"I don't know how to help you anymore."
"You never knew how to help me."
"Thanks."
"I told you: no one can help me."
Pause. Maybe I should rewind. You can't start a story at the ending, not without explaining anyway. I'm not going to bother starting with the very beginning. I'm not going to waste our time writing about every little thing that's wrong with me. You don't want my life story. You don't give a damn about the abuse I've suffered. Neither do they. My parents I mean. So that's where this story will start. It's how we all start – with our parents.
"I called my doctor today. The asshole didn't pick up. I told the nurse who answered what's been going on with me, about the lumps in my back and the throwing up. I told her I can't take a dump. I said, whenever I sit down I only let out a turd about the size of my pinkie. It takes me ten minutes to get it out and my belly hurts like a bitch. I don't think it's a gas bubble this time." I nod my head, not really listening as he rattles on. A whisper of smoke dances in front of me and I watch it curl around itself, elongate and surround me.
"That dumb bitch could only say I'm constipated. I told her I was down to two days of pills. They won't let me call in another order, the pricks. Here, feel this bulge." I glance over at the mound of pale flesh that is his stomach.
"I can see it from here." Really, I can't. I don't care about his stomach pain. It's the same old shit he pulls every day. Rub my belly. Then he'll groan. This is the worst it's hurt since I was diagnosed over a year ago.
"This is the worst it's hurt since they told me I had this shit." I nod my head and scrape my thumbnail under my middle finger, digging out the dirt crust. "I asked Dale to come over tonight. I'm giving him some of the pills for some weed. I told him, I said, I'm almost out now. I can't eat without the stuff. And that goddamned doctor won't approve my license for medical marijuana – "
I stand up, nod my head again and leave the room. Metal is clanking in the kitchen. My mother is at the sink, water soaking the front of her loose shirt, sleeves rolled up to her elbows. Aunt M is sitting in the wooden chair at the edge of the table on a computer, doing god knows what. A pot on the stove has bathed the room in a translucent steam. I open the refrigerator and pull open "my" drawer.
"I'm sautéing some veggies and some chicken if you want any." I look at my mother.
"I don't eat meat, remember?" A dried yam is at the bottom of the drawer with two shriveled grapes and a half-empty bottle of Seltzer.
I hear her make that Ttt sound under her breath and say, "Whatever then."
I shut the door and walk back upstairs, pulling the sleeves of my sweater tighter across my stomach.
I'm not angry with you. I'm disappointed.
You and everyone else.
I'll call you in sick then. We can't have a family barbeque without the whole family.
Then you can pay my bills when I lose my job.
What're you, shy? Won't even talk to your own cousin?
I'm related to you?
I hear you's a lesbian now.
Yeah, so what?
The only reason she's a lezbo's cuz she hasn't been screwed by a real man.
I hope you're not referring to yourself.
You okay, Shel?
No. I am not okay.
There is no service in that house. I stalk out the door and past that dirt bag I call an aunt. Finally, a signal. The phone vibrates in my hand. A brook sashays far below me, loud this time of year. The plane landed. If you care.
Screw texting on this damn phone. The keys are too close together. Whatever. I shove the device in my pocket and scramble down the steep bank. I could do it now, right here. I could end everything and none of them would even notice. The rock is cool as I crouch down, trailing my fingers in the icy water.
There's nothing to stop me. Nobody here cares. I'm disappointed. I'm just a stupid lesbian wasting oxygen. A waste of space. An accident. I shouldn't be here. Not even she cares anymore. It's over. We're over. Bright blood seeps from my arm where I've picked away the scab. It will have to do.
"Where is she now, hiding in her room again?"? My mother is standing on the landing between my room and hers. The vent scorches my lower back as I lean up against it, catching the fading sun rays on the edge of the razor. It's so bright, and beautiful.
"Right back where she always is." My dad's voice comes from his room where he is no doubt reclining on the bed, smoking another cancer stick, admiring his money pills.
"I'm sick of this. Day and night she's in that damn room. She can stop crying over her for God's sake. She's the one who chose to live this lifestyle. She made her bed, now she can lay in it." The door slams against the wall as she shoves it open. Do you hear me in here? You say you want to be independent and out on your own, living by yourself. Welcome to the real world. Deal with your own damn problems. I'm not listening to them anymore. Take your tears and shove them!" She slams the door closed. It doesn't make any sense. None of this does. Why do I hurt so much?
He's dying now. He'll be gone soon. And so will the memories. And yet.
Nine months left and I will be on my own. And yet.
I'm the one who broke up with her. She's the one at fault. She broke my heart. And yet.
I'm not ready to die. And yet.
"How many Advil does it take to kill a person?" My head hurts. At least I think it's my head, floating a foot or so above my neck. My whole body aches. My fingers are throbbing. Did I do it? Did it work? My heart races in my chest. I think that's my heart. Christ, why do I hurt so much?
"What do you mean?" Jesus, I'm in hell. I can still hear her voice. Damn it.
"How many Advil does it take to kill a person?"
"What are you talking about?" Her voice is tinged with hysteria (though that could be what everything sounds like down here). Good.
"Dying."
"What? What are you doing? What are you thinking right now?" I move to sit up. My vision blurs. I fall back with a groan. Holy shit. I'm not dead. Shit!
"I want to die. I don't want to be here anymore. I have nothing to look forward to. I'm just a disappointment." I'm crying in earnest now. I can't feel anything and yet, I feel everything. I can't think or breathe.
"I'm coming over right now!" Click.
"Do you want me to go with you?" She's here – actually here – holding my hand. And I'm here, holding her hand. I shake my head. She turns me to face her. "You can do this. I know you can."
"But what if I can't?" The words are choked and dry. I lick my lips and straighten my shirt again. "What should I tell him?"
"Everything." "But what if I can't?" "You can. You're strong." "You can come in now." Bucky stands in the doorway, smiling like usual. I glace back at her again as the door closes. "So, what's up?" Okay. Here we go. I take a breath. "I'm not supposed to be here." He raises his eyebrow. "From the moment I was conceived, I was an accident."
