A Walk Down Ivy Laine

Monday, October 6, 2014

Monday, October 6, 2014

The Schmeltzen Residence

My attic Bedroom

Written at days end

...Drip....

...Drip...

Drip.

I open my eyes, fighting the pull of sleep and nostalgia I rarely get to feel. The weeping willow tree is still present in my mind, and so is the perfume of mint wafting about. Colorful bees bask between the strings of leaves and little neon fishes change colors in the black-as-sin stream at my toes. My mother is here, as always, just sitting across the water on the grassy embankment. She's smiling at me in that know-all way, but it's a hazy moment. I know my heaven is fading now as she gets up and leaves, leaving behind a half-peeled mango. It rolls down the embankment—plop-- into the stream, scattering the little fishes. They're gone. She's gone...

It's dark. Raining, and chilly. My first instincts.

My second instinct is worry. Willy. Where is he?

He seems to sense my alertness, jumping up onto the bed by my face, tongue finding my cheek over and over.

"Stop," I giggle, pushing him away...then cringe in pain. The taste of dried copper on my tongue is like smelling salts to your nose. Reality tastes vile. Rolling over gently, I shift under the sauna-like blankets, testing my resistance. In the dark it's fathomless, but bruises, I'm sure of it, must run up and down every inch, ending around the tender flesh of my wrists. For all of the hurt on the outside, my lower insides hurt worse. The thought of it makes me sick to my empty stomach. My eyes flit to the corner by the window. The silver hooked rod is gone. No amount of preparedness or red door in my mind meant to be the barrier between painful memories and livable ones, can hide or fix this. My safe haven, my attic, is supposed to be untouchable. Make me untouchable. Now the devil has a key.

Tears come, and I let them. No one is here to see but my best friend.

"I hate him," I whimper miserably, fighting the acid in my throat by rolling to the left side. Willy takes it upon himself to lay against my back, a totem of warmth. It's not enough consolation though. The sleep aid bottle from the nightstand pops between my palms, lid clattering to the floor boards, "I...Hate...Him..."

Metallic chalk descends on my tongue. Most of the twenty or so pills go down but the half empty water bottle on the nightstand helps the rest of the bottle. I choke a hysterical laugh directed at the plastic bottle as if I can will it to feel shame, crushing it between my fingers. How had it survived the flailing, screaming mass of limbs two inches away and still get to stand upright in the aftermath? I fling the plastic traitor away, letting it smash against the far wall. Willy jumps at the noise and slides off the bed to hide underneath it. Now I feel even worse, but I don't call for him.

Time goes by slowly as I wait for the tug of induced sleep, fighting back the guilt ridden parts of myself. Who would care if I take too many? Would I be able to see my family now? Would they care if it was 'pills' in the end? After all that's all my life has surmounted to over the years, anti-psychotics and lies. Maybe this is fate.

A fleeting memory of my dad surfaces and I grasp at it like a hungry child, letting my heavy eyes slip closed so I can focus on every perfect detail of his face. It has been so long since he's visited.

"Suicides go to hell," his voice echoes, fading away like fog.

I'm not going where they are...

Willy's whine is the last thing I remember.