Death Partner sec.1[REVISED]

REVISED VERSION. If you read this before, please read it again, as some things have changed. This is only a portion of a completed (at this point) story. A warning: May Trigger; there are many references to suicide and events surrounding it. There are also many references to self-injury. I wrote this from a "triggered" frame of mind and can understand the need for a short notice for those who need it. If you are feeling this way, please take care of yourself before reading or don't read at all.


I. Purpose

         I should be dead already, several times by now. Once in the west transit tunnel, again in the creek behind my house, and again underneath the cherry tree that was planted by my grandmother as a child. In each of these places, and so many more, another girl took my place and died instead. Their life ended with the impression that mine would follow close behind. They closed their eyes assuming that the next time they would open them I would be at their side in the portals of dust.
         As for me, I live in the shadow of their accomplishment.
         “Do you want butter for your bread?”
         I looked up to meet the eyes of a young waitress standing over my table. I was dining by myself and had just ordered soup and hard bread. I almost never ate butter; it went straight to my thighs.
         But this time, I figured I should live out my desires for as long as I could.
         “Yes, thank you,” I replied.
         Before leaving my table, the girl cocked her head and examined my face.
         “You look incredibly familiar. Do you go to The Weston Academy for Girls?”
         “Yes, I do. Do I know you?”
         “Probably not, but I go there too. I’m a Sophomore.”
         Being a Senior, I had no idea who she was. Weston Academy did a fine job of keeping each grade level completely separate from all of the others. The only times we did come together were Lunch and Gym.
         The girl extended her hand. “Deana Ikuko,” she said.
         I shook her hand and replied, “Iveli.”
         At school the next day, I made a point to seek out Deana and talk to her. Once I found her in my lunch hour, I learned that she was half Japanese, half white. Her parents were divorced and she had four siblings; two brothers and a sister. She was also a transfer student this year, meaning she hadn’t been able to spend her Freshmen year forming friendships like all of her peers, so she was on the outside circle most of the time. I also learned that she suffered from Clinical Depression.
         “What makes you depressed?” I asked her one morning.
         “Well, I guess I was having a hard time dealing with my parents’ separation, and being the youngest of four kids, I felt like I was being ignored. I hated that. Also, I didn’t have a lot of friends at my old school, and I have even fewer here.”
         “Why did you transfer?”
         Deana shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “I…don’t want to talk about that.”
         “Oh, come on. We’re friends here, aren’t we?”
         “I…guess…”
         “Then tell me.”
         Deane closed her eyes, took a breath, and opened them.
         “I was kicked out for cutting myself.”
         I frowned. Is that even legal?
         She continued, “One of the administrators was told that I and a few other girls were stealing glass slides from the Chemistry lab and breaking them to cut our wrists with. That administrator called us all in and asked us about it. None of us confessed, so she had our bags searched. When a few razors and about a dozen shards of glass were found, she gave us the option of claiming they were in our bags for self-defense or for hurting ourselves. If we said self-defense we would be expelled. If we said cutting, we would get counseling. All of the others said cutting and agreed to the counseling. I said cutting and asked to be expelled.”
         “Why did you do that?”
         “All of those other girls had friends and boyfriends to lean on for support. I had virtually no one. I didn’t want to deal with the ridicule on my own, so I left and came to Weston.”
         Deana and I chatted for about another hour, and at the end of the school day we crossed paths again. When we were preparing to part ways she invited me to her home. I obliged and accompanied her to the place where she and her father lived.
         In her room, I looked around at all of her artwork and possessions. For someone who participated in an act so graphic, she sure had an affinity for all things cute. As she changed clothes, I ran my fingers across the heads of her extensive collection of stuffed animals.
         “Do you …still cut yourself?” I asked her.
         Deana looked at me. “Hm? Oh, um…sometimes. It’s not as often as before I transferred.”
         “Do you have the desire to die?”
         “What?” She stopped fixing her hair and stared at me. “What are you asking me?”
         I repeated my question; Do you have the desire to die?
         “Sometimes. I don’t know why, but the feeling is still there. At times the urge gets so strong I can barely contain it.”
         I stood facing her, listening intently.
         “Why do you ask?”
         “I’m looking for someone to enter into a suicide pact with.” I said, deliberately choosing to use the word “suicide” rather than some round-about synonym. I figured if the person I ask can’t even handle facing the word, they can’t handle facing the event and are of no use to me.
         “Will you join me?”
         “When?”
         I pulled a small butterfly knife from my skirt pocket. “Right now.”
         Deana’s eyes widened at the sight of the knife. I couldn’t tell if this reaction was fear or anticipation.
         I handed the knife, handle first, to her. She looked the blade over and poked the tip with her fingertip.
         “I haven’t put anything sharp to my skin in at least two months. I…miss it.”
         She handed the knife back to me and rolled up her sleeve.
         “Let’s do it,” she said, smiling.
         I nodded and walked over to her, and pressed my thumb against her throat. “I do it here. Is that okay?”
         Looking in my eyes, she nodded.
         I placed the knife in her hands, wrapping my own hands around hers. Pressing the tip into my flesh I sniffed adrenaline-infused air and nodded. She pushed the blade into my skin, breaking through and entering my throat. I gasped and coughed immediately, something I wish I hadn’t done and regretted the moment the subsequent pain crawled throughout my insides and head. She let go and stood uneasy for a second before I yanked the knife out and immediately plunged it into Deana’s throat. Her eyes opened to the point where I thought they were going to pop out of her head. She tried to bring her hand up to the wound, but I grabbed her. Blood began to trickle out of her mouth, staining her teeth, lips then chin.
         Her free hand gripped my shoulder and she groaned violently. I was bleeding enough to stain my blouse but was still fully conscious and alert.
         “Iv….eli? Are…y-you coming?”
         Still holding onto the knife in her throat, I said, “I don’t think I can.”
         She made a quizzical noise and tried to protest as she faded away. Her grip on my shoulder weakened and her body suffered a quick spasm.
         “Didn’t you…say you w-wanted-ted some…one to…join you?”
         In her eyes I saw every girl who had asked me that same question. Every one of them, with the same terrified look, the same look of betrayal, of sadness and anger all at once. I had lied again, and because of my lie yet another girl was taking my place in hell.
         “Y…Y-you…”
         Before she could finish the sentence, Deana fell to the floor. Her soul was gone before she hit the carpet. I looked at her, now reduced to a lifeless figure, and repositioned her hand on the knife. Then I grabbed my school bag and left her home, heading in the direction of the hospital. Usually I cleaned and dressed my own wounds if they were in my arms. Most of the girls I was with preferred there and I allowed them their last wish. This time, I guess I decided the place. I thought this time would be it. No such luck.
         Next thing I remembered, I was waking up in the hospital. As I sat in a hospital bed with a dressing and gauze around my neck and a throb in my insides, I shifted my eyes to focus on the TV. Out of curiosity I switched to a news station. It was against news policy to report suicides unless it was of the famous or of the very young. Deana was fifteen; it was a fair chance she would be on.
         I came across a male news anchor reading from a script with a picture of Deana to the right of him. I turned up the volume.
         “…father found the body of fifteen-year-old Deana Ikuko in her bedroom yesterday afternoon. Her death being an apparent suicide, police nor the father found a suicide note anywhere in the vicinity. Both parents spoke of the young girl having problems with self-injury at her previous school, and of transferring to The Weston Academy for Girls to get a fresh start. They also claimed to finally seeing their daughter happy again, and that this comes as a shock to them both. A memorial has been arranged…”
         I turned the volume back down and turned over. Despite what some may say, I did not do this with the intention of surviving. Something was keeping me alive and I was trying my damndest to beat it. With each failure, I felt contempt with each heartbeat but satisfied with helping someone else’ heartbeat stop.
         My parents came in later in the afternoon, after receiving a phone call from the doctor tending to me. They knew about my numerous attempts at killing myself and had moved far beyond the point of fear, and even beyond the point of apathy and resentment. I think that, to them, my constant admittance to the hospital was simply a thing to happen. They would receive a call at either work, home or while they were out and come to the same hospital; the same wing and speak to the same desk worker. The doctors would change, but everything else remained the same. People take comfort in the familiar.
         My mother was the first to speak. Her expression was calm and sad; she knew what to say because she had been here before.
         “I know you can’t swallow to well, so eating anything harsh or solid is out of the question. I can get you a yogurt or soup or something like that when we get home. The doctor said you are going to be kept in the hospital for the next week, but we’ll see if we can pull a few strings and get you released early. I don’t want you missing school. How’s that sound?”
         I gave her a thumbs up, not to make light of the situation, but because there really was nothing else I could do at that moment. Speak hurt to much.
         My mother did not ask me if I was okay or how I felt. She hadn’t for at least a year’s worth of hospital admissions. It wasn’t because she was cold or callous, but because it would be pointless to ask, and we all knew that. Asking such a stupid question is worse than keeping silent; I could respect the latter.
         Needless to say, I had lost quite a few friends because of this.
         My father was in fact able to pull a few strings and get me released three days after their initial visit. The suicide attempt was on a Thursday and I had slept until Friday, so I only missed two days of school. On Tuesday I returned, with a wide, black choker wrapped around my neck. Underneath that was a bandage, but because I didn’t feel like humoring dumb questions, I wore the choker. Large jewelry was prohibited at school, but as I passed teacher after teacher, not one opposed.
         “Oh, Iveli!”
         I turned to find Marla, a friendly acquaintance and my Biology lab partner. She skipped toward me, grinning a toothy grin.
         “I missed you!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms around me. In truth, I missed her too. She was a genuine friend. My only genuine friend.
         “Where were you Friday and Monday?” she asked.
         I fingered her deep brown hair and tried to speak as best I could. “I tried to kill myself again,” was my reply.
         Marla waved a finger at me. “Tsk tsk,” she playfully scolded. “You should stop trying and actually do it. What’s your holdup?”
         I shrugged. “Don’t know. I guess the gods have something bigger planned for me.”
         Marla rested her head on my chest, then jerked her head and suddenly looked at me. “Oh! A girl in the Sophomore class was found dead in her room Friday. Police say she killed herself. Would you have anything to do with that?”
         “No. Of course not. I guess she just had some demons she couldn’t figure out in time.”
         Marla shrugged and took my hand. “Come on! You have to see the size of her memorial! For a mere transfer student, a lot of people seemed to care about her.”
         The two of us walked down the hallway and turned the corner to where the Sophomore lockers were located. Near the middle of the row was Deana’s locker, completely consumed by flowers, cards and ribbons. Marla ran over to the locker and picked off a plump, pink Chrysanthemum.
         “Here,” she said, offering the flower to me.
         “Why?” I asked, not yet taking the gift.
         “Because I didn’t know or care about this girl, so I’m not going to pretend like I do. But I care about you.”
         I looked at the flower, then at Marla, and again at the flower. I held a hand up.
         “Let people do what they do. It’s not bothering you. In a week we’ll all have forgotten about her, and this memorial will fall apart.”
         Marla retracted her arm, looking somewhat hurt.
         “And if you’re going to give me flowers,” I added with a grin, “don’t get me some second-hand ones. Get me some real ones that you paid for.”
         “Okay!” Marla said, dropping the Chrysanthemum to the floor and joining me in the hallway. We left the memorial, side by side, and headed for our Biology class.