Sing Me To Sleep

Chapter 25

"You could punch me really hard in the face," I suggest. "Or throw me out of the window." I actually glance outside, measuring the distance to the ground. A three story fall might not kill me-- Maybe break my legs or give me a concussion, but not necessarily death. 

Ray rolls his eyes and pulls me away from the closed window. "I am not pushing you out the window."

I frown, but figure that's probably best. Even if the distance doesn't kill me, the concrete pavement at the bottom might. "Then punch me. Or stab me with a fork."

Ray folds his arms across his chest and glares at me. "I took care of your unconscious ass for two weeks," He says. "My job is done."

I bite down on my lip and look away, trying not let it show how sad I actually was to be leaving this place. I figured that if I somehow ended up getting hurt again, I could stay longer. Of course, Ray wasn't so keen on that idea and was opposed to attempted murder and assault, even if I was more than willing to have my physical health put in jeopardy.

I cross my arms as well and look down at my Converse, my bare feet no longer visible. There's a dark spot where the tile is scuffed and I focus on prodding the shadowed area with the toe of my shoe. The plastic bag crinkles in my grasp as I shift it's weight against my leg. My jeans, T-shirt, and the visitors logs, which I convinced Ray to let me keep, are the only contents. My cell phone was confiscated by Detective Braddock, as it could "possibly have an effect on my recovery." I didn't argue, knowing that I rarely used the device anyway and, with my mother gone, there was no one to pay the bill.

I look back up at Ray when I hear the officers outside the room and sigh. "I guess I'm leaving then."

Ray bobs his head a little in agreement. "Promise me you won't come back." He nudges my foot with his and smiles. "Not on a gurney, at least. Walking in on your own two legs to say hi would be acceptable, though."

I laugh and nod. I find myself averting my gaze again, though I try so hard to look at him. Goodbye's always sucked. I hated this part. Apparently Ray felt the same way because when Detective Francis peers into the room, informing me that we're free to leave, there's no heartfelt farewell. No hugging or crying or even a real goodbye. Just a small wave on both of our parts before I follow the older man away from the room I've grown used to calling my own and the only person I've ever really been able to call my friend.

It's a quiet walk down the sterile hallways, every room passing as a blur as I try not to look inside. Still, I find myself peering into each room, only getting a glimpse of certain patients. The first I see is an old man, sitting on the edge of the hospital bed, clad in a papery gown and watching his swinging feet. His lips move but I don't hear any sound, whether because his voice is too low or his words are silent, and I wonder who he's talking to. I find myself devising stories for each patient I see, imagining what their reason for admission is and where they came from. The old man is here for delusions, I imagine. He's talking to his wife, who has been dead for years, and she can reply only in his mind.

Before long, Francis is pulling open the main entrance doors, allowing me to go outside first though I have no idea where to go. I slow down my steps and glance around nervously, suddenly feeling too exposed here in the open. The sun is burning down on my back instantly and the cool Spring air creates goosebumps on my skin. I cringe against the vastness that seems to extend in every direction-- a never ending parking lot, full of cars and a sense of ominous desertion; How many of these cars belong to people who will never leave this place?

"This way." I feel the presence of Detective Francis' hand near by back though he doesn't actually touch me. The simple almost-contact is enough to press me in the direction he's pointing, where I see an awaiting black Honda Accord Coupe. I can make out a blonde-haired driver, who I assume is Braddock, waiting with tapping fingers on the steering wheel. I'm somewhat surprised; It's not until I actually see the vehicle do I realize that I was expecting a police car to transport me to the dreaded destination of Beatrice Webb's group home.

Francis opens the door for me, letting me slide into the dark backseat. The tinted windows block out the sun and my eyes have to adjust to the sudden lack of light as I glance around. I catch Braddock's blue eyes in the rear-view mirror once before quickly averting my gaze and settle with just staring down at my lap, the plastic bag crinkling in my hold.

The ride is awkwardly silent, not even the radio on to keep the voices in my head quieted. So many thoughts are racing through me, each one taking on a different tone and screaming at me to remember, but they all just blend together and I get nothing but a headache.

When the car eventually pulls to a stop and I look up, I'm shocked and terrified, excited and nauseous, to see my very own house outside the darkened window. My breathing stutters and I let out what almost sounds like a pathetic laugh. "Why..." I swallow hard, the gesture loud in the tense silence of the car, and try to force the question past my lips. Why are we here? But the words catch and I can't seem to get them out.

Francis looks back at me from the passengers seat. "You'll need some clothes," He explains. "And maybe some personal belongings." His voice is soft, like if he says something the wrong way, I might shatter into a million pieces. But his voice isn't what will break me; Being here, inside the house my mother and father both died in, will be the thing that tears me apart inside.

I nod, not being able to formulate an acceptable response, and watch as Francis climbs out of the car. Again, he opens the door for me, but I don't pay mind to him and shuffle out the other side instead, slamming the door maybe harder than necessary when my feet are on the pavement.

He follows close behind me as I take the stony path to the front door, producing a spare key and fidgeting with the lock as he speaks. "A few officers have already been through," He informs me. "Just a routine check to make sure nothing is here that shouldn't be."

It takes me a moment before I realize what he's telling me; They've cleaned out all evidence of my mother's suicide already, probably the medication and sharp objects as well, in case I decide to flip shit and turn homicidal.

When he pushes the door open, Francis steps aside to allow me entrance. "I'll be waiting out here. Take all the time you need."

It doesn't take me as long as I think it should to pack. As soon as I step foot into the desolate house, I want to turn and run in the opposite direction. A wave of emotions hit me-- Sadness, fury, nostalgia. But most of all, emptiness.

There's nothing here for me.

I don't spend time looking at the broken plates that scatter the kitchen floor, not taking time to wonder why they're there, or my mother's open bedroom door. I head straight for my bedroom, but it feels void of anything useful. I do as Francis requested, finding a suitcase and piling in all of my jeans and shirts, before turning to actually study the room I don't recognize as my own anymore.

It looks the same; The same peeling wallpaper, a few posters hanging at random intervals, my desk cluttered with abandoned papers, comic books peeking out from under my bed. All things some part of me wants to take, but I choose to leave behind. Those aren't important to me anymore. The only thing that really holds any sort of value anymore, whether of the life I'm now leaving behind or of my mother's memory, is the rough piece of paper that is crumpled up in my pocket. The suicide note that reveals my mother's last thoughts and the revelation that someone out there is watching over me.

I leave the suitcase, still open, on the bed and make my way into the attached bathroom. Recalling the day, now seeming so long ago, when I chose to end my life, I look at the reflection in the mirror. I remember writing the words that now are only faint markings. Someone tried to scrub them off, attempting to erase the only thing I had decided to leave behind. I can only make out the outline, just shadows where my farewell had been scribbled in sharpie.

xo Frank 

My hand is more steady this time as I grasp the marker that still lies next to the sink. Pulling off the black cap, I lean forward. The words sound so loud in my head, resonating through me with some memory I can't exactly place, and I scrawl them onto my own reflection.

Did we all fall down? 

Then I drop the marker into the trash bin, turning on my heels and going back to the open suitcase. Zipping it up, I make my way down the stairs to where Francis and Braddock are waiting to take me to my new home.