Forgetters, Leavers, and Complainers

Part E

"You don't have to tell me exactly what happened. I'm just here to listen."

Her hand is warm and sweaty in mine. Her voice is lacquered honey. The room is stuffy and overbearing. My hand is cold, icy, still. Almost lifeless. Almost, but not quite. 

Should I have gone all the way?

That question has been haunting me ever since I woke up in the hospital two days ago. I can still feel the cold steel of the knife on my wrist. It was sharp and real, in contrast to all the vacuous softness so often surrounding me. I had pushed the knife against my skin. It glided with ease, searing my flesh. Just before I passed out, I pulled my hand away. I couldn't end it. 

"Just tell me what you're thinking."

I jerk my eyes to her face and whisper, "You don't want to know."

Two days have passed. Walter's here, but I haven't seen him. He got the note; I know he got the note by the look on Mom's face when she came in to see me for the first time. I almost felt guilty for writing it--almost, but not quite. I've recovered enough that I could be released, but they don't want me to go home yet. They want to take me to a psych ward.

I want to scream at them, "I didn't do this. This is because of them. This is because of him."

I somehow doubt, however, that my revenge list will encourage them to release me.


"He wants to see you."

I know Mom's voice as well as I know my own. I can feel the tension leaking through the timbre of her inflection. Knowing her, she wants to defend my father and mediate between us.

"I thought my letter made it clear what I thought of him," I murmur back, hearing the cracks in my stale, unused voice.

"Please," I hear Mom's voice and I finally sit up on the hospital bed and look at her.

Tears. She's showing me real tears. She usually hides her tears from me with makeup and pained, grimacing smiles, but now she's actually crying.

"I know you're mad because of what he did to us and...and you blame yourself, or your sickness, for your father leaving. I know you feel bad because of...because of me," Mom breaks down in tears.

I suddenly curse my own weakness; I wish I could get up and comfort her, but I know if I do, I'll fall. I reach over and squeeze her hand gently. It's just as icy as mine. 

"It's not your fault," I can hear death in my own voice.

I can hear death in hers too, "It's not yours either."

I pinch my eyes shut. Yes. Yes, it is. Was my list a way of avenging wrongs done against me or a way of punishing myself? I know the truth. I know that I am guilty. I've always been guilty--guilty of being selfish, demanding, isolating, hurtful. 

For a moment, I regret not plunging the knife deeper. If I had died, it would have made up for what I've done.

I'm guilty. I've hurt so many people. In the name of my own pain, I've only caused more.

Everything is coming back to me now.

Corey.

"Ryan, let's just go out for one night. I miss you, man. I hate seeing you all by yourself at home. I wish we could stay friends, but you just keep shutting me out."

Lily.

"Just because you're going through pain doesn't mean you have to make me feel guilty for being healthy. I'm sorry, Ry. I'm sorry you feel that way, but I just want us to think about something else, just enjoy ourselves for one night. Did you ever think that I might need you too?"

Walter.

"Ryan, you need to lighten up on your mother. She's really struggling and it doesn't help when you constantly yell for her to help you. Please, for me, just try to take some of this weight off her shoulders."

"Ry, honey?"

Mom's soft fingers brushes tears from my cheeks. I remember. She stands and pulls me into an embrace. My fingers catch in the soft cotton knit of her sweater. 

"I'm sorry," I murmur.

I'm sorry for being such a burden. For being selfish. For hurting you.

"You have to forgive yourself," her voice is rich with emotion. "We've already forgiven you."

I look up in time to catch a sprinting Emma in my arms. Her high pitched giggles so deeply contrast the sinking black liquid seeping through me. I enfold her in my embrace. I look behind her and I see Dad watching through the glass window. I don't see malevolence and hatred. I see guilt. I never realized how much we looked alike.

Are you ready? I ask myself. Are you ready to forgive?

I thought I needed revenge. I thought I needed to force everyone else to feel the pain I've felt for years. They all have - Corey, Lily, Dad, even Mom and Emma. I need forgiveness, for them and for myself. 

I started my mission with a sardonic desire for poetic justice. Is this not poetry? I tried to kill myself to get revenge on my father, while I was really trying to punish myself. Yet here I am, still alive, though I wanted to die. Here I am, facing myself as the real criminal. I forgot. I complained. I left, but it's not too late to come back. Maybe it's not too late for the rest of them either.

Poetic justice.