Forgetters, Leavers, and Complainers

Plan Part C

I told you of my family; of my tired, worn mother and of my little sister, pulled too soon from childhood. My family has been labelled broken ever since my father left. We're all broken--not just my family, but every human being in the world. Not just me. Not just my family.

I was seven when I was diagnosed with my illness. Getting a name for the beast that haunted me was hardly exciting, but my parents decided that giving the beast a name gave them something to fight. It labelled me as sick, it explained away the nosebleeds, the fainting, the pain chasing my spine. 

I don't remember much from my seventh year. I remember sterility. I remember a lot of white. Everyone says that white is the color of hope, purity, goodness; to me, it was the color of pain and shame. I remember the plastic of hospital beds. I remember white gowns that barely covered my emaciated figure. I remember bustling--people bustling to and fro--and I remember stillness--me, stranded on the hospital bed, on an island in the midst of the teeming masses.

It was a terrible year, but this isn't about my misery, it's about revenge.

My eighth year was worse. That was the year Walter left. He said, "It's not because of you, Ry. It's not your fault, Ry. It has nothing to do with your sickness, Ry." 

I have developed the unique ability of seeing through lies; they are translucent to me, glass revealing the heartless chest of the person behind them. I knew Walter was leaving because of me--my illness was too hard on him. 

Walter wasn't a good father, but he wasn't terrible. He'd come for most of my t-ball games, but he never cheered or offered to coach the team. He'd come to my birthday party, but Mom would pick out the gifts and bake the cake. He'd put up the Christmas tree, but I was always the one to decorate it. He was good enough that I missed him but not so good that I wanted him back.

In my sixth year, Emma was born.

In my seventh year, I was diagnosed.

In my eighth year, Walter left.

He told me he was leaving in a hospital room--suiting, isn't it? Maybe he was afraid. Maybe he didn't want the responsibility. Maybe he didn't want Emma and I. 

Either way, he's living in New York City now. He has a good job and at least one girlfriend. He's rich. Maybe he's happy.

He doesn't visit very often. He pays child support, sends Christmas and birthday gifts, and invites us to his apartment for Easter every year. 

I still remember what he said. 

"Ryan, your mother and I are getting a divorce. The last few years have been...hard on us and our marriage. I can't be here anymore. This doesn't mean I'm not your and Emma's father, I just can't stay in this family. This has nothing to do with you or your illness; it's a decision your mother and I made together. I'm sorry, Ry."

He said it was his and Mom's decision; that was a lie too. I could tell it was a lie when she stood at the end of our driveway with eyes red and face blotchy. She squeezed Emma's toddler hand until Emma complained of the pain.

I watched him drive away in his red Corvette from my bedroom window. I wasn't sad; I was guilty. He had deserted our family because I was sick. Mom was crying because of me, and I could do nothing to help her. 

Guilt is a heavy thing, especially for the hunched shoulders of an eight year old invalid. I have carried the guilt of Walter's departure with me for years, and I want to be done with it. This trifold revenge plan is not just making them feel my pain, it is freeing myself of the guilt they laid on my shoulders.

This is the last step in my plan. If all goes well, I will leave him with the guilt that he gave me. This is the riskiest thing I've done yet, and perhaps it scares me a little. I know Walter won't be the only one who's hurt by what I'm going to do. I'm sorry that Mom and Emma will be hurt. I don't know what will happen in the aftermath, but if I'm honest, I'm dreading it. Will they lock me up? Turn me over to a psychiatrist? It's possible. 

One of the first things I was asked after my diagnosis was, "Have you ever thoughts about suicide?"

That was the only time in my life I could honestly answer, "No."

To be honest, the fact that I've managed to hobble along in life with a chronic illness and without weekly therapy is quite the feat. Most of my chronically ill peers have suffered far worse than me, struggling with suicide, self-harm, and depression. My measly suicidal thoughts are nothing compared to their struggles.

That's why my revenge is going to come as such a shock.

My revenge on Walter, the leaver, will come in the form of an empty white envelope, just like the first two parts of the plan. This time, however, I will be unable to deliver the letter myself.

I am sitting on my bed, my pen hovering over the page. This time, the fear mingles with the anger flowing in my bloodstream. I don't know what's going to happen after I lay the letter by my bedside. Do I have the guts to go through with this? Do I want to? 

I'm not going to die. At least, I don't think I will.

I finally press the black ink pen to the page. 

I'm sorry you have to find me this way. Mom, Emma, this has nothing to do with you. This isn't your fault. And don't blame it on my sickness. This is Walter's fault. I'm assuming he's here, that he would come home for his only son. Walter, if you're reading this, I'm lying here because of you. You betrayed our family. You left because you were weak; you couldn't handle caring for a son who has endured more pain in his 21 years than you have in your 46. You left me with your guilt--you left me believing it was my fault you deserted me and Mom and Emma. This is because of you. Now you know what it feels like to be left behind with guilty blood on your hands--literally.

I seal the envelope with hands sticky from sweat.

I lay down the envelope and pick up the knife.

I hold it over my wrist.

What if I cut too deep? What if I don't wake up? What if...