Shouting Habits

Brief Introduction:

I have been working on this short story since the beginning of the semester and I think I finally found an appropriate way to close it; therefore, it has been posted. I’ve only read through in a few times, so I apologize in advance for any spelling/grammar errors that remain. Feel free to make me aware of any and I will try to get around to fixing them!

Lastly, there are lots of subtle and some not-so-subtle Brand New and Kevin Devine references in this story. I am coming clean now so as to not appear to be plagiarizing. If you’re wondering about something, ask me.

And now, without further ado:


Chapter I: It’s Good To Know

Part I

I died last night.

Sitting in this chair, which I’ve sat in hundreds of times before, I’m staring at my body which lay perfectly still on the floor of my room. I am not surprised, nor am I regretful. In fact, I am a little excited to see the stunned looks on my parents’ faces when they turn the doorknob and see me this way. Well, not me exactly, but that blob stretched out of the floor with a couple of empty orange prescription bottles sitting precariously on my desk, just barely in arm's reach. What a show this should be. They’ll scream and probably call an ambulance. They’ll pace anxiously as they hear the sirens nearing, but it will be of no use since I have been dead for nearly seven hours already. There is no question of my mortality…or lack there of. Then, the crying, sobbing will occur and they’ll look at each other asking themselves “how did this happen” or “we had no idea she was that depressed.” And I’ll sit here to witness the entire event unfold. I’m sure they’ll be telling the truth when they ask those questions, too. You’d be surprised how easy it is to hide the fact that you’re suicidal, even after you’ve attempted twice. Although, when Dad noticed the huge scar on my wrist, I thought I might have been found out, but apparently, not. Depression was one thing, but self-injury and suicide attempts were another, another they rarely – if ever – actually noticed. They still have my sister, Samantha, though. Their crowning achievement. The good daughter. They’ll be fine.

I wonder what the afterlife is like. Am I doomed to confinement in these four walls for eternity? Will I be forced to follow my body to the morgue and then the graveyard where I’ll spook twelve-year-old girls during their séances? Will I shack up in some old, abandoned house or office building where my ghoulish brethren haunt? Or can I roam free? Obviously, I am hopeful for that last option; however, until seven hours ago I didn’t believe in an afterlife at all, so this is already more than I expected as I swallowed that first handful of painkillers. Now probably isn’t the best time to wonder if there’s a God and if there is whether I’m in his favor, but I’m dead…the worst that happens is I wind up in hell, which would still probably be better than living so I’ll take my chances.

Not that I have much of a choice. Once you’re dead that’s pretty much the end of the road for you, I suppose. Haha. Maybe I’ll run into some cute boy ghost with a broken heart who writes poetry and we’ll just woo each other for eternity.

The doorknob began to turn.

“Shit! I nearly missed it!”

The room was silent with the exception of my father’s hand turning the doorknob. The door swung open.

“Goo- ” was the only syllable of his morning greeting he managed to utter before his eyes found my body. Like any father, he jumped into action. “Taylor!” my dad tried to get my attention. “Taylor, wake up, hun, come on!” he tried. “Helen!” he screamed for my mother. “Helen! Call 911!”

My mother ran into the room, screamed, and picked up the phone which sat on the third shelf. My dad checked my pulse and he should have known from that point on that his following efforts would be in vain, but he relented. I suppose it was panic that convinced him that blood still ran through my veins and that my heart still pounded. He attempted CPR for the full seven minutes it took for the ambulance to arrive.

As I sit here, watching my story end, I can hear the sirens. Everything is in slow motion, even as the EMTs try to breathe life back into my corpse. Finally, the man whose lips had tried to revive me stood up and spoke.

“I’m sorry,” said the man.

My mother fell to the ground, wrapped my body up in her arms, and sobbed. My father dropped to his knees and put his hand on my mother’s back. I could see tears welling up in his eyes, but I couldn’t help but assume their insincerity.

“Thank you,” he said to the EMT.

“Honestly, sir, you did all you could. I can’t say exactly when she passed, but it was probably at least four hours ago,” the EMT explained, hoping to rid my parents of some of the guilt and sorrow that seemed to wash over them as they sat next to my body.

I watched the men carry me out of the room in a big black bag, but I felt little inclination to follow. I know what comes next: autopsy, morgue, funeral home, church, dirt and worms.

My room was quiet afterwards. I can only assume my parents followed my body. The empty orange bottles still sit where I left them as I slipped into death. It all seems so normal. Despite the panic, the whirlwind that swept through here, my room seemed completely untouched. Not even a single spec of dust has been disturbed. The CDs and DVDs. The books. My journals. Everything lay suspended. Time stopped here. Life in this place has ceased. For once, there was calm.

You might think I’d feel an inkling of guilt now after witnessing the grief which overtook my family. However, this is the most attention I’ve received in months. To be frank, I don’t even believe they meant it. They don’t love me, not my family or my friends. I’ve been a needle in each of their sides since I was born. I wasn’t even planned! I know this. I’ve often wondered why they didn’t just abort me. I was always disappointing one of them in not all of them all at once. Why I thought any of them would actually remember my birthday (especially after the huge bash Mom and Dad threw Sam for hers) is beyond me. Wishful thinking…the worst kind.

Part II

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “You killed yourself because your family forgot your birthday? Watch ‘Sweet Sixteen’ and get over it!” I know. I know. I know. The easy answer is: yes. The real answer is: no. Of course, I didn’t just kill myself because everyone around me forgot my eighteenth birthday. However, I suppose you could say it was the last straw. No one in her right mind would ever choose death over life because of one unfortunate occurrence. No, I didn’t want to die for that. It was just another Post-It on my wall against a forest of other Post-It's all reminding me how worthless I am; rather, I was.

With my family (and my body) shuffled away, I’m not quite sure what I should do next. Being dead, I don’t seem to get hungry or thirsty. I don’t need to use a bathroom nor do I seem to need a shower. I walk through my house. The silence rings in my ears. My parents’ bed sheets are disheveled, but still. The room my sister once lived in before moving off to college is still perfect, as she always left it. I can’t figure out how one manages to live as perfectly as she.

Downstairs, too, nothing had been moved. The dishes, now dry, sat still in the drain basket. The remotes: all in the remote caddy next to the couch. The lampshade, still slightly crooked after Dad fixed the light bulb two days ago. A cool draft still slips through the front door. I can’t feel it, but it rustles the umbrellas standing nearby.

I reach out my arm towards the door, but am unable to grab the brass doorknob. Of course not…I have no body. Now, for fear of looking like a fool, I am not too enthusiastic about attempting to simply walk through my front door, but without seeing much else in terms of options, I suppose it’s worth a shot. Would I make a thud if it turned out I don’t flow right through? Does it really matter if no one’s here to hear such a thud?

Closing my eyes, I stepped quickly into the solid door and when I opened my eyes up again, I was outside. You must understand that this was quite a shock. The event actually forced a giggle to be released from that part of me which seemed to be my throat. Who would have thought all the movie clichés were real!?

Part III

490 West Harron Street.

My best friend – Caitlin – resides here with her father and two older bothers. Her oldest brother, Erik, is four years older and I won’t lie: I had a huge crush on him. Caitlin knew. Why wouldn’t she? She was my best friend, after all. She teased me mercilessly, abuse I certainly deserved. It must have been awkward for her: watching her best friend go all googly-eyed for her brother. But – hey – it’s not my fault Erik happens to be smart, sweet, and gorgeous. Who could resist that?

Caitlin’s mother left when she was nine. She was the only girl in her household and she tended to be a tomboy, an outsider. I suppose that’s why I liked her so much when I met her freshman year. She was a smart-ass. She was strong. She sat alone at lunch…and so did I. However, since I was not strong, I looked for someone to cling to and approaching one person in a much less daunting task than approaching an already established clique. She seemed displeased on the forth day of high school when I “arbitrarily” decided to take the seat across from hers in the cafeteria. I didn’t say anything to her that day. I felt my “move” to sit near her implied it was now her turn to reciprocate and make the next “move.” (Hey, it was high school.)

And she did. Eventually.

With Caitlin’s help, I survived three and a half years of high school. Now, I stand on the porch in front of a house where I spent many hours. 490 West Harron Street. Can I just walk in? Like I walked out of my own house? Do I need an invitation or something? No, that’s vampires, not ghosts, I think.

For a moment, I stood perfectly still and I concentrated hard on the door. I imagined it turning into strips of wood and then those strips dissolving into tiny molecules until the door was gone. Perhaps it wasn’t imagination. Maybe the dead have the ability to make things dissolve for split seconds, unnoticeable to the human eye. Whether real or imagined, the door – now just a jumble of microscopic atoms – was invisible and I was able to walk through.

Jacob and Erik sat on their couch playing video games, as usual. This was their usual pre-class battle against the zombies or werewolves, or whatever undead creature was a risk to mankind that morning. Jake is Caitlin’s other brother. A bit of a psychopath, he once tried to light Caitlin on fire. I guess every family has one of those characters: the troublemaker. I was that character in my family, or, at least, it wasn’t Sam so I got the job by default. Admittedly, I always felt a little bad for Jake. He always seemed lost. I suppose it’s tough to be the middle child, especially when both your siblings stand out.

Erik, on the other hand, is the personification of perfection. Please believe me when I profess that there was much more to my attraction to him than his classic good looks. He’s just a few short months away from graduating college. He plays basketball. He draws. He’s ridiculously smart. He’s charismatic and passionate. He’s also just a flat-out sweet, genuine guy. As I said: he’s perfect.

Aside from his sister being my best friend, over the last three years, he grew to be a pretty close friend too. In the absence of a mother, Erik took it upon himself to be a nurturer for his younger siblings. He is a meticulous wordsmith and always knew how to make a bad situation sound hopeful; thus, convincing you it isn’t so bad and helping you make it better. In other words, he was a cheerleader. He’s the one you go to when you need help, when you need a reality-check, or when you just need a hand to hold.

My crush on Erik was not a shallow one. I’d argue that I might have even loved him. I’d memorized how his eyes looked shaded by his hair, the lines of his smile. I loved how he treated me as equal, though I was only in high school. He never belittled me. He even seemed to respect me, a courtesy very few awarded me. Erik is one of only a handful of people who ever seemed to notice me. He is one of only a handful to go out of his way to make me feel important.

I made my way through the living room and up the stairs. Caitlin’s room is on the left and the wall it littered with sports posters. The door is already opened, so I won’t have to use my new dissolving door trick, pity.

They don’t know yet.

As I snuck through the doorway, I could see Caitlin combing around her closet, picking out items to wear to school that were clean or, at least, not smelly. Still in her PJs, her hair a mess, she pulled out a dark blue pair of holey jeans and the first not-stained tee shirt she spotted.

On her dresser, her cell phone lay. It began to ring a familiar ring: the tone we’d laughed over a couple of weeks earlier and had chosen for my mother. We decided on that song by Jet…“Cold Hard Bitch.” I thought it was quite fitting.

“Hey, Mrs. Ludlow,” Caitlin said in a cheery voice.

I can’t tell you what my mother’s exact words were as she spoke to my friend, but it’s safe to assume that the call was serious one.

“What!?” Caitlin asked in shock.

This will be almost as fun as watching Mom and Dad, I assure you.

“Oh, my God!” Caitlin exclaimed. She started to cry. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Ludlow,” she said trying to keep it together. A few more words were exchanged and then Caitlin hung up.

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!” Caitlin screamed and was reduced to a sobbing mess of tears.

Within seconds, Jake and Erik were in her room. Unsure of what had caused their sister’s torturous hollers, they ran to her bedroom where they found her buckled over on the floor crying uncontrollably.

“Cait, what is it!?” Jake shouted. Caitlin’s crying persisted. The tears streamed out of her eyes, down her cheeks and mucus built up in her nostrils. Holding her stomach as if about to vomit, she rocked herself back and forth. She was unable to form words, much less sentences, to convey the news she’d just learned. “Caitlin, please! Are you sick? What happened!? Stop screaming!” Jake cried out as Erik tried comforting her, rubbing her back.

“Taylor’s dead,” she finally pushed out. The room fell silent as the tension in their hearts increased.

“What!?” Jacob asked.

He knew what those words individually meant, but he could not put them into context.

“Dead, Jake! She’s dead!” she screamed out, frustrated that she had to utter the words again.

Jake tried to hold back his tears and realizing he was not that strong, hurried out of the room. Erik said nothing. His words would be meaningless if he attempted. All he knew how to do was nurture. He took the blanket off Caitlin’s bed and covered her.

“Stay here. I’ll bring up tissues and tea,” he said solemnly. “I’ll also call your school. Tell them you won’t be coming in today,” his words passed his lips in an almost robotic fashion.

I followed Erik to the kitchen. His eyes were blank and he picked up the telephone and had a brief conversation with the attendance office. I watched as he carefully chose a mug from the cabinet in which to pour Caitlin’s promised tea and he set the kettle on the stove: empty, at first, until he remembered to fill it with water. I am only the soul of a human who once breathed this air. I am no more or less than an essence; therefore, and have no powers which would allow me to read his mind. I can only assume that he was reliving any number of conversations we’d had in the last three years. Maybe he was telling me all the things he wished he’d said while I was alive, believing I could somehow hear his words in death.

The kettle whistled and Erik prepared Caitlin’s tea. After grabbing a box of tissues from atop the refrigerator, he returned to her room where she remained on the floor, curled up. She had stopped screaming, but her tears remained.

Down the hall, Jake sat in his room, in silence, with the door close. Since my first experience with walking through doors, I have become much less fearful of making a “thud” noise in the process and, without hesitation, I walked through Jake’s door. I found him sitting in front of a box he’d pulled from his closet, weeping. The box was filled with pictures and mementos. They were all of me. Why did he keep all these things?

“I loved you…so fucking much,” I heard him whisper to the picture he’d taken of me the day we’d all trekked into the city.

I was shocked to hear those words used in describing me. I had no idea.

I walked a little closer to see a lighter and a pack of cigarettes on the carpet next to him. This seemed off since Jake never smoked.
Inching closer, I began to understand. Scars scattered the top of his arm, circular in shape, some old and some obviously recent. He sniffled, pulled down his sleeve, and wiped his tears with the sleeve of his sweater as he rustled through the box. Each item brought back a memory, mostly good and some not so good, but none that I thought mattered to anyone.


Chapter II: Seven Loves You So Much

I’ll admit that I was surprised by the reaction my friend had to my death, but regret is not the correct term. Call me a bitch and maybe I am, but they’ve all made a habit of overlooking me and my self-esteem was not something that could get too much lower. For years I’ve suffered on and off from depression. It’s a problem that has lived within me since I was little, before I met any of them. However, it was not a feature of my life I hid from them. I never asked for special treatment, only fair treatment. I was not the kind of person that craved tons of attention, but I began to lose the feeling that these people, “friends,” were even people I could still trust. Even within the last few months, I can recount any number of situations in which I reached out and was ignored or shut down.

Part I: The Book Of Caitlin

Mrs. Pratt’s assignment was a difficult one, but not a surprise or anything insurmountable for two people to accomplish. The entire class knew AP English would be a challenge and Mrs. Pratt did what she could to, at least, make the challenges interesting. Early in the school year, she had warned of a project that would be worth a large amount of our grades and to think hard about with whom we wanted to work on such a project. Naturally, with my best friend in the same class, Caitlin was my primary choice and when it came time to announce the details of the project, without even blinking we sat down and started planning.

The project was to write a two-person play and act it out in front of the class. There were a series of requirements: there had to be a conflict, a few props, costumes, etc. The play was not something we could write overnight and Caitlin and I had even planned on performing a dress rehearsal the evening before.

However, softball season was upon us and – for some reason – Caitlin had decided to become a “joiner” this year and try out for the team. It was nice to see her excited about something and putting her talents to use, but with her new activity came new friends and with new friends, there weren’t many places for the old ones to go.

“Do you have your costume?” I asked about two days before the planned dress rehearsal was to be performed. We’d written most of the play, but it was up to us individually to edit our lines and find our costumes. Being a little anxious, I’d assigned deadlines by which certain goals were to be accomplished.

“No, why?” Caitlin asked.

“Costumes should have been done by now. You said you could have it done by today.” I reminded her.

“Oh…did I? Well, I’ll find something before I need it,” she responded casually.

“What about the dress rehearsal?”

“What about it?”

“Will you have it by then? The costume? Are your lines done?”

“Lines are supposed to be done too?” she asked as if she’d not been in the room when we’d made these deadlines.

“No, but have you even looked at them?”

“Not really,” she laughed a little. I grew worried. “But I’ll get it done. I just had practice and after practice we got pizza and…” she laughed again. “Anyway, I must have lost track of time. Don’t worry, though.”

“Well, don’t you have practice again tonight,” I asked hesitantly, not really wanting to hear her answer.

“Oh. Haha. Yeah, I do,” she replied.

“Well, ummm, when will you be getting your costume, then?”

“Actually, I’m not sure. I promised Lilly and Nicole I’d hang after practice. Do you think you could find something for me? I mean, nothing crazy or expensive…something, modest and introspective. I think that fits my character best, don’t you think?” she responded.

“I have a ton of stuff to finish – ”

“Well, if you can’t, I’ll just have to throw on some old slacks or something,” she said knowing I couldn’t let her do that, knowing this grade was too important to me to let her screw it up by putting no effort into her character at all.

“Fine…I’ll…work something out,” I said.

“Great!” she said with a huge smile across her face and she skipped off across the hall where Lilly and Nicole were standing, waiting for her.

I’m not sure which hurt more: the fact that I’d just adopted a load more work than I had time or energy to accomplish or that my “best” friend seemed to have little interest it being around me at all. I suppose when you’re outgoing, a perk is having more friends. I just didn’t realize Caitlin had become that much more outgoing. When you have a lot of friends, you don’t always have to worry about how you treat one or the other of them or because, as long as you don’t piss all of them off, you’ll always have others to fall back on. Unfortunately, I did not have the same luxury. She and her brothers were the only people I ever hung around. They were the only ones who ever accepted me. So, I did as she asked. I ended up finalizing her lines also, but it was for the best because as much as I love her, I’m the better writer by far. I couldn’t help the feeling that I was being squeezed out of her life and I had no collateral with which to earn my spot back. It left me lonely and lost.

Part II: The Book Of Erik

Spring not only brings softball season, but prom as well. Knowing this rite of passage for all teenagers was rapidly approaching, I desperately hoped to attend…and that, perhaps, Erik would accompany me. I daydreamed about him asking me, though I knew that was highly unlikely since it was not his prom, nor did he even attend that school anymore. I knew the burden would fall on my shoulders if I was to have my dream prom date. Like any girl, I went over my lines constantly: what I would say, my vocal inflections, my hand gestures, and facial expressions. I timed every sentence out so as to appear willing, but not needy…hopeful, but not desperate. My feelings for Erik had grown substantially, but I still thought I could handle it even if he rejected the idea. I’d never known Erik to have a serious girlfriend, so the only plausible reason for rejection would be if he were simply too busy with…college…stuff…to find the time. School is a legitimate enough excuse.

It was a Monday night. I knew Caitlin would be at softball practice and that Jacob would have already locked himself in his room to play Dungeons and Dragons or…whatever it is he does. Their father would still be at work. So, I knew Erik would more than likely open the door.

The doorbell rang, yet there was no answer. I waited outside the house for a moment and tried again. With the second ring came a shuffling from inside until the doorknob finally began to turn.

A woman stood on the other side, a woman I’d never seen before. The lights in the living room were low and it was only at this time that I noticed Jake’s car missing from the driveway. She was young, but not as young as I. She was pretty. My heart sunk instantly. She smiled.

“Are you looking for someone?” she asked politely.

“Uhh, Caitlin?” I asked.

The woman nodded and looked back into the room.

“Honey, when will your sister be back?” she asked.

Following the question, Erik emerged from the kitchen with two glasses of wine.

“Oh, Taylor, hey!” he said smiling. “Caitlin’s at practice. I’m not sure when she’ll be back, but I could tell her you stopped by.”

I couldn’t speak. I knew what was happening and I didn’t know how to make it stop. I stood there, silently, making an awkward situation even more awkward.

“Tay, are you okay?” Erik asked.

“Uhh, yeah,” I murmured.

“You don’t look too well. Ya wanna come in? Have some water? I could drive you back home,” he said as his arm reached out and pulled me through the doorway. I really didn’t want to be stuck in that house, but he was more capable of moving quickly than I. The pair led me over to the couch at which point Erik disappeared and then reemerged seconds later with a glass of water. I took a sip.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, staring down into the glass.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Nothing. I, umm, just haven’t eaten today. Sorry,” I said, still focusing on the glass. While it was true I hadn’t eaten, my reaction was not an effect of insufficient nutrition, but my heart suddenly shattering.

“Well, ummm, Taylor…this is Heather. My girlfriend. I don’t think you’ve met,” he introduced her.

Girlfriend. The word rang though my skull like the sounding of lunchtime in a schoolhouse.

“Nice to meet you,” I said. “I really have to get going, actually,” I added in a rush, “but you don’t have to tell Caitlin I came by. I’ll just catch her at school.”

Without allowing him to make another sound, I placed the glass of the table in front of the couch and I fled to the door.

I took the long way home because my tears just wouldn’t stop flowing. I almost hoped some psychotic serial murdered would offer me candy and just take me out of my misery. I knew then that I’d truly loved him because I’d never hurt more in my life.

Part III: The Book Of Samantha

My sister’s role thus far has not been great. She was not even at home at the time of my death, but that doesn’t mean she had no impact on my life…or subsequent death. I could never live up to the standards my sister had set.

In high school, Sam was always an honors student. She was a leader in our school’s National Honors Society, she wrote for the newspaper, and she was friends with everyone. She was a popular nerd. She’s beautiful, so that may have contributed to her popularity. Samantha knew how to fit in with any crowd, a skill I never mastered.

Now attending Princeton, Samantha is studying journalism. She writes for her school newspaper and has interned at several local newspapers and magazines. She’s determined and while my grades were always good, hers were always better. While my papers were always praised, hers were framed in fucking gold. Samantha is, legitimately, talented and I never pretended I wasn’t jealous. I always worked to, at least, be as good as she, but I always seemed to fall just short.

Spring break was Sam’s last visit home. For once, I thought I had a leg-up on her. For once, I thought I had news worthy of stealing the spotlight. It was college application season (along with it being softball and prom season…senior year has a lot of seasons). I had sent out several applications for local schools: Montclair, Kean, Rutgers, and Princeton. However, I’d also sent out a few not-so-local applications: Berkeley, Columbia, and the shining star…Yale. Yale appealed to me because I love New England and it’s close to home without being too close to home. Only a few letters had returned, but one of those was Yale, and I’d been accepted. The cost was high and we didn’t qualify for financial aid, so I knew that getting in was only the first hurdle, but just being accepted, I thought, would be enough to impress my family.

Upon Sam’s arrival at home for break, she was greeted with open arms and lots of smiles. I was excited to have a full family dinner for the first time since New Year’s. Though my sister and I were competitive, we were rarely vile so I knew dinnertime would be enjoyable. Mom had made a huge dinner to celebrate the return of her golden child. Conversation was light, at first, and I figured at some point before dinner was over, I would excuse myself from the table, retrieve my acceptance letter, and announce the good news.

“How has the semester been for you, Sam? Are you still dealing with that Nazi public affairs professor!?” my dad asked, amused.

“No, Dad,” Sam replied with a chuckle. “Thankfully, I haven’t seen him all semester! Not like it matters, I got an A from him. He just liked picking on me.”

“Burden of the pretty girls, Sam. Be thankful,” my mother said.

My mother is seemingly incapable of having a conversation without discussing Samantha’s beauty or my lack. Just at that moment, I began to stand from my seat.

“Oh, hold on Tay, before you run off!” Sam said, excitedly.

“What is it!?” I asked, returning to my seat.

“Well, I was going to wait to tell you guys this, but it looks like I’m a shoe-in, so…” I felt my stomach turn. Christ, not again! “…beginning as soon as I graduate, I have a job at the Ledger! A paying journalism job!” The celebration began. “Now, it’s not 100% just yet, but I had an interview and a couple of call-backs. One of the guys I talked to on the phone there said it was looking very good and I should hear from them in a day or two. He said I was the most exciting candidate they saw for the position and that I could ‘breathe new air into old lung.’”

“See, now, that was flirting! He was flirting with you. Congratulations, Sam, really!” my mother said and my father echoed her praises.

I smiled and tried to push out a laugh. A paying job doing exactly what it is you love doing is the kind of news that can only be topped by the announcement of marriage or of expecting a baby. Yale is great, but this is better. Even I was more excited for her than I was for myself. Deciding that my chances of actually attending Yale were probably slim, at best, I kept the acceptance quiet. I could almost hear the fight commence in my head, anyway. My mother, fearing I would go off and do something insane (I don’t know, like maybe kill myself), would argue to keep me in-state where I would forever be within her protective claws. She certainly wouldn’t be happy about paying for the privilege of out-of-state schooling either.

Maybe my big news wasn’t as big as I’d originally thought. I suppose being second best your whole life makes your crave success, but it’s never an attainable success. I wasn’t so much living in the shadow of my sister; rather her shadow was a massive black hole that sucked me in and pulled me apart.

Part IV: The Book Of My Mother

Whereas my sister and I were civil rivals, my mother and I had no such acknowledgment of civility. I was not Samantha, the perfect seed, who my mother saw as her youth reincarnated. My taste was different in all areas: fashion, friends, music, books…and the list goes on. I had trouble relating to my mother, though early on, I did try.

In comparison to Samantha, I was a troublemaker. It is true that I stayed out late more than once with Caitlin whose father only cared that she came home at some point alive and in one piece. It was never a problem which deemed curfew-worthy, or so I thought. My few nights out never caused me to get into any accidents or even miss school. They were all quite innocent, though I can see how a parent who is already inclined to be untrusting of her teenaged daughter may not believe that statement. I assure you, though, there was never any sex or drugs. Caitlin, for most of the last three years, was the only person who even came close to understanding the way my head operated. No therapists or medications helped calm my nerves as well as the calming voice of a close friend. Whenever we were out late, it was because we were immersed in intense conversations about how we hoped our lives would turn out or what our deepest fears were.

My mother, though, stopped trusting me – and perhaps with good reason – in about the 10th grade when I first tried to kill myself. My family had been dealing with my mood swings for years. I’d grown sick and tired of taking the medication that seemed to do little good. So, I stopped taking it and I kept that fact hidden. If I told them, they would simply force me to take those damn pills again.

Home alone one day after school, I heard my conscious speak to me in the voice of my mother.

“Why did you do that? Sam, wouldn’t have done that!” she said angrily, accusing me of some crime I hadn’t even realized I’d committed.

“You’re not pretty, you know that, right! Look at Sam! Beautiful and smart, active in her school! You’re lazy. You have no direction? Are you ever going to make something of yourself!?” the voice said and this time she wasn’t alone. “Come on! Are you? You have no talent. You’re self-centered. You have the life and you still aren’t happy!” the shouting got louder and the words came from different voices now, some of which I could not even identify. “You will never be loved! You’re nothing! Worthless!” the voice chanted over and over, “Worthless! Worthless!” until I’d had enough.

I climbed to the roof of our house and jumped. I broke my arm in the process, but suffered only a few cuts and scrapes otherwise.

Overprotective would be a relaxed term for my mother. Her intentions may have been good, but she was strangling me. She had to know where I was and what I was doing, who I was with, at every moment of the day. I knew Caitlin for an entire school year before my mother allowed me to go to her house and that was only after talking with her father and announcing my mental illness to the world. She didn’t trust me to leave her sight and not harm myself. Granted, she may have had a point, but she wanted to restrict the only time I wasn’t harming myself in one way or another, my free time spent bullshitting with Caitlin.

I suppose she snapped one night a few months ago, before Caitlin spent all her nights with Lilly and Nicole. I came home around 1am on a Friday night and I learned that I was being grounded indefinitely until she and my father could figure out “what to do with” me. Mother ranted and raved about the punishments she would place on my shoulders for disobeying her, though since I never had a formal curfew I didn’t even know I had disobeyed her. Her problem was that she, very simply, didn’t trust me if she couldn’t see me and she claimed it was for my protection, but I suspect it was due to her inherent distrust of any teenager who wasn’t Samantha. She proposed taking away everything that linked me to the outside: phone, television, computer, music, everything…all the things I turn to for help. The argument was too heinous for me to reenact. While I often disagreed with my mother, she was the one whose approval I desired most.

Thankfully, my father has always been the voice of reason and he was able to limit my punishment to a week of grounding. I often wonder if my mental illness is genetic and a result of some sort of undiagnosed illness in my mother. He ability to snap is unlike anything I’ve ever witnessed. One moment you think you’re doing exactly what she wants you to do, or certainly nothing she should be angry over, and the next moment she is screaming and shouting and, essentially, telling you how you owe her everything and should obey even her unspoken orders. The pressure to please my mother was only overshadowed by the pressure to tiptoe around her so as to not anger her in any way. It’s always been a juggling act because what is acceptable behavior one minute is unacceptable later. I never learned to juggle.

Part V: The Book Of My Father

My relationship with my father was the polar opposite of my relationship with my mother. I could generally rely on him to take my side. With my mother, every word spoken was tinged with the “why aren’t you like Samantha” inflection in her voice. My father never played that mind game on me. I think he always saw himself as a bit of an imperfection too. For me, my father was the most stable aspect of my life. He didn’t change the rules on me mid-game.

Usually.

While he was the one in my family who didn’t treat me as somehow blemished at birth, he was also the one who was most likely to disappoint me. I suppose we all put certain people up on pedestals. We have our routines and, personally, I hate when my routine is forced to change. A simple father/daughter night once a week while my mom is out with her girlfriends meant the world to me. The house was quiet and we would just watch a ballgame or a movie. These evenings were not pre-planned and they were always pending other activities, but more often than not he and I always ended up being left at home and we both seemed to enjoy each other’s company. I hated being alone in the house. Loneliness makes the voices louder.

Within the last few weeks, those voices: my confused conscious, the angel and devil on my shoulders, started speaking to me more frequently. They were encouraging behavior in which I knew I should not partake, but that seemed so tempting: the cutting, scratching, burning, pill popping, hair pulling…all the things I’d slowly begun to wean myself off. But with the apparent loss of Caitlin and Erik, my constant underachievement (at least when compared to my sister), and my ever rocky relationship with Mom, those old friends began knocking down my defenses and tearing me apart. I could tell I was due for another downfall and the mere thought of finding myself buried inside another hole, isolated from everything that makes one human, brought me to tears and I’d decided that I would ask my dad for help, for anything that might prevent this almost inevitable turn. I’d even be willing to try therapy again.

So, last Sunday night we were set to have another father/daughter night, but our usually evening was interrupted by a phone call from an old college buddy of my dad’s. His face lit up as he made his new plans and I assumed that my night would be spent in my room, alone. My stomach felt sick at the prospect of being trapped in my house while all the people around me were out. There would be no one to turn to and no one for whom to reach out. My dad, quickly informing me of his plans, grabbed his jacket and keys and dodged over to the door.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad my father has friends and I know he doesn’t get to see his nearly as often as I get to see mine, but I really needed a body at home that night. I needed someone to confess to and, with Caitlin preoccupied and Erik…well, I didn’t really see Erik as someone I could any longer confide in, turning to my father seemed like the next best option as difficult as I was sure it would be.

The door clicked shut behind him and the house fell silent. I’ve only ever heard the house that silent one other time: this morning after my body had been toted from the house. I climbed the stairs up to my room where I sat on the floor in the dark, unsure of what sort of activities could fill the room and make the house seem less bare.

And then I heard them: all my petty addictions begging simultaneously for recognition, clouding my brain with conflicting messages and desires. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on the one real tone I knew was mine, but her strained voice became lost, pummeled under an army of shouting habits. When I opened my eyes, I was amazed to find I was still alone in my room. The noise that filled my skull led me to believe I was stranded in the mall on a Friday evening. I could not decipher one from the other, only the essence of their arguments, as they pushed me closer and closer towards the razor blade that lay hidden under a stack of dusty books.

Additionally, I heard Caitlin’s voice telling me how insignificant I was in her life now and I heard Erik introducing Heather as his girlfriend over and over. I heard my sister announcing every bit of amazing news she’d ever presented. I heard my mother yelling. I heard the click of the door as my dad left for his evening out with the boys.

I snapped. It wasn’t me, I swear. I cannot be blamed for the actions my body performed as I sat in that state. Lifting the stack of books, I found the small envelope that housed a razor blade I’d stolen months ago from the school’s workshop. It still shimmered with a silver glow as I held it tightly between my right index finger and thumb. The voices, now overpowering even my body movements, peeked in volume and my head throbbed.

Then, with a quick gesture of my right hand, the voices ceased as the blade dug across my skin. I hardly felt it at all, just a pinch, as the blood began to bubble from under my skin and form drops. Silence then filled the space, but it was a silence that brought with it a smile of relief and the ability to breathe.

I never really wanted to kill myself, I thought. I just needed something to remind myself I was human. I needed to be able to feel something other than overlooked and pushed to the side. Explaining the appeal of any addiction is difficult and I can’t expect you to now see my side of this unless you’ve sat in your room crying begging for the answers and begging for your mind to stop rushing around and screaming at you. In all honesty, the ways in which I hurt myself were – 99 percent of the time – not attempts to take my own life. They were survival tools that made all the horrible things I thought about myself go away for a while. The high that followed allowed me to forget everything else that hurt so goddamn badly that I simply did not have the talent or the courage to articulate in words.

Part VI: The Book Of Jacob

I suppose I’ve left Jake for last because dealing with him has become more complicated in the houses since I died. I am seeing Jake in a new light and the argument I want to cite now makes much more sense than it had when I was living it.

He’s like me. I never knew. He hurts and doesn’t understand why. He internalizes it. I didn’t know he burned himself. I never saw any of this in him. Perhaps he hid it better than I ever could. Please keep in mind as I explain this fight I had with him a couple of days ago, a fight that began as my last ditch effort to find help and ended with my suicide.

The day after the episode in my room, I knew I needed to find help. I knew I would begin to sink inside myself again and that I would drown fast. This thought consumed me and terrified me. Depression comes in waves. Within my bubble I began to panic, knowing the implications of my thoughts and subsequent deeds, knowing I’d been down this road before and nearly sunk far below the sea.

“I spoke the words, but never gave a thought to what they all could mean,” I sang to myself in an attempt to slow my heart.

Knowing full well that my role in Caitlin’s life had completely changed, I searched my memory for a comforting face, a body that would not turn away. At this point my family had been ruled out. I’d gained the courage to talk to my father, but it vanished as soon as he left the house that night. My sister was at school and I was invisible to my mother. Who’s left? Caitlin? No, she’s made it clear she has no time for me. Erik? Haha. Oh, no. I couldn’t face Erik.

Who’s left?

…Jacob, I guess.

After school one afternoon, I weighed my options. I felt this downfall breathing down my neck and to avoid it I would do just about anything…including seek out my “best” friend’s weird brother. Without my brain first granting permission, my hand reached out for the phone, dialed Jake’s speed dial number, hit “send,” and listened to the ring. Almost hoping the phone would skip directly to voicemail, my thumb wavered over the “end” button.

“Hey,” I heard his voice answer. My stomach ached, unsure of what to tell him. “Tay, you there?”

“Uhhh, yeah – ”

“Caitlin’s not home. If you’re looking for her, I can’t help you. I think she’s out with that Lilly girl.”

I was silent for a moment. I could have turned back there, but I was sure that hanging up would be worse than – at least trying – to talk to Jake.

“No, umm, I actually, uhh, wanted to talk you…if that’s cool.”

“Oh!” he sounded happy.

“Are you at home?”

“Yeah!”

“Could I come over?” I asked in a shaky voice.

“Of course!” he replied. At the time it never occurred to me that he was just as lost and lonely as I. “You okay?”

“Uhh, yeah. I don’t know, I guess. I’ll be over in a bit,” I hung up.

The cool spring air kissed my cheeks as I briskly walked the blocks to Caitlin’s house. I preferred walking to driving or bike riding. Really, I lived in a beautiful, quiet little neighborhood. The first day in March of 50 degree or above weather brought all the kids out, playing softball or soccer. Their laughter used to irritate me, but now it makes me hopefully…hopeful that one day I – too – could laugh like that again.

In the minutes between hanging up the phone and finding myself of the sidewalk, I’d made a resolve in my mind: to come clean, to get help, really this time. Jake, my least likely ally, might have been able to give me the motivation I needed to pull myself up. I cannot remember the last time anyone sounded happy to talk to me.

I stood on the porch and breathed in the evening air. The sun was setting on a warm May afternoon. I rang the doorbell and, almost instantly, the door swung opened.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hi, come on in,” he replied.

The house looked tidy and it smelled nice too, as if there were fresh flowers lining the living room. I followed Jake through the living room and into the kitchen.

“I made coffee,” he said smiling. I laughed nervously. “Have a seat. I’ll pour you a cup,” he continued, still grinning as I sat. “I finally got the new Modest Mouse. You like them, right? We could listen to it.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I said pausing… “but, ummm, I actually just needed to talk to someone.”

He came to the table with two cups of coffee. My stomach felt a bit shaky, but I took a sip anyway. Could I actually admit to someone who I really was? Could I throw up the right words or would I choke?

“What’s going on?” he asked, the smile lines on his face where no longer creased.

“I’m…I don’t know. I’ve been having some problems,” I said lamely.

“With what?” he asked attentively.

I struggled, “With…like…everything, kind of,” I looked down into my cup, frustrated. “I don’t know how to say it. Like…everything affects me, I guess. It all hurts. Nobody sees me…not even my best friend – ”

“You’re mad at Cait?” he asked.

I didn’t know if saying ‘yes’ would make me sound jealous, “No, not mad…but – like – I am her friend, right? I mean, I haven’t talked to her outside of class in weeks! I’m glad she’s making friends and all, but where does that leave me!? Nowhere. It leaves me alone and she knows I hate being alone!” I spat out. “I’m sorry. I love Caitlin, but I’m just – I don’t know where I stand with her right now.”

“It’s okay. I won’t tell,” he grinned and rested his hand on mine. “What else?” he asked softly.

I began to cry at the thought of it all. I fought my tears, but – in the end – they beat me.

“I think I love Erik,” I forced out through my sobbing. “And I don’t know why he can’t see me…why he doesn’t love me too. What’s wrong with me? Am I that invisible?”

My focus was no longer on Jake’s facial expressions, but on my own pathetic failings. My eyes were clenched shut and I only felt his hand lift away from mine. I tried to wipe my tears away with my hands, but couldn’t wipe them fast enough so tears streamed down my face. Eventually, I realized I hadn’t heard Jake’s voice in several minutes. My curiosity curbed my tears momentarily and I opened my eyes to see Jacob standing on the other side of the kitchen, his hands folded across his chest. His face was blood red, but his expression was blank.

“Jake?” I sniffled.

He said nothing for a while and then: “Look, Tay, I’m sorry, but you need to go.”

I was confused and hurt: “What?” I asked. I had no idea how I’d offended him.

“I just need you to go – ”

“What did I do?”

“Look! You just need to go!” he shouted. “You sit here talking about how overlooked you are! You are so Goddamn unloved! Poor you. Look at you! You’re just like them!” he yelled angrily. “I mean, why are you even fucking here!? Not to talk to me…just to hear yourself talk…’cause no other sucker would listen! You’re just like them!” he repeated and I could see tears beginning to well up in the corners of his eyes.

At the time, his outburst completely puzzled me. His words cut me worse than the razor blade had. Now, however, this whole incident makes so much more sense and I wish I’d known then what I know now: Jake hurts too…he hears those voices…he cried out to stop them…and on top of that all…he loved me?

I didn’t know any of this and – to that extent – he was right: I was just like ‘them.’

Part VII: Chopping Lines (Hey, Hey! It’s My Birthday)

Two days following this argument, I awoke on my eighteenth birthday. My pillows still damp from tears, I almost refused to get out of bed. However, I’d hoped that my birthday would bring my friends back to me. I daydreamed of Caitlin’s caring, opened arms and Erik’s loving voice singing me “Happy Birthday.” If nothing else, I assumed my family would shower me with congratulations and well wishes, allowing me – for one day of the year – to not feel so ostracized.

I got up from my bed and opened the door, but neither of my parents was home. I was slightly disappointed, but far from surprised. My parents often left for work before I woke, so my hopes were not totally tarnished.

Once I arrived at school, I waiting for Caitlin – as I normally did – at her locker. Hers was on the way to my first period class, so it always made sense for my to drop by and say ‘good morning’ to her before heading to class. I stood there until the bell indicating the beginning of first period rang and then I rushed off to my class. Maybe she was just running late…wrapping my gift or something, I thought trying to keep my spirits up.

She never showed up to school. I sat at lunch alone. I went to English alone.

There were no birthday cards slipped inside my locker or even waiting at home in the mailbox. No flowers or phone calls.

I waited up for my parents to come home from work. They worked late – as is also normal. My mother was the first home, around 9pm. I’d fallen asleep on the couch, but the jingling of her keys excited me and I propped up and cracked a smile.

“Hey!” I said excitedly, expecting some sort of positive, loving response from my mother on the day of her daughter’s birth.

“Oh, hi,” she said, sounding a little lost and fumbling with her bags and keys. “I’m pretty beat,” she continued, “so I think I’m just going to head up to bed,” she struggled closing the door and dropped her things. Looking up at me: “There’s leftover pizza in the fridge if you haven’t eaten,” she mumbled and shuffled up the stairs.

I said nothing. Why would I bother talking at this point? I wasn’t there to her anyway.
I went to bed that night without dinner and before my father came home. I heard him a little later – too – as he fumbled with the door. I would speak to them both in passing the next day, but neither parent would recognize that their little girl was now eighteen. Neither really recognized their little girl’s existence at all – only to tell her she’d left the light on or had forgotten to pick up a sock. The night following this one, I died.


Chapter III: Go Be My Ghost And I’ll Go Be Yours

For sanity’s sake, I suppose the above accurately, though briefly, explains how I have felt in the last few months of my life and why suicide began looking like a decent alternative to my otherwise invisible existence. Perhaps you think my actions were in haste and maybe you’re correct based on the aforementioned recent history, but do not believe that these were isolated incidences. In reality, it seems that through my life, each instance in which I felt like I was getting ahead, I was really falling far, far behind. It is hard enough to survive while battling within your own mind, but add to that the constant feeling of being nothing more than nuisance and you start to wonder why you bother fighting the red devil on your shoulder anyway. The devil was an angel once.

Part I

Three days ago, now, I died. My body’s autopsy concluded what one would easily discern from looking at my room the morning of my death: death by intentional overdose of painkillers. No one truly questions that my death was a suicide, though my mother weakly defends my ‘perfect’ mental health. She wants to believe it was an accident and that she – herself – could never have nurtured an environment for her daughters in which one was always second best to the other, if considered at all. She can’t believe that in her heart, though. My mother knows this was no accident. If she truly believes I accidentally overdosed on handfuls of painkillers, she must also truly believe I was a complete imbecile and though I never felt much love from my mother, I know she never thought of me as being incapable of reasoning cause and effect. If any other proof was needed, the scars are still visible on my arms, legs, and stomach of scratches, cuts, and burns.

I decided in the last instances before swallowing those pills that no note was necessary. Perhaps for the dramatic story-telling effect of reciting a letter from beyond the grave, leaving some such note would have been a more poetic choice, but it probably would have been ignored or overlooked just as I had been. I’ve always seen those kinds of gestures as slightly pointless: if they cared enough about you to read your suicide note and actually believe a single word written within it, then they probably cared about you greatly when you lived; thus, giving you no real reason for taking your life short of simply being insane.

They bury me this afternoon. There will be no wake or any silly kind of gathering to mourn my passing except the funeral and a brief reception. I assume this is because my mother wanted me buried in my lavender dress, the strapless one, that would show each scar as a dazzling decoration. She could not have those shown. No, indeed.

Part II

I attended my funeral, though I am not sure why. If you’ve been to one funeral, you’ve been to them all. There’s praise for the dead, remembering all her great achievements and how amazing she was in life. I’m sure even the most brutal, tyrannical dictators have services similar to this when they have died. There are, of course, tears: some sincere and others pretend to be. Colorful flowers lined the church and people (half of whom I hardly recognized, relatives I hadn’t seen since I was eleven) dressed in their most perfectly black suits and dresses. My funeral was full of all the normal clichés.

My family sat in the front row of the church; even my sister came up from Princeton. Crying and dressed in the same black dress she wore to Grandpa Mel’s funeral, my mother fiddled with a breaded bracelet I’d made for her when I was seven. It’s all for show, let me assure you. Forgive my cynicism, but I don’t believe her for a second. Sam held her head in her hands and kept her gaze straight down onto the cold tile floor, refusing to make eye contact with any of the other mourners. My father sat still with tears in his eyes. I don’t think he’s been able to form full sentences since discovering my body, but he’ll get over it eventually. Upon my death, I knew this would hurt him the most. He was the only one from whom I ever felt warm sincerity, but I suspect he loved Sam more than he loved me, anyway. He accepted my company when there was no one else, but rarely would he choose me over my sister…or over anyone else for that matter.

Caitlin, Erik, and Jacob sat nearby, along with their father. Neither Caitlin nor Erik showed any signs of emotion. They seemed pensive, starring off into the distance. Maybe they were remembering my smile. Or maybe they were just waiting for this depressing shindig to end so they could be off to their new interests, relieved by the fact that they would never again have to find excuses to ignore me. Quite oppositely, Jake fidgeted and his breathing was erratic. His eyes were red and sunk into his skull. His skin was drained of color and, in his black suit, he was reminiscent of a the kind of young man you’d see in an old black and white film. He is the only one to whom I now wish I could apologize.

The minister read his Bible. He spoke of Heaven as if he believed that was my resting place, but God doesn’t love those who commit suicide. I know my actions were sinful and all who sat inside that church knew too. The words he emoted – I’m sure – were for the sole purpose of comforting his room of mourners, but he never recognized the cause of my death or the conflict between my death and the holy scripture from which he read. Contempt grew within me as I listened. The hypocritical nature of the entire situation made me burn. Luckily, however, his God is not my God. The God I’ve felt in my heart since birth is one who cherishes all who live their lives – long or short as they may be – in the best ways they knew possible. For everything that worked wrong inside me, I never acted with the intention to hurt others. Contrary to what you may believe, not even my intent in killing myself was to hurt them, simply to put an end to my own hurting which I thought was only fair.

“Take comfort in knowing that no one is ever gone forever,” he added once he had finished with his Biblical verse. “Taylor still lives among us: in our hearts and in our memories of her.”

I laughed at this ending comment. I live on, apparently, whether I want to or not.

The service ended. My body was driven to the cemetery and buried. For some reason as the shovels busily scooped up and then dropped heavy mounds of dirt atop my coffin, I expected I would disappear – not that anyone else could see me, but I thought my burial would bring about whatever closure I required to go to Heaven or to Hell…or simply cease to exist in any form bodily or spiritually.

Maybe this really is it, I thought. Death is a more solitary life? Or maybe it’s only solitary for those who kill themselves. The rest all go to wherever they’re supposed to go, but we truly are punished for our sin: we are forced to live in the same world which tortured us and – to make it an ever greater punishment – we get to do it literally invisibly.

Part III

I hadn’t been given much of an option aside from following my friends and family to the reception that took place at our home directly following the burial. Only a handful of people who had gone to the cemetery actually came back to the reception: just my parents, sister, some other family members, and Caitlin, Erik, and Jake. Tables had been set out in the backyard because…why not mourn the death of a teenager in the young, warm, spring sun? There were mini sandwiches and fruit trays with little toothpicks.

Sitting down at my parents’ table, I was bored with their conversation. It was bland and obvious. My sister sat with them along with an aunt or two. My grandmother tried to console my now ridiculous mother whose crying had gone from sad and almost believable to outlandish and repulsive. I’d had quite enough of her making me feeling guilty, even in death, so I picked myself up and walked over to Caitlin’s table.

She was now visibly upset, which surprised me. I couldn’t understand half of her words through her tears.

“None of us knew, Cait,” Erik said patting her back.

“I was her best friend! How did I miss this? How could I not know she was this depressed? Where the fuck have I been!?” she exclaimed, pushing through sorrow.

I heard Jake mumble, “Out with Lilly and the cool girls,” but his comment wasn’t addressed by either of his siblings.

“Today, of all days, too…” she sniffled and added, “we buried my best friend. After all the planning and everything. I can’t believe how this turned out. This has to be some really fucked up dream, right? I mean, the irony of burying her today…that doesn’t happen in real life!”

What is so significant about May 20th, I wondered.

“Oh, Caitlin, I don’t know if it would have made a difference. No one goes and kills herself over a birthday party,” Erik said.

What? I thought to myself.

“Yeah, but she didn’t know it was coming! I should have reserved the hall for Wednesday. Her real birthday! But Sunday just made more sense, without school to worry about and everything. I’m such an idiot! And, I mean, I haven’t been around…with school and practice. What if she thought I completely forgot about her…like, all together!?” she shouted and was once again reduced to tears.

Jake bit his tongue and shook his head. I suppose he found it distasteful to tell his sister the secrets with which I had entrusted him. And, actually, I feel it’s for the best too. I did think she’d forgotten, but there’s no need for her to know that now. What good would it do?

Since I have no actual body, it is hard for me to describe exactly how overhearing this conversation effected me. I am not a being so much as I am an essence. The boundaries between what is actually part of me and what is only air is ever changing, but I assure you I can feel. Only, what I feel, effects my entire essence. When I am angry, I get hot. When I’m sad, I get cold. When I hear something surprising, such as this, I get tingly…sort of like when your foot falls asleep, but more tingly than that. It’s somewhere in between tingling and nausea. If I had a throat, I would tell you it begins in the throat and then bleeds into the rest of my essence. However, since I have no throat, I can only tell you that it begins and one point of me which feels like where my throat would be and then shifts to the rest of me. It is not an overly pleasant feeling. Maybe this is only my reaction to bad surprises…like finding out the event that pushed you towards suicide was really a surprise party in the making. I have yet to experience good surprises.

Part IV

This is it, it seems. You die, but you don’t die. Only your body gets buried, but the torment never ceases. Forgive me as it is here where I will begin to sound like a public service announcement: don’t kill yourselves, kids, you’ll live regret it! I have been dead, now, for years I suppose. I lost count of the days and months. I wander. I haunt. I check in with my family and others. On occasion, I run into others like myself, but we never talk to one another. Apparently, that’s passé. It is not an overly terrible existence, but it is no better than living.

Now and then, my essence is hit with pangs of regret as I watch someone I loved take another life step. Caitlin plays baseball with a minor-league women’s teams. She is among the leaders of women pushing for a women’s major baseball league. Erik is married to Heather and they have two daughters. Sam wins award after award for her articles in this journal or that newspaper. Mom and Dad divorced. I hear that’s common after you lose a child. Mom remarried and Dad just loses himself in his work. Jake never really got over my death, though. I haunt him the most. I wish I could tell him how to pick himself up, but I suppose if I knew that to begin with I wouldn’t have found myself here.

I know what those voices are, now, though. They’re essences like me. They are people – good and bad – pushing you in one direction of another. If you are in tuned to them, they will talk to you and try to encourage you. Some – the loneliest and most hateful among us – will tell you to follow all your darkest desires. They’ll encourage you to hear the laughter of the kids on the playground and to notice every minute offense taken against you. Others – like myself – will warn you away from that end. We are your angels. We are the ones who know who you are, where you’ve been, and what you’re feeling…but we were all too weak to overcome it all ourselves. I know we often argue loudly, but you cannot know the importance of your actions until it is far too late to reverse them. In life, I failed miserably in understanding my purpose. Only in death, and in preventing your death, can I now realize my own reason for being. We hope the best for you and, most of all, we beg of you: listen to us and muzzle your demons. They are of no use to you. They are baggage; discard of them. What you make of life is all you have, so make it something worth living.


Afterward: You’ll Only End Up Joining Them

Tonight, I’m posed and popping like a peacock. I’m pressing flesh, I’m smiling big, my spinning head sings, “stop, just stop.” I want my hands to sit in place, but here they go shake, shake, shake, shake. ‘Cause what used to calm me down, just rips my life to ribbons now, but I keep smiling, find my window, and – quick – cut out. These days, my hangman’s hunger makes my gut kick. My sleeping mind could map it blind: a flask, a key, a bag, a fifth. I try to will myself away while shouting habits plead their case, but when the sun shears through my eyes, my beggar’s brain can’t compromise. I splash cold water. I draw the curtains. I stay inside. I can’t say that it’s a sickness, more like a stranger I asked in and later realized was a strangler slipping nooses in my den. But I was lonely so I asked him, “Could you tie that one on me?” It wasn’t his fault. I was eager. I was weak. So, as I inch towards resolution, I’m not sure which life feels right: the narrow noose or the waiting water, the hanging hex or open eyes. My brother, Michael, he went one way and at the fork, I heard him say, “Don’t you follow. Do go making my mistakes.” And I realized what he meant: don’t kill yourself to raise the dead. It never works. You’ll only end up joining them. It never works. You’ll only end up joining them.

- Kevin Devine


Acknowledgements

(1) Brand New for Your Favorite Weapon, Deja Entendu, and The Devil And God Are Raging Inside Me.
(2) Kevin Devine for everything he’s ever recorded or said to me, ever.
(3) My friends for helping…and proofreading!