  They said she died instantly, but…her tiny little body just…so torn up…” Her breath came in gasps and I leaned forward, clasping an arm around her back. 

                “Shhh.. shh.  I’m sure they were right.”  Pulling back, I asked, “So they put you in here because they were afraid you’d hurt yourself.” 

                “Yes,” She nodded, grudgingly, though her ire was not directed at me.  “Her mother died a few years ago, and I got custody of my granddaughter.”

                “I thought you said you were on your way to see her?” After the words leave my mouth, I want to slap myself.  There was only one possible answer.

                “We were going to the cemetery.” 

                Kill me, now.  Somebody will have to step up, since I made that pesky self-promise about no more suicide.  Talk about insensitive.

“She was buried in the town we raised her in, next to my parents.” Sandra Joe shook her head, “They hauled me in here after the funeral.  Some of my family had said I was acting weird, but I just lost a granddaughter and a daughter all over again.  Of course I was acting weird.”

                My words the morning of her arrival came back to me.  ‘What’d you do?  Or more importantly, what’d you do it with?’   “Oh, Jesus Christ, Sandra Joe.  I’m so sorry.  The morning you got here, what I said-“         

                “You didn’t know.  How could you?  And in any case, you girls have helped me deal with this.  I don’t think I would have hurt myself, but I’m glad I’m here.”

                Before I could stop myself, I asked, incredulous, “For the love of God, why?”

                “Well, you, for exactly that.’ She smiled, and though there were tears in her eyes, they shone with an inner positivity, an inner radiance.  My lord, this woman is sadistic. 

                “O-k.” I said slowly. 

                “Jerrilyn, she’s such a sweet person.  She’s always defending people and trying to comfort them.  She does it so much she forgets how to do it for herself.  Veronica, with so much beauty to spare for others.  Did you know she taught me how to do my eyebrows this morning?”  Well, that would explain the surprised look she’d had since beginning this conversation.  “But she can’t see any of it in herself.  And Marigold, she spent so many years trying to be in control she finally lost it.  I’ve been here such a short time, yet I feel like I’m closer to y’all than I am many others whom I’ve known for years.” 

                This place does that to you.  It creates a weird bond between similar misfits.  Some of us, anyways. 

                “I think I know what you mean.”

Suicide Kills, part 16

                “What you got rollin’ around in that head of yours?” A bitchy voice asked.  Only Marigold could sound that annoyed with twenty feet between us.  I ignored her. 

                Minutes, or perhaps hours, later another voice with the vibrancy of a teenager stated, “You missed group this morning.”  I ignored Jerrilyn, too. 

                “My husband is bringing pictures of the kids, later.”  I ignored Veronica. 

                “You need to eat.  You missed lunch and breakfast.”  I ignored Sandra Joe. 

I ignored everyone but the sky, staring out the window with my notepad on my leg and not one word to write.  There are few things I regret in my life, short as it’s been, short as it almost was, and even fewer things I would ever change. 

I’m about to break the fourth wall—or is it third, since this is print?—but you know me well enough by now to understand I am not a stickler to conformity, at least not as it applies to honesty.  My parents will never read this story, and I hope this brings home to you how painful this is.  I’m not ashamed of going crazy, but I’m still horrified of how I got there.  I would change nothing of my life since then or before, but I would change the phone call I made and I would change taking all of those pills if I could, because there are some things no parent should ever have to do, and I’m not going to ask them to do it twice by reading this book.  They shouldn’t have to live it, again.

                All I knew was no matter how much or little I remembered of the night I was raped and no matter how it tortured me to think of it, wondering what else had happened that I could not remember, the pain I inflicted on my parents was worse.  Worse than rape, worse than anything.  I’d called them during an overdose and said goodbye when they were four hours away.  I cannot imagine how long the drive must have seemed, what they said as they drove, or even if they spoke at all.

                I thought of my best friend, Christine. 

When I told her I was writing this, she told me to make sure and give her an Hispanic sounding name.  So, I hereby dub her Maria Conchita Christina. 

I’d spoken to her on the phone not long after I finally came to in intensive care.  We cried together, as she ordered through her tears, “Don’t you ever scare me like that again, do you understand me?”  I can still hear her words and the pain in her voice to this day.  What had I done?  To so many, what had I done?!

                My grandmother, normally so feisty and full of sass, could barely speak, murmuring, “Oh, Britty…Britty.”  I wanted to take her tears, to make them become my own so she would never have had to shed them. 

                And it was somewhere amidst all the horror swirling about me I became cruel, angry at the world and wanting to destroy all I touched.  I felt guilt and I loathed it, because acknowledging the guilt meant what happened was real.  I really had done this, caused this.   

                “Brittni?” A voice called, begging me to turn and face the speaker.  My cheeks were swollen, my eyes puffy and hot, but I wanted to be real, again, to shed the pain.  I finally turned to face the door. 

                Marigold, Jerrilyn, Veronica, and Sandra Joe were at my door, Jerrilyn and Veronica sitting upon the floor, Marigold in a chair pulled to the doorway, and Sandra Joe leaning against the frame. 

Bastards. 

I didn’t want—but I longed—to be seen like this, vulnerable and finally open.  A new tear crept down my cheek and I wiped it away, “You know, when I woke up I was so pissed at everybody.  I was mad to be alive.  Can you believe that?  Mad to fucking be alive.

                “There was a nurse staring down at me, talking to me.  I can’t remember what she said, but I remember seeing my whole left arm covered in blood.  I had pulled the IV out at some point and started bleeding.  The bed was saturated all on my left and I could feel it on my skin.  I asked the nurse for a change of clothes or a new ass gown.  The bitch refused, can you believe that?  She told me not until I ate.  When she brought the food in, I lifted my arm and dripped blood all over it, then told her to take the shit away; I wasn’t hungry.  I thought I was mad at her," I laughed bitterly, '-and I still think she’s a cunt for leaving me with blood everywhere like she did, but…the truth is something just snapped and all of the coldness I’ve ever had at any time in my life just exploded outward.  I was cruel and a dick, just because I failed and had to face the reality behind my actions. 

                “All the nurses down there hate me now, you know?” I said, still laughing and still just as bitter. I glanced back out the window. “They do.  I called them a lot of choice words.  And they have every right to hate me.  No, whoever just gasped, shut up.  They do have a right to hate me.  I verbally abused them, people who save lives for a living, my own sorry ass included, and I,” I shook my head and pounded the love seat with my fist, “-I shit on them for it.”  I fell quiet.  My friends sat with me in the silence, letting me have my break down. 

                Finally, I spoke again, “I don’t know what to do.  I’ve hurt so many people I love and I can’t figure out how I can ever make this right.  I always fixed stuff growing up, but how the fuck do you fix this?  How?  How do you say, ‘Your love wasn’t enough.  I tried to kill myself and I didn’t give a shit what it did to you, but I’m sorry all the same?’  It’s not fucking enough, goddamn it; it’s not enough.” 

                The sun peeked out through the clouds, rays of light shining down on the town I’d once called home.  It felt foreign to me, now.  I was no longer a resident.  I’d become its captive as assuredly as I’d become my own jailor.  

                “Maybe you start with a letter.” Sandra Joe said from the doorway, “You start by writing apologies to the ones you think deserve it.”

                “Right.  Maybe I’ll just trot on down to the gift store and pick up some nice Sorry About My Suicide Attempt cards while I’m at it.” I snapped. 

                “Sitting here hating yourself is so much fucking better, Brittni.” Sharp words coming from Jerrilyn; honey, have we grown a spine?  “Mope, hate yourself, stay the hell out of lifes’ way and maybe life and everyone you love will forget you even existed.  Is that what you want?  Because it sure as hell didn’t sound like it to me.  So, get the fuck up and start with a letter.  That’s all you have to do for now and the rest of the shit will fall into place, but beating yourself up like this ends now, do you understand me?” 

                Her words echoed Maria Conchita Christina’s and the tone hit home.  I was hiding in the dark and shooting every individual down who tried to bring me into the light, just like I always did.  The suicide was an attempt to kill my body, and after failing, the venom became an attempt to kill my soul, to keep me from caring anymore.  It wouldn't matter if I hurt others if I just didn't care about it.  But it did matter.  Oh, not in the hold-your-tongue-and-never-cuss kind of way, because I sure as hell did not plan on quitting cussing or speaking my mind, but I had to learn to let others help me, to let them hold me and warm me and love me instead of rejecting them because I did not feel worthy of such devotion, of such compassion.  I cried and laughed at the same time, feeling liberated by the affirmation this—all of this—was still in my hands, and if I couldn’t make it up to everyone, by God I could damn well die (of natural causes or old age during a sex related activity) trying. 

                “What is so funny?” Jerrilyn said, still angry. 

                Shaking my head, I raised my hands in a resigned gesture.  I got up from the love seat and rubbed my cheeks vigorously and walked toward the door.  “Nothing.  You’re a sexy bitch when you get mad.”

                “Oh, God, shut up.” She smiled, relieved to see 'me' back and feisty. 

                I stared at each woman in turn.  Jerrilyn had gotten to her feet as some point during my good crazylogue, but Veronica and Marigold still sat.  After catching the eyes of each, including Sandra Joe, I found the words with ease, “Thank y’all.  I’m so-“

                “Uh uh,” Veronica smirked, rising, “No, I’m sorry’s.  You don’t have to say them to us.’

                “Thanks.”

Suicide Kills, part 15

The rain strumming my window panes woke me early the next morning.  It was still dark out.  I sat up, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and stretched.  A guttural moan started softly and built within me, releasing like the sound of a beefy, mountainous, football player as he orgasms. 

Only a lot less frightening, I would think.

Sassied up in my faux-velour, red, lil’ devil pajamas I padded softly down the corridor to the nurses station. 

The Debra was gone.

Behind the counter, a young Hispanic woman with red hair and red freckles—everywhere—stood holding a cup of coffee.  Her French braid was so tight she could have stashed quarters in it.  At the sight of me, she smiled, whispering, “Mornin’. Y’on’t some coffee?” 

For those of you not in the know, we don’t just do things differ’nt down here, we say ‘em differn’t too.  Like Terry, here.  Here’s a quick translation guide to una’stan Texas speak; it’s a lot like math in that you find the lowest common denominator through simplification.  We never say in ten words what we can say in two.  Terry said three words and an ungodly contraction, but in Texas it translates as, ‘Good Morning.  Do you want some coffee?’  The word want is pronounced similar to won’t when used in conjunction with do and you, with one minor change: use a Y instead of W.

My dad greeted me this way the mornings I got up before he went to work in the oilfield, except he also calls me Poot.  Terry’s accent was so close to his I could hear his gravelly voice rise in my mind.  I nodded, because at the moment it was all I could do. 

“I love it here in the mornin’.  It’sa’ quiet and nice.  World just seems completely differn’t in the mornin’, ya know?” She said, conversationally. 

“Yeah, it’s almost like nobody exists, yet.” I said, and I could hear my accent creeping up on me, returning to the slow drawl my father has. 

“Exactly! Like it’s just you and tha’ dawn.” She smiled, handing me my cup. 

I don’t think I can take much more.  “Yeah.  Can I take this back to my room?  I’m sorry, but suddenly I don’t feel so well.” 

Immediately, a concerned look came over her. She put down the cup of coffee and got out a pair of keys, taking a step toward a cabinet while looking at me. “Are you okay?  You’re Brittni, right?  Do you have a migraine?”

“I’ll be okay.  I just need…I just need to go back to my room, I think.” I told her, suddenly embarrassed.  I wanted to stay and chat, but something was burning and constricting in my chest.  If I stayed and talked to this woman who sounded like my father, I was going to lose it. 

“Well, all right, but if you need anything, I’m rit‘chere, okay?”  The way she said I’m right here broke the tide and a tear trickled down my cheek. 

I nodded and lifted the cup.  “Thanks for the coffee, Terry.” 

“Any time, Brittni.  Any time at all.”

Back in my room, I sat on the long love seat and stared at the window, rain batting its fists against the diamond patterned glass.  It wanted in as badly as I wanted out, searching any nook or cranny, any hairline fracture through which it might trickle. 

My father was an Italian cowboy.  Yeah, I would not have believed they existed if I had not grown up with one.  He was a good man and a great father.  The faults he had were not stronger than he was in the end, and he had shown that in the past two years.  I was so proud of him, but how could they be…proud…

I could not finish the thought.  It hurt too badly. 

Time slipped away until it was simply me and the rain.  Please, I thought, wash away my sins? 

Rolling my eyes, I scoffed at myself.  Here I am asking a God I’m not even sure I believe in anymore to wash away my sins when I can’t even get all the grit from beneath my fingernails.  Lifting my eyes back up to the weeping sky, I added an addendum.  Pace yourself on that sin washing request.  It could take a while, and I’m not sure I’m done sinning, yet.  I’ll keep you posted.

Sipped the coffee.  Fingers ached for the Funnies.  How I’d tried as a child to be just like my Dad.  The only times I can ever remember him ever crying had been over me.  Once when Faron Young’s This Little Girl of Mine came on the radio.  Once in fourth grade when I began having horrible stomach pains and nobody knew what was wrong.  We later found out my digestive tract is longer than most, and it causes compaction, making it difficult for me to process waste without medicine. 

And once…five days ago. 

My mind stumbled at the thought, rearing back and away, but I forced it to barge straight into the memory aching so.  The call to my parents the morning I overdosed. 

“Mom?  I just…I’m sorry.  I’m so sorry.” 

“Baby?  What’s wrong?”  Alarmed, she’d come fully awake. 

“I’m so tired.  Just going to sleep.  I wanted to say I love you.” My words were slow and thick, difficult to expel.  My vision was growing fuzzy around the edges. I hoped it would not take long.

“Where’s Jennifer?  Brittni, Brittni!  Get Jennifer!  We’re coming!  Lynn, talk to her!” She screamed, begging me to get my roommate.  Inside, I felt a spark of alarm, regret bucking it’s head against my action.  The anguish in her voice had been like a butter dipped razor, slicing through me to bone.

No, I thought, evan as my mouth began feeling as though it were stuffed with wool, it was a mistake.  Not at this price, not for them…They don’t deserve to pay this. 

My father got on the phone, broken some place where only I had been able to reach.  “No, baby, no.  Please, just…stay with me.  God, baby, stay with me…please….Don’t do this.  You didn’t have to do this…Please, baby…” 

Back in the ward tears poured down my cheeks and I hugged the pain to me, knowing I had caused it and could not undo it.  As much as it hurt, I would not hide it anymore. 

The rain had finally made its way into my room.

Suicide Kills, part 14

When I came back into the room, we put the movie back on, but the mood had soured.  The scene between Nettie and I could have ended in apologies and laughter (that’s a happy log, folks, I’m thinking positively), but once those orderlies came in, there was no rewind.  The atmosphere was broken.  We had each been reminded, and harshly, exactly where we were and what we were, crazy and tainted.   

Sandra Joe had pulled the hair bobber from my hair as soon as I got back and taken it all down, beginning again.  After finishing my braid, she secured it, fingering the end before finally easing back into the couch. 

I could not follow the last of the movie.  There was still a part of me which did not want the night to end.  The brief feeling of being regular stuck in my mind.  The more I thought about it, how shortly we’d enjoyed it, the angrier I grew at its loss.  I would be damned if some prune faced ancient alley cat wankstress was going to ruin it.  Why can’t there be do-overs?

Just before the infamous cliff scene, I crawled forward on the floor, ass to the couch without a drop of shame, and pressed rewind on the VCR.  Skimming the video, I finally found the scene I was looking for.  Brad Pitt popped back up on the screen in his skivvies.  I hit play and scooched back to the couch.  Pulling the hair bobber from my hair, I undid the braid.  After shaking out my hair, I held the hair bobber up behind my head.  Cotton tipped fingers took it and began braiding, again. 

Tonight we were getting our do-over, and Debra could pogo an umbrella dick if she didn’t like it.  We were patients in a psychiatric ward.  We had just been reminded of that, and by God, the staff could damn well act like it was about us for an extra half hour tonight.  Because that was exactly what we were going to do, whether they liked it or not.

By the time I crawled into bed, I felt emotionally exhausted in the whine-and-slobber-on-a-shoulder-all-night kind of way.  I was trying to learn when to bite my tongue and let someone else handle a situation.  It wasn’t easy.  Handing over control never is, because I know what I can do, but I know alla’ fucknada about what you can do. 

I was working on it.  Or trying to.  If you say it's a process, I will cut you. 
                In High School, I was in the geek elite, otherwise known as Academic Decathlon.  We got to know each other fairly well on the first trip, but everyone learned the type of person I was by one freak occurrence.  A country singer visited a mall in Dallas, and we were at said mall.  I still remember how one of the guys in Ac/Dec ran up, excited, “She signed my checkbook!”  Instantly, everyone wanted to meet her, but when we got to the store, nobody would go in. 

I snorted. 

At the time, I didn’t know the store had literally posted employees at the entrance to block any fans from approaching this starlet, but it would not have mattered.  I had a secret weapon. 

I’m really short.

“I’ll be back,” I said, seeing their jaws drop and shaking my head.  Chickens, I thought.  The worst she could do was say no. 

At my height, I did not have to sneak through the aisles.  The aisles were over my head.  I simply

walked in.  Since the employees were manning the entrances, none of them saw me.  I walked straight up to the starlet and her parents. 
               The minute she saw me, her eyes dulled.  Her hair was greasy and lank, hanging to the shoulders of her grey t-shirt, which she’d bottomed off with baggy sweat pants.  If she didn't want to be rushed by fans, why choose the high-end Galleria mall and wear trucker apparel?  Get off my nipples, bitch.  They are better than yours, anyways.
               She glared at me, and I felt my hackles rise.

“We’re from West Texas.  Our school is here competing in the Academic Decathlon.  I don’t really listen to your music, but the rest of the team is here and they are dying to meet you.  Would you mind?”  I sugar-coated the tiny barb I tossed in so it sounded like nothing of the sort.  She did not answer me. 

More glaring.

It’s okay.  I don’t like you, either, cupcake.

Her father beamed, “Of course she wouldn’t mind!  Bring them over!” 

I returned to my teammates and, after smirking at a store employee anxious to toss me out on my ear, or ass then ear if I bounced, led them back to the country princess.  They stared, they stammered, they got autographs.  They asked what CD’s she’d bought (yes, this was 1998 or 1999, pre-Ipod; I know, completely troglodytic )—Lenny Kravitz and Smashing Pumpkins—and we left.

And I’m not ashamed to say the smiles on their faces made the trouble I could have gotten into entirely worth it, trouble I learned about only after leaving the store. 

Yes, I was glad it made them smile.  I do have a heart in here somewhere, you know.  I just don’t show it off because it’s hidden under very impressive boobs, and those aren’t getting displayed just to prove to the world I have one.     

It’s my excuse, anyways.  It works, too.  Nobody argues about boobs.  Their power is just mystifying in general. 

Sometimes being the one to take action works.  Other times, not so much.  I have another super power some know about, but no stranger guesses upon meeting me.  I speak Tex-Mex, similar to Spanglish but with a southern drawl and more chanclas.  You can never have enough chanclas.  Anyways, my friend Stephanie and I went to the park one day and met an entire baseball team from a neighboring town.  We were fourteen, so we were in Heaven.  We were also Stucking Fupid.  The team was Hispanic and they lavished Steph with compliments, speaking to each other in whispering asides in Spanish. 

“…eyes are so pretty!”

…y la chica....chichis grandes….

“You live here?”

…y la otra, tambien…

“What other one?  We both have big boobs.” I said quietly to one of the guys.  His eyes widened and he blushed, realizing I knew what was being said. 

“What’s your number?”

…la panoche-

“Steph, we gotta go.  Now.” I said, the suggestive words and phrases still filtering through their polite conversation. 

“No!  But why?  We’re having fun.”  She smiled coyly up at the boy she had been talking to. 

I grabbed her arm and pulled her. “Trust me.  We’re leaving.” 

“Ay!  Ay, where you goin’, uh?” One of the guys yelled, and for all the intelligence I posses, at that moment I dialed in Dumb. 

I turned back and yelled, “Yo hablo Espanol, estupido.  No chinges conmigo, cabron.”

And those eight words were how we got chased back to my house two blocks away by an entire baseball team. 

Go Clams!  No, go, as in r-u-n!

And boy, did we ever.  I don’t think I’ve ever kicked up so much dust running down a road as I did that day.

Those guys were pissed.  Never caught us, though.  I smiled.

Lost in thought, I almost jumped when Jerrilyn climbed in bed with me.  I caught myself before the bed dumped me.  Smirking, I scooted to make room in the narrow, bloated cot.  She snuggled up to my back and whispered, “Brittni?  What’s the worst situation you’ve ever been drug into?” 

I could have answered, I suppose.  Here I’d been thinking about all the times I’d jumped into a situation, but I could have told her how my parents never made me choose sides, yet I was always the mediator between them.  I could have told her how my brother once was chased by a pack of boys in my grade; how he had hidden at a friend’s house and she finally opened the door when the boys threatened to bust in the windows.  Once inside, they tried to corner my brother and I jumped in front of the boys.  Smallie Garcia told me to get out of the way, or he would punch me. 

“If you want to get to my brother, you’ll have to go through me.  And honestly, I don‘t think you have the balls.” I told him.

He actually grinned, then drew his fist back and let the punch fly, stopping right at my nose.  I did not flinch. 

“I’ve been hit by people bigger and stronger than you.  You might knock me down, but I will get back up, and I will kick you so hard you’ll taste a new kind of nut.” I said, putting my hand on my hip and cocking my head to the side. 

The boys seemed shocked.  Snapping out of it, they tried to recover by cracking jokes at my brother’s expense.  Then Cody said, “You better leave my sister the fuck alone, you asshole.” 

They left. 

I whipped around to stare at my brother.  “His sister?  She’s eleven years old, Lalo!” 

“Nobody asked you to defend me.”  He snarled, peeking over the top of a beat up sofa chair.

“I’ll keep that in mind next time somebody tries to shove you in a dumpster.” I said, and slammed the front door on my way out. 

I could have told Jerrilyn all of this, but the question was not about me.  Any time someone asks a question of the kind she did, they already have their own answer and want to share it.  So, I simply answered, “Not that I can think of right now.  You?” 

“Yeah,” she sighed, resting her chin on the top of my shoulder, ”last year my sister was pregnant.  I don’t know if I’ll be able to have kids, so I was really excited for her, you know?  And her boyfriend?  Hell!  My momma joked we’d of had to strap his ass down to keep him from floating away!  He was on cloud nine.  But then my sister called one day and told me she miscarried.  She was crying and asking me to come over, so I hopped in the car and drove over.” 

For a few minutes, she grew quiet. 
                I waited. 
               Finally, she continued.

“When she calmed down, she asked if I’d stick around for when he came home from work.  I told her I would.  I mean, I couldn't imagine having to do that, you know?  Tell somebody something like that.  He came in, all happy, and kissed her, but then he saw she was upset and got all worried.  She took him in the bedroom and I just sat in the living room, waiting to, like, help her help him after she told him.  About ten minutes later he comes flying out into the living room, shouting at me.  ‘You told her it was okay to take five pills?  The shit the Doctor told her to be careful with?  How could you?’ ” Jerrilyn said, her voice coming from somewhere deep inside of her, some play track full of painful memories and the easiest ways to explain them.  She was on auto-pilot. 

“He didn’t even slow down as he ran through the house, just yelled at me as he went out the door.  I was shocked.  It didn’t register.  I took off into the bedroom to talk to my sister and she was sitting on the bed, crying.  I asked her, you know, why she would tell him that.  I mean, didn’t she understand what five of those pills would do?  What five of them…and then I knew.    She’d done it on purpose.  She’d miscarried on purpose and she blamed me so her boyfriend wouldn’t know.” 

No wonder she crawled in my bed.  She’d lost a sister in addition to herself this year.  I don't care what anyone says.  A violation of that magnitude between siblings is a loss, because there are simply some bridges which can be mended, but will never again be capable of supporting the weight they once were able.  This was one of those bridges. 

“It wasn’t just that she lied.  I mean, that was enough of a betrayal, but--I don’t know.  I don’t know how to explain it.”  She murmured, curling into a ball behind my back. 

She fell silent, and I considered her story.  She’d mentioned she might not be able to have children, but why?  Her sister could have kids.  But Jerrilyn? 

“She could have kids and you might not be able to.  She knows you want them, and she still pretty much told people you killed their child.  It’s completely against who you are, and that…” I tried to find the right words, because these tender moments can be so easy in the breaking, “that really makes it worse, because your sister knows that.” 

“Yes!” She whispered, fidgeting a little, unfolding a little.  “She’s my sister.  She knows better than anybody.  Like, she knows how much I want kids, she knows how I feel about abortion.  I mean, I wouldn’t stop her if that was what she wanted, but it’s not something I would ever do.  And to have her blame me to everybody, all of our friends and family, it was like being punched in…in…”

“In the womb and the heart at the same time?” I asked lightly, not really joking. 

“Yes!  Yes.” Her voice caught, “That’s exactly what it was like.”

“What a cunt.” I said, testing the water.

Jerrilyn did not disagree.

“Go on, Jerrilyn.” I rolled onto my back and almost knocked her off the bed in the process.  You trying being graceful in a bed built for one ass cheek at a time.  My left arm flailed out to grab her.  She latched on to me and quickly recovered, scooting closer to curl up on my left side. Without putting further pressure on her by looking at her, I reiterated. “Say it.  You can still love your sister, but what she did was beyond cruel.  Say it.  Let it out.”    

“She’s…a bitch.” 

“No, she’s a cunt.” I said.  Bitch was too easy a word.  She needed something vile, because I’m sure she had called her sister a bitch before.  Bitch would not cut it, not this time.  She needed to call her something new. 

After five or ten minutes passed, I thought she might have fallen asleep.  “She is a cunt,” Jerrilyn finally whispered, tremors beginning to rock her lithe form in sobs. “She’s a cunt and I hate her for what she did; she’s a cunt.” 

I rested the left side of my head on the crown of hers and let her cry, “Good girl.” 

                Once her tears subsided, I asked the last question, knowing now why she’d crawled in my bed.  “You spoke to your mom tonight, didn’t you?  While I was seeing Rathbone?”

                She nodded against my shoulder. 

                “Your sister’s pregnant again, isn’t she?”

                She nodded again, but lighter. 

                “Well, I guess now you can call her a fucking cunt.” 

Silence.  Well, can’t say I didn’t see that one com-

Jerrilyn began laughing-- a surprised laugh, as if she had not expected such a response-- but still laughter.  It's funny how often hysterical laughter and angry tears substitute for each other.  I slapped my hand over her mouth, trying to stem the giggling in myself.  "Shhh! You think I want Debra in bed with us?  She's been giving you the 'pink' eye all week.  You better get out of here lickety split before she gets you to knuckle under with her camel toe."

She dissolved into the giggles, the hysterical tone in her laughter gone.  I dropped my guard and we both acted like foolish girls at a bizarre, state-sanctioned slumber party.  By the time we came down from our fit, it was hard not to smile at each other.

  A wave of sleepiness swept over me.  I gave her an awkward hug, reaching across with my right arm and pulling her in tight, “You okay, now?  Want to talk some more?” 

Even though I was exhausted, I tried to keep the get-the-fuck-out-of-my-room tone from seeping into my voice.  At least for Jerrilyn.  She could stay for the rest of the night if she wanted.  I would Elmer’s Glue my lids open if need be.  No stick glue or rubber cement, so at most I would only lose a few eyebrows when she finally let me sleep.

Her call. 

She sat up, which the bed did not like.  I adjusted, flipping over onto my left side so she had more room.  “No, I think I’m okay, now.  I just…wanted….needed to get it out.” 

“Okay.’ 

“Thanks, Brittni.” 

I think I mumbled something inarticulate which passed for you’re welcome, but she knew what I meant. 

Any time, Jerrilyn. 

Just say the word.  I’ll be there with a cot, two hots, and a pot.  It’ll be just like old times on the ward.  I’ve even got a few new words to call your sister. 

Really, any time…at all. 

Suicide Kills, part 13

She sat across the table from me in the smoking room. 

Aaron was by the door, a new Steele book in his hands. 

Cigarette rolling between my fingers, I searched for the words.  I could find none.

Inhale.  Exhale.  Silence.  Smoke rings. 

Hey, that’s a pretty fat one!  Shaking my head, I put my cigarette out. That’s the problem with letting your mind wander.  Sometimes it likes to play with itself. “Listen, Sandra Joe…”

“Let’s go in the common room and watch a movie with the others, what do you say?”   

“Huh?”

“The others were going to put on The Princess Bride. Let’s watch it with them.” She smiled at me serenely and stood.  “I’m not upset about earlier.  It was just a misunderstanding.  You don’t have to apologize to me.”

“Fine.” I snapped. “Go on. I’m staying for another cigarette.”

“Brittni, I appreciate you want to apologize, but I am simply trying to convey you do not need to.  If you want to apologize, that is fine.  However, you will be apologizing because you need it, not me.” 

“Yeah, I heard you loud and fucking clear.  Enjoy.” I lifted my feet and put them in her empty seat, stubborn and selfish over losing the opportunity to apologize. 

Yep, that’s a new low.  What the hell, I’m here.  Why not roll deeper in it, right?

Sandra Joe, however, did not leave, which was not exactly how I planned things going after saying ‘enjoy’. 

“What?  Just go.” I spat and swiveled in my seat, avoiding her.  I put my cigarette in the ashtray and tugged at my hair band to remove it. 

The shuffle of her feet sounded across the floor softly toward the door. 

I continued messing with my hair.  I’d wound the band too tightly to slip my finger nails beneath it, so I pulled the entire band, tugging it to the end of my hair.   Grimacing, I closed my eyes as a knot of hair wrapped securely about the band tried to come with it. 

“Damn it!” I growled, wincing.  My head began to pound and tears squeezed from the corners of my eyes, crying.  Inside, a dam – one beyond the vulgar -- broke.  My first day I cried because I’d attacked everyone, and today I was crying because some damn hippy wouldn’t let me apologize to her.  I really was losing it, but not because of a frigging hippy. 

I felt like I was failing at being human. 

I tried to laugh at the insipid nature of the thought, how very 80’s and Alan Thicke it was, but the problem was I wasn’t a robot like the child he built in Not Quite Human. 

I felt like one, sometimes.  I tried to act like one, at times.  It seemed easier than exposing the deep and webbed insides of myself, but holy Brunhilda, when that eight foot Amazon of emotion catches up to you carrying all of the heartache you’ve avoided over the years, there is not one part of you which doesn’t ache when she swings that mighty hammer at your back.  More and more of me was aching, lately.  I didn’t like it, I didn’t want it, I needed it, but I hated it.  It hurt, and I never wanted to hurt again. 

For once, the laughter would not come.  A sob rose in its place.  I swallowed it down and ducked my head, dropped my hands and pulled my legs from the chair. To be honest, I didn’t know what to do with the sorrow bubbling in my chest, so I leaned forward to put my elbows on the table, head drooping to let my forehead could rest against my forearms.  The tears fell freely to the floor. 

A few minutes later I heard the sweep of feet come back into the room.  Before I could snarl a word, I realized my throat was closing up and my nose was running.  I laughed, garbled, and it was bitter.  Screw you, irony.  Of course, now I can laugh when snot is dribbling down the side of my cheek.

Something wet spritzed against the back of my hair.  The sound reminded me of my mother and the smell…the smell was home.  No More Tears.  I cried deeply.  Weeping, wracking sobs as I felt my hair being gently tugged and unknotted.  My mother used to have hell with my hair when I was a child.  She bought No More Tears and used bottle after bottle just to get my hair manageable.  I almost grew to hate the bottle, but when I got older and stopped using it, I finally saw it had helped. 

My hair was pulled back from my face, the hands doing the work both gentle and rough, fingertips of freshly picked cotton.  Sweeping a strand from my cheek, coated in snot and humility, I reached up and grabbed the hand.  I knew who the hand belonged to.  Finally, the words came. 

“Sandra Joe, I’m sorry.” 

Back in the common room, the lights were low.  The hallway door was open, allowing a shaft of light to spill in, but we pretended it wasn’t there.  Sandra Joe had asked to braid my hair after untangling it and I, for some reason, couldn’t refuse her.  Her fingers were gentle and nimble, a welcome difference from what I was used to growing up.

My Mom and I fought over this hair when I was a kid.  Not that it is anything capable of being spun into silk.  It’s even got a streak of black in the back with what’s known in these parts as a cow’s lick.  Yep, it looks like it sounds, as if a cow licked the back of my head and made that particular bit of hair stand up—forever. But damn it, it’s long and it is mine.  I like it that way. 

Mom wanted it kept short, and I demanded it be left to grow long.  I wished for it every night on every star I saw, sitting up in my bed peeking out between the blinds and trying to find a star between the branches of the huge shade tree in front of my window.  I wanted it long so much when I climbed from the bath I would leave the towel draped around the top of my forehead and cascading down my back just to pretend it was long, parading before my parents in protest.  Of course, one good flip of it over my shoulder was enough to break the illusion. 

I also swiped my Mom’s old wigs and wore them bald, or put them on my brother.  By eighth grade, he got his own wig and went as a mermaid for Halloween.  Yeah, I never said I didn’t add to his problems. 

When it was finally long enough to braid, my mother began taking me to a girl in High School who could French braid.  My mom never learned, so most of the time my hair ended up in pigtails with ‘hair bobbers’ on them. 

I like to think of all the time I had short hair as preparation for this chick.  You see, my Mom was never really good at fixing my hair.  She banged my head with the blow drier multiple times every session.  She burnt my forehead with the curling iron every Sunday and most Mondays.  No More Tears was really just wishful thinking.

And really, thank God for that. 

Amy was rough. 

A tight French braid can alter your face.  Now, my face already looks altered half the time because of my chinky eyes.  I can’t help it if my eyes disappear when I smile. It’s why I don’t smile that much.  I hated my eyes as a kid; size, shape, all of it.  And yeah, I just admitted chink was a nickname when I was in fifth grade.  A shortly lived nickname, because my tongue is quicker and was dipped in venom longer than most other kids my age.  Suzette Bolivas found that out during a particularly nasty game of telling each other off when she got the nickname ‘fang’, because of her overlapping incisors.  By graduation, she had an orthodontically perfected smile, and I like to think I played a small part in that.  Let’s face it.  Calling her fang got her more and better dick.

You are welcome, Ma’am! 

Anyways, Amy made my eyes smaller, if that’s possible, and even made them impossible to close.  And the night I saw her after she and her boyfriend broke up, well, I’m pretty sure that was just child abuse.  But my hair looked great.  I think.

After The Princess Bride, the others had put in Thelma and Louise.  Marigold was in a reclining chair, close to Veronica and Jerrilyn.  Veronica and Jerrilyn snuggled up together on the end of the couch while Nettie was on the opposite side, and the two women had their feet pointed at her as a warning of proximity.  Nettie had fallen asleep, her lips flapping outward lightly as she snored.  Sandra Joe was in the chair next to the couch on Nettie’s side and I sat on the floor in front of her while she did my hair.  Life seemed absurdly normal for almost an hour.

Then Nettie turned her head in my direction, mouth aimed downward, breath sweeping greasily across my face. 

I gagged. 

And that was when the trouble started. 

Everybody has those ‘things’ that they cannot stand.  The truth is those ‘things’ are things none of us can stand, so I know y’all are going to be with me on this one. 

I cannot stand rancid breath, but Nettie was not even in that category.  In fact, if rancid breath had an inbred, interspecies, bastard offspring step-child which made no scientific sense in the modern world, it would still be an upgrade from the foulness marinating in her mouth.  What was going on in there simply defied all logic and ate through ship hulls as a day job. 

My throat went into protective mode, shutting down all byways and locking down the main entrance.  My stomach revolted against my throat and decided an immediate evacuation was necessary.  I started to scramble to my feet.  My head jerked back and I realized Sandra Joe still had a grip on my hair. I lost my balance and fell. 

Thank God for fat asses.  Or more specifically, thank God for my fat ass.  I landed on the smooth finished cement floor and instantly considered smothering Nettie with a pillow.  The thought briefly relieved the aching in my ass.

Nettie awoke as Veronica, Jerrilyn, and Marigold sat up, each bombarding me with questions.  I tried swallowing down the rising bile in my throat, patting my chest and raising my other hand at them to stop for a second.  But good, reliable Nettie leapt into action. 

“I know what to do!” She said, hoarsely.  Standing shakily, she took two steps and knelt down in front of my face.  “Doo yooo neeeeed hhhhhhellp?  Aaaree yooo chhhokiiiing?  Dooo yooo neeeed thheee hiiinleenk mahhhnuuubbberrr?”

It was one H too many.  I promptly vomited down the front of her shirt.  Her face colored crimson in outrage, Nettie opened her odoriferous orifice and shrieked. 

Climbing to my feet, I tried to wipe my face.  A cacophony of voices and swishing garments thundered down the hall.  The telltale swish of nylon encased thighs seemed to carry the loudest.  A battalion of nurses and orderlies burst into the room, flicking on the light and moving into the room to separate us. 

I flashed an apologetic look at my friends.  Sandra Joe, who still had a hold of my hair, slipped an arm around my shoulder.  I shook, angry, afraid, and impotent with this grandmotherly woman holding me.  I couldn’t bring myself to shrug her off or push her away.  We backed up to the wall.  What was going to happen?  

“Who screamed?  What is going on?  Nettie, was that you?  Are you okay?  Did one of these women hurt you?” The Debra asked, not even looking at the woman she was addressing, preferring to glare at the rest of us in turn.  Eat shit, you bitch.  Ask Nettie where she dines, since you’re so damn fond of her.

“She…she attacked me!” Nettie shrieked, pointing in my direction.  Fuck me, Amadeus.  At least she left the others out of it.  But honestly, hag, if I wanted to attack you, I wouldn’t do it with stomach acid.  I mean, really.

Instead, I glanced around for a pillow.

“Debra, if I may?” Sandra Joe interrupted.  She waited until she had Debra’s full attention before continuing. “What we have here is a simple misunderstanding.  Brittni has not been eating well and simply became ill, as—Nettie, is it?—as Nettie’s shirt can attest.  I’m afraid she was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, but there was no attack.  Was there, Nettie?  It was a misunderstanding, wasn’t it?”    

Her voice was calming and I felt the tension in the air dissipate slightly.  All eyes in the room swung back to stare at Nettie, whose cheeks were now bright red with embarrassment.  The only mark on her was on the shirt, and she knew it.  Her eyes narrowed at Sandra Joe, but she could not deny her words.  “I—it…fine!” She snapped, then stomped out of the room in house slippers. 

Marigold smirked.  Veronica and Jerrilyn moved away from the orderlies. 

Somebody nudged my back and I looked over my shoulder, the feeling of dread which had come over me slipping away.  Aaron held out a bottle of coke.  Grateful, I took it and twisted off the cap, sucking it down despite the nasty taste in my mouth.  After a few gulps, some of the taste washed away.  Burns so good.  I whispered a thanks to him.  He didn’t answer, and I followed his gaze.

On the television screen, Brad Pitt had stripped down to his underwear. 

Aaron was watching.  Hah, Aaron was memorizing, actually.  Aaron was recording visuals to masturbate to later.  My eyebrow took a hike up my forehead.  Aaron noticed me and finally drug his eyes from the screen. 

He’s gay, he’s a linebacker, and he wants to be swept off his feet…by Brad Pitt.  Wasn’t going to happen, but damn if it wasn’t cute in a ten-foot tall, fluffy bunny sort of way. 

The Debra, foiled for now, and in my mind, muttering ‘curses!’, walked to the VCR.  “I think it’s time for bed.” 

I shook my head, about to speak.  Beside me, Sandra Joe poked me in the ribs and spoke first, “The movie was almost over.  I think finishing it would be a good way to let us wind down after all the excitement.  What do you say, Debra?” 

The Debra cocked her head to the side, trying to figure out what was happening.  Inside, I clapped.  She was being manipulated not only by a pro, but by a pro who did it kindly.  Sandra Joe could teach me a thing or two, that’s for damn sure.  I waited to see if Debra took the bait. 

“Okay,” She said, slowly, “just this once, then lights out.” Debra paused by the door, “But this light stays on.”

“Absolutely.” Sandra Joe nodded, as if the idea were hers. 

The Debra frowned, her brain still plodding along the puzzle, trying to figure out what was siphoning her power, then swished out of the room in bright pink, heart printed stirrup pants. 

I grabbed the back of my hair and spun around to face Sandra Joe.  “Teach me this.  I must learn your ways.” 

She clucked her tongue and shook her head, sighing as if I were a lost cause.  “The only thing you must do is go brush those teeth, unless you want to end up like Nettie.” 

I covered my mouth with my hand, “Point taken.  I will be back.” 

“Wait!  Turn around and let me put a hair bobber on, so I can finish your hair.”

Hand still over my mouth, I smiled and obediently turned around.  She really was just like my Mom.