When The Darkness Takes Us: Jess's Story

Spiraling

"Where are you going?"

I ignore her. I'm trying to think of what I need. I have a backpack. One strap is broken, so I can't fill it with much. I open a kitchen drawer. There's a boxcutter in the back. I flick the blade out and inspect it, before shoving it into my pocket. Then I open the freezer. Linda always keeps frozen water bottles in here. The power has been a couple hours now, but the two I find are still hard as rocks. I put them in my bag.

What else? What else?

Linda is in front of me then. She's short and she puffs herself up as much as possible, sticking a finger in my face. "Go back to your room and go back to doing whatever you were doing."

"I was reciting school shooting 911 calls and having an emotional breakdown over a man I've talked to less than 10 times."

She stares at me. Her eyes widen and her mouth slants to one side. I can see she has no idea what to make of what I just told her.

"Someone is screaming for help outside," I say. "I'm just grabbing some essentials. You have a first aid kit?"

She blinks at me.

"I used to be a nurse," I add.

"Oh," she mutters. She visibly relaxes. "Yes, I have one in the bathroom. Thought you were going out to loot."

I shrug. "Probably not."

She lifts an eyebrow and opens her mouth. But she doesn't say anything. She closes her mouth, frowns, narrows her eyes, and make a little "hmm" noise. Then she glides out of the kitchen. She's back in seconds with a first aid kit.

I take it from her and stuff it into my backpack.

"You could get killed out there," she huffs.

I push past her to the front door. "I hope so." I slam the door shut behind me before she has a chance to answer.

Outside, the smell of something burning assaults me. Rubber...maybe metal? An alarm is blaring from a distance. The tinkling of shattering glass sounds from nearby. This is quickly followed by shouting. Then the thuds and angry excitement of a skirmish. It's dark, but I'm standing below a streetlight. I turn to the left and then the right. I don't see anyone. Not at first.

Then movement, pounding feet, giddy shouting. I hurl myself back into the wall of the building and hold my breath as four men laden with boxes sprint past me. They don't even look my way.

"Go! Go! This shit's gonna sell for like three-thousand!"

As they retreat, I press into the wall, heart pounding. I said I hoped I'd die, but did I mean it? I'm scared. So scared I want to turn around and go back in. I feel small out here in the darkness, chaos lurking around every corner.

No, I do. I do want to die. It's only that I want it to be quick.

I think again of Columbine. Of the suicide photos. I picture myself. What would I look like dead? Would my skull look like a shattered vase? Whenever I look at crime scene photos, I'm shocked by how fragile the human body looks when a person dies violently.

I want to die violently. I want a scene. I want a mess. I want my corpse to ruin someone's day. I want them to look at it, clean me up. I want bleach. One time I broke a jar of jam. I had to pick up the shards of glass with thick fruit spread glopping off it. I had to sort through the muck to find the jagged pieces. I want someone to clean up my shattered skull and I want to be like that. I want my brain to be like jam.

There's something wrong with me. Of course I know this already, but it hits me so hard and suddenly. There really is something so so wrong with me. A normal human being doesn't think this way.