Chapter 3: Chapter 3: Death

-Chapter 3: Death-

It's a miracle I didn't get into an accident on the way home. I was in no state to drive, nor was I in a state to realize I shouldn't have been driving. Between speeding the whole way and my going against traffic, I managed to make it home in about twelve minutes, the brakes screeching loudly as I pulled up next to the driveway. Hobbling to the front door, I fumbled with the keys as I struggled to open the lock. I flung the door open, kicking it shut behind me as I entered, and ran to the bathroom. My knees gave out as I reached the toilet. I threw open the lid and hung my head over the porcelain bowl. My chest heaved. Once. Then twice. And I threw up. My mostly empty stomach had voided its contents.

I stared weakly at the mess in front of me. I couldn't remember the last time I'd vomited. It had to have been when I was a kid. It was long enough that my body had forgotten the sensation. I shuddered with discomfort before slowly, shakily pulling myself to my feet. Flushing the toilet, I walked out of the bathroom. By now, the sun had mostly set, and I went about shutting the blinds. Turning on a lamp, I winced, the sudden light seeming like a flash grenade to my aching head. I flicked the switch back off. The handful of nightlights we kept around the house would have to do for tonight. Walking into the kitchen, I recalled the bottle of vodka we kept in the pantry. I had received it as a graduation present from someone who clearly had no idea what would make for a good graduation present. It had been sitting there for the last year. 

I had hoped the alcohol would numb me to the constant, overwhelming pain. Cracking open the bottle, I knocked it back, swallowing a mouthful of the bitter clear liquid. It burned going down my throat, leaving me coughing for a moment. I could vaguely discern the telltale warm feeling in my chest through the pain. I felt nauseous. My first attempt to drink it had gone poorly enough that I knew I wouldn't be getting any more down, so I put the booze away. All I could think to do by that point was lay down, and pray whatever was happening to me would stop. So, I limped through the dark house toward my bedroom, leaning on the walls for support.

Taking my phone from my pocket, I saw two missed calls, and three texts from Anna. I couldn't face her, or anyone else in that state. I silenced my phone, tossing it onto my bed. Kicking off my shoes, I disrobed and threw my now sweaty outfit to the floor. Laundry day would have to come early that week, it seemed. I had just put on a pair of sweatpants, and was pulling a plain white t-shirt over my head, when my stomach clenched and my chest heaved again. I made a mad dash to the bathroom, stumbling in and once again bracing myself over the toilet. I coughed and sputtered, before more vomit came. I threw up once, gasping for breath before vomiting again. There was nothing to it. All that had come up was stomach acid. My knees and ankles were weak. I felt so faint. I couldn't stand any longer, and so I fell backwards onto my rear, the impact of the fall reverberating throughout my aching body. 

I tried to get up. I'd pulled myself up a little before falling back down. I tried again to no avail. My legs weren't responding. I didn't have enough strength to get off the floor. I pulled myself to the side, leaning my back against the side of the bathtub, wedging myself between it and the toilet. And then I just sat there. Sweat beaded on my forehead and ran down my armpits. My breaths were coming in short, labored gasps. The ends of my fingers and my palms were tingling as my extremities fell asleep. I felt feverish. My ears were ringing, and the edges of my vision were going white. It hurt. God, it hurt so much. I don't think there are any words in any language capable of accurately conveying how much pain I was in. It felt like my beating heart had been wrapped in barbed wire and my lungs were filled with gravel. I was chilled, but my skin was burning, the cool porcelain of the tub my only source of relief.

In that agonizing moment, I recognized my end. I was dying. I had to be. What else could possibly be happening? I'd never heard of such a horrible, painful way to die, but that had to be what was happening to me. And, suddenly, a thought flashed through my mind;

Isn't this what you wanted, you piece of shit?

How long, I wondered, had I felt that way? I remembered the first time I thought about suicide was in middle school. I had known it was wrong, and I had no intention of doing it, but the thought was there. 'I don't want to deal with this any more. Make it stop. Just end it.' The thoughts got worse as time went on. Even though I was happier in high school, they were still there. I had reached a breaking point during my senior year. My depression was taking me over. I felt like I had lost control of my mind. It was beginning to manifest more concretely, and I was behaving erratically. Making unreasonable decisions and losing my temper with the people closest to me for no good reason. So, when things got out of control, I came to ask myself a question. Was this who I really was? Was this me? I decided it wasn't. I chose to view my depression as separate from myself, and I decided something had to be done about it.

The antidepressants helped. For a time, it was like it had never even been there. I was happy and healthy again. But, as time moved on and friends drifted apart, things got worse again. Those poisonous thoughts resurfaced, and they came attached to new questions. Why am I even doing this? What's the point of living such a meaningless, useless life? Why struggle when the outcome is always the same? And I couldn't find any answers. I thought that I couldn't change, and I hated all that I was. An unbearable sense of hopelessness had permeated everything I did. All that remained was an impression of a single desire. 'I want to die.'

But I couldn't kill myself. I was afraid of dying. Of the permanence of it. And I couldn't bear the thought of doing that to the people I loved. As much as I hated myself, I knew I was important to them. Taking my own life would hurt them in ways I couldn't even imagine. I would leave a hole in their lives that could never be filled. Their memories of me would forever bear the addendum; 'but he's dead now.' I knew the ones closest to me would wonder what they could have done. They may have even blamed themselves. All I would be doing would be taking my own grief and distributing it amongst the people I cherished. Making them bear pieces of the burden I couldn't. I couldn't stand the idea. I couldn't do that to them. I wouldn't.

So I gritted my teeth, and endured it. The evil misery that existed in my head. I didn't want to be alive, but I was too afraid to die. And so my life became a sort of limbo. I felt as if I was a passenger in my own body. It felt as though all I had in me was an overwhelming sense of despair. I existed one day at a time. Trying not to think. Eventually I realized something. ALL of this; the hopelessness, the grief, the self loathing, the desire to die; culminated in one thing. A single feeling that manifested as the apex of my personal torment.

I wish I had never been born.

It was wrong. I was acutely aware that it wasn't a helpful or constructive thought. But it was so, so deeply enticing. It was, by my assessment, a uniquely human feeling. The darkest manifestation of a being's awareness of its own existence. An overwhelming desire to divorce itself from its past, present, and future. A rejection of the question; why am I here? I wished I wasn't. Why do I have to deal with this? Why do I have to suffer? In the process of conception, hundreds of millions of sperm attempt to fertilize the egg cell. So why, of those millions and millions of potential human beings that could have come into existence in that moment, was I the one that did? Why did I spring up out of that genetic cacophony, grow up into the piece of subhuman trash that I was now, and end up here? Why couldn't someone else deal with this shit?

All of those impossible questions could be wrapped up so neatly by one, singular solution. 'If I had never been born, none of this would have happened.' I wouldn't have to suffer. I wouldn't have to struggle. The people I love wouldn't have to mourn my death; I never would have been there in the first place. All those mistakes I made never would have happened. I wouldn't have to hate myself. I wouldn't have to hurt. I wouldn't have to endure. That feeling; that thought, had drawn me in over, and over, and over. No matter how badly I wanted to rid myself of it, it kept coming back. It was a poison that tasted of milk and honey. I had eaten the lotus, and I was addicted. And I hated it. I hated it so, so much. It was consuming me.

As I lay on the bathroom floor, crammed between a bathtub and a toilet experiencing what I could only recognize as a rapidly approaching death, I suddenly recalled all these thoughts. All the times they'd snaked their way out of my subconscious. All those times I'd failed to ward them off, and fallen into familiar patterns. Was this what I wanted? Was this what I had been waiting for? The payoff for years of wanting it all to end? The liberation from the prison I believed life to be? Could I finally just… die? I didn't know. I couldn't tell. My emotions in those moments were a garbled mess. I couldn't make heads or tales of what I thought or felt. Sadness, and relief, and fear, and frustration, and guilt, and longing, and loneliness, all bounced around in my head, and I didn't know what I wanted anymore.

No. There was one thing that was clear to me. One thought that stood out from the rest. One feeling I could understand clearly. I wanted to see Anna. I wanted to spend time with her. I wanted to hear her laugh. I wanted to make her happy. I wanted to tell her how much she meant to me. And then I remembered. Somehow, in my stupor, I'd forgotten, but I remembered. She was back. She'd come home. We could be together again. All those things I wanted to say to her; to do with her; they could happen. Except… I was dying.

I'd wanted to die for a long time. There was only one thing I wanted more. I wanted her to come home. But I wouldn't let myself want it. She had her own life to live. She had made her own choices and started to live on her own terms. And I had to respect that. Wanting to hold her back; to keep her for myself, on my terms? It was wrong. It wasn't fair to her. So I forgot about my selfish wish. I gave it up and focused instead on myself. And that focus on myself manifested in my other wish; death. But she came home. The one hope I'd held above all else was right in front of me. I wanted to live! I wanted to see her! She was right there, and I could be with her again! And I was dying.

What a fucking joke…

How absurd was that? Both of my wishes were coming true at the same time, but they conflicted with each other. And of the two, the one I wanted less was winning out. What are the odds? Just my luck, right? Everything was happening all at once, and it was all over. Ridiculous. Bizarre. Absurd.

And so I laughed. All I could do was laugh. I laughed like a maniac. I screamed with laughter. I laughed so loudly, it echoed throughout the whole house. I laughed, and laughed, and laughed, and cried out in pain when it felt like I had been stabbed in the lung. I'd never broken a bone before, but I'd imagined that was what it felt like to have a cracked rib. It hurt so much. It hurt so, so much, and it was absurd and funny. And sad. The adrenaline wore off, and all I had left was a deep, unshakable sadness. I was crying. I don't know when I started, but I was crying. The antidepressants I was on muted my emotions overall, making it difficult for me to cry. It wasn't that I didn't ever want to, I just couldn't. I didn't cry at sad movies. I didn't cry when I wrecked my old car. I didn't cry at funerals. I didn't cry when our dog died. And now, I was crying.

I sat there, sobbing quietly in that dark bathroom. I sobbed and cried and hurt. Eventually, the pain in my chest and throat became too much, and I just sat there, feeling the tears stream down my cheeks. I had never felt as lonely as I did in those moments. Dying, alone on the cold tile floor, in that big, empty house. I don't know how long that went on for. It may have just been a few minutes, or it could have been hours. It felt like an eternity. I was almost grateful. At least crying gave me an emotional release. It got quiet. I ran out of tears, and was only left listening to my slow, labored breaths. My eyes burned. Everything hurt. I was tired. I was so very tired. I felt the back of my head press against the cool tub as I leaned my neck to the right to rest on my shoulder. My eyelids felt so heavy. I couldn't keep them open. I was either going to wake up tomorrow, or never again. By that point, I didn't care which. I just wanted to rest.

…

…

…

I heard a banging sound. I didn't want to open my eyes, and I hoped I could just fall back asleep. Then I heard it again. And again. And again. So I opened my eyes. It was dark. I could make out the outlines of the objects in the bathroom from the faint glow of a nightlight. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and I could see, if just barely. There was more banging, and a chime. I became aware of my own body. It still hurt, but the pain had reduced from an unbearable pressure to a strong ache. I heard the banging again. No, wait; it was knocking. Someone was knocking on the front door. There wasn't any light coming in through the windows, so it had to be after midnight. Why would someone be knocking on the door this late? If I just waited, they'd go away, and I could go back to sleep. A minute passed. Then two. I was just about to close my eyes again when I heard more knocking, and the ringing of the doorbell. This wasn't going to stop. 

I groaned, both out of frustration and pain, before trying to get up. I used the lid of the toilet for leverage, and shakily pulled myself to my feet. Of course, I had stood up too fast. My vision started going white, and I felt as if I might fall back down, but I gripped the toilet tank and waited for it to pass. There was more knocking, and I started to walk just before my ribs began aching again. I gripped my left side with one hand, using the other to grope about in the dark for anything to lean on as I shambled to the door. Fortunately, my bathroom was close to the front of the house, so it wasn't a long walk. I flipped the deadbolt and opened the door.

Anna stood there, silhouetted by the glow of the porchlight. Her face looked exceptionally tired, and she bore a panicked expression. She was wearing a zip up hoodie and a pair of cotton shorts. I surmised she had been in bed and came here without getting dressed. I hadn't realized she couldn't really see me until she spoke;

"James? Is that you?"

"Anna…?" I croaked. My throat hurt, and my voice was bizarrely scratchy.

She breathed a sigh of relief.

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"Oh, thank god… C-can I come in?"

"Y-yeah…"

She stepped in past me, quietly shutting the door behind her. She spoke softly;

"Hang on, I'm turning on a light."

She flicked the switch connected to the table lamp we kept in the foyer. It wasn't bright enough to burn my sensitive eyes, but it gave her a chance to get a good look at me. She was clearly alarmed by what she saw;

"Jesus Christ! James, what's going on?!"

"I… I don't know… Everything hurts and… I was passed out in the bathroom… I feel weak, and-GAH!" I clutched my stomach as another sudden pain hit me.

"You need to go to the hospital, right now!"

I shook my head;

"I can't… My insurance won't cover it, and I can't afford-"

"Then I'll fucking pay! Now grab some shoes and get in my car!"

I'd never heard her so angry. In hindsight, I can't blame her, I was being incredibly stupid. Still, her offer to foot my medical bill was far too much, and I tried to protest.

"But-"

"No buts! We are going, right now!"

I didn't have the strength to argue back, and even if I did, there's no way I would have won. So I listened to her, hobbling toward my bedroom. When she saw me struggling, she swooped in and offered me her shoulder. Slipping on a pair of Vans, I grabbed my phone, which displayed five more missed calls, and my house keys. She led me to her passenger seat before going back to lock the door for me. I saw her run back to her car, the door slamming as she started the engine. 

We rode in silence for a while. The dim glow of the clock on the radio informed me it was 2:37 in the morning. A light fog squatted over the streets, though it wasn't enough to slow Anna's driving. I leaned my aching head against the doorframe, my eyes lazily rolling from glancing at Anna, to the road, back to Anna. She was the one to break the silence;

"When you didn't pick up, I was so worried that you had…"

She didn't have to say it.

Died? Killed myself?

I kept my mouth shut. A few moments passed before she spoke again, this time, her voice trembling faintly;

"Oh god, if something happened to you, I… I don't know what I'd…"

She brought her hand over her mouth. I could see tears welling in her eyes for a moment before she blinked them away. She bit her lip and composed herself.

Anna…

I wanted to say something, anything, to comfort her. I wanted to offer her some assurance, or tell her how grateful I was for what she was doing, or tell her not to worry. But all that came out was;

"I'm sorry…"

And I was. My condition may not have been, but this situation was entirely my fault. If I'd just communicated what was going on in the first place, we wouldn't have been here right now. If I'd been responsible instead of running away, I wouldn't have caused her so much worry. I'd become so accustomed to running from my problems, I did it without thinking, and I'd made everything so much worse. I knew she didn't blame me. But I did. This mess I'd gotten her caught up in was my fault.

She glanced at me, her eyes full of not anger, but sympathy;

"You're gonna be alright. You have to be. Okay…? Promise me."

I looked at her before shutting my eyes, a bittersweet smile spreading across my face.

"Okay…"

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