Cabernet

I sit at my computer and stare at a blank Word document. I’ve been here at least an hour and the screen is still void of any words. I take a deep drag from a Camel and my head starts to spin. Maybe it’s the nicotine mixing with my stomach full of bottom shelf rum and a cocktail of whatever prescription pills were laying around the house a half hour ago. Maybe it’s the blood loss. I think I might faint. Smoke flows out of my nostrils and suddenly I feel an almost euphoric sense of balance. I extinguish the cigarette on a florally decorated ceramic plate scattered with bits of crusty, week old food. A drop of dark blood falls from my wrist and splatters on my pants. I’m not sure what my intentions are tonight. I don’t think this is suicide. Death can’t be this anti-climactic. I stare at the underside of my forearm. Scars cover most of the skin that is not smeared with fresh blood. If this is not a suicide attempt, what is it? A half assed one? A cry for help? Only God knows why a kid of eighteen would do things like these to himself if they weren’t in aspiration of fatality. I’m not God and I sure as hell don’t know why. Blood helps me write. It is the fuel for my words; and pain, the inspiration. I want to write her a goodbye letter. Maybe she’ll see it from up above. I slash at a swollen vein about half way between my hand and bicep. The razor opens up my skin and exposes some sort of white tissue. The crevice quickly fills with burgundy colored liquid, and it slowly trickles down my arm and fills the palm of my hand. The screen is still vacant. It comes in and out of focus, and I feel increasingly nauseous. Another Camel is burning in between the index and middle finger of my left hand, although I don’t remember lighting it. Damn cigarettes make me sick. It’s not even half way smoked, but I smash it down on the plate anyway. Other kids my age aren’t like this. They don’t need to be. It seems like everyone has it figured out but me. All I want to know is why I do this. I was born into the land of opportunity and have a solid roof over my head. I don’t have to worry about paying a bunch of bills or where my next meal will come from. I wasn’t abused as a child and I’m not struggling with my sexual identity. But I’m still the pussy who sits alone in his room at three in the morning slitting his wrists and listening to depressing music. The most frustrating part of my life is that I know there’s nothing wrong with me, but somehow I’m still miserable. I’m not bipolar and I don’t have clinical depression or a personality disorder. I don’t have any of those bullshit diagnoses that jackoff shrinks give to high schoolers. I’m just confused. I miss her already and it’s only been a week. I don’t know why I’m here or what the objective of my life is. Or even what it should be. Other kids my age aren’t like this. Nobody ponders the meaning of life as a teenager. Or maybe they do, and when they find out how hopeless the search is, they just quit and find something to temporarily stimulate them. Maybe that’s what I should do. Quit. But I already know that the search for temporary stimulation reaps no benefit. She was the only significance in my life, and now she’s gone. I have no idea how, but now my computer’s off, all the lights are out, and I’m lying face down in my bed. If I do wake up tomorrow, I have to find out why I have been endowed with this cruel existence.
The green, digital display on my alarm clock reads 4:28. I slept for two hours, if that, and I don’t think I’ll be falling back asleep anytime soon. Some of those pills must have been my mom’s Zoloft. My eyelids feel like they’re stapled to my fore head and my bottom jaw is chattering a mile a minute. I start to wonder where the medical line is drawn between a shiver and a convulsion. My whole body is trembling, but it’s actually quite warm in my room. My guess is it’s probably not a shiver. All I can hear are my own quick, deep breaths and my bottom teeth incessantly slamming into my top ones. I can feel my heart racing like it wants to rip itself out of my chest and go run around the block a couple times. For all I know, my life could be in mortal danger, but the 400/15 Vicodin tablets which must have found their way into my liver by now do away with any worries a sane person might have in a situation like this. I feel fuzzy all over and a pleasant ring now floods my eardrums, but my body is still shaking like a jackhammer. 5:44. I don’t think I’ve blinked a single time in the last hour. I can no longer hold a rational thought. My eyes are glued to the clock and I fall into a trance that must be a happy medium between a narcotic induced coma and insanity.
From the corner of my eye, I see my bedroom door slowly swing open. 9:15. I’ve been in this daze for close to five hours. I have intently watched the numbers on my clock reconfigure themselves two hundred eighty seven times now. I haven’t missed a minute of this riveting show. I’m sure I resemble a battery-powered nutcracker set to ape shit at this point. My whole face aches from these repeated involuntary muscle spasms. It takes every ounce of my concentration and energy to turn my head and divert my attention from the clock to see who is at my door. When I see that it is my mom, I stuff the better part of a pillow in my mouth to make the movement of my jaw less noticeable. She begins to speak, but all I can hear is a faint drone. I muster the strength to release three words from my trembling mouth, “I gotta pee.” She laughs briefly and responds, “Party a little too hard last night, huh?” Her voice trails off as she walks back down the hall. I’m not sure if I have the strength to stand up. After about ten minutes, I’ve managed to lift my pathetic ass out of bed. Good thing she didn’t see the dried blood all over me or the faded crimson stains all over my otherwise clean, white bed sheets. After two steps toward the door, I lose my balance and violently fall into my dresser. The ratty old lamp that adorns the top of it falls to the ground and its bulb burns out. Everything is spinning again and my body shakes more severely. As I walk to the bathroom, which is luckily the next door to the left, I balance myself against the wall until I’m safely on my knees and facing the toilet. Dried vomit already covers the toilet and a two-foot radius of the white tile floor around it. I certainly don’t remember creating this mess. Should one be held responsible for something he truly does not recollect? A half empty glass of Cabernet sits atop the tank of the commode. Bits and pieces of the preceding night return to my memory. I bought cheap wine at UDF. I somehow drove safely home. I took pleasure uncorking the bottle (In a drunken state, I find the noise hilarious). I downed a few glasses from the goblets I had bought my mom for Christmas. I tried to go for a walk but it was pouring down rain. The rain reminded me of Mary, and I then proceeded to slit my wrists and swallow pills by the handful. The sight of certain objects triggers my memory when I black out. The Saturday before, a receipt for a fifty-dollar bar tab I found explained where I had spent most of my time Friday. One can deduce more than expected from a glass of Cabernet. The entire room gyrates uncontrollably and it is finally more than I can take. I feel like a dragon because I swear what is coming out of my mouth and nose must be fire. After five solid minutes of intense vomiting, I turn around to see a blurred image of my dad shaking his head in disgust. My vision must be comparable to that of Ray Charles. Colors and vague shapes are all that I can make out. I wipe my eyes with a sheet of toilet paper, and things appear a bit more lucid. Having an uninhabited stomach is quite a relief when compared to one polluted by obscene amounts of alcohol and apparently rice and beans. As I face the mirror, I am finally able to maintain my balance. How pathetic. A week old five-o’clock shadow, which is beginning to look more like a pubescent attempt at a beard, and pupils the size of sand grains. Not to mention bits of puke and dried blood scattered about my face and mangy unkempt hair. My jaws still chatter, but not as drastically. I think, for the first time in months I’m beginning to sober up.
**begin italics** “Eww get off, your feet are disgusting.” Such an insulting command could not have been given in a more gracious tone. The words fell from her lips in a dull monotone, yet they were oddly comforting. I reluctantly slid my foot away from hers without taking my eyes off of her beautiful face. She was naked from the waist up, but being as insecure as any teenage girl, she had the covers pulled tightly up to her chin. My right arm held her close to me, and my left hand was firmly locked into hers. Her face was so close to mine, it was difficult to focus on anything but specific features. Locks of her curly black hair were uncomfortably close to my eyes and mouth, but I didn’t care. I was in heaven. I affectionately pulled her toward me and hugged her as if it would be the last. I could feel her nipples harden against my bony chest, and I gave her a passionate kiss on the side of her neck. I returned to my former position. Our eyes were locked on each other, and I slowly pushed the hair away from her face with my left hand. This time she advanced on me. Strategically remaining covered by blankets, she managed to get her slim little body on top of me. She tilted her head slightly to the right, and pushed her lips against mine. As she opened her mouth and softly massaged her tongue all over the inside of my mouth, she began rub her crotch and hand against the fly of my jeans. I playfully bit her lip, and she giggled. Her body moved faster and harder – so did my lungs. I flipped her over and began to gently caress her neck with my mouth. She released a deep sigh that seemed to be mixed with a bit of a moan. Some girls are easier to get off than others. My hand could not help but move itself down her flat, soft stomach and in between her legs. She firmly redirected it, but not before I could feel that she was sopping wet. What a cock tease. These fits of passion typically lasted about fifteen minutes. They always met one of two ends. Our eyes would meet again, temporarily paralyzing us, or her phone would ring. That stupid Cheryl Crow ring tone always meant Mark. Mark was her boyfriend. One hell of a slimy bastard. I knew she loved me more than him. I knew I loved her more than he did. I know I still do. I don’t know why she stayed with him. She was probably too afraid to end it. They might as well have been engaged. She didn’t even know how long they had been together, and when a girl loses track, that really says something. He was basically the sixth member of her family. His two best friends were her two little brothers and he was the godfather of her baby sister. I think he subconsciously knew about me, but was in denial. I didn’t know the guy real well, but from what I’d heard, he was about as non-confrontational as a welcome mat. Always managed to keep a smile on his face though. Maybe he wasn’t all that bad. Maybe I’m the asshole. After all, I am in the process of stealing his girlfriend and exposing her to the uncharted territory of second and almost third base. She never let me fuck her, and when I think back, I’m actually glad. My experience with sex has been anything but deep or meaningful. I think sex would have diluted my perception of her. It would have turned her into a physical commodity. I would have been perfectly content with keeping the cow forever with or without the milk. The virgin Mary. I’m glad she stayed that way. “Don’t look.” She turned away from me and slid my fifth grade soccer jersey over her bare torso. She only let me look when it was dark. Most of her thick, bouncy hair was stuck in the back of the tight v-neck. I got out of the bed and stood up behind her to pull it out, but she turned around before I could. She put her hair up in a ponytail and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Come on, I gotta go.” She softly grasped my hand with hers and led me out of my room, down the stairs, and out the front door. I always walked her to the car, and never allowed her to open her own door. Once she was seated behind the wheel, she stuck her head out the window. The interior of her car was soaked, because I don’t think she understood that sometimes windows should stay up. But she never complained. Our faces were close again and my nose grazed hers. It was dark and dismal outside, and as always, it was raining. In the period of time that we were romantic, which was well over a year, it rained for at least an hour every single day that we saw each other. Without exception. I softly whispered into her ear, “I love you, Mary.” I gave her several short firm kisses on her lips and one on her forehead. “I love you too, Timmy. I’ll call you later.” She started her car and drove off into the distance. She was the only girl I’ve ever believed when she said either of those things to me. The virgin Mary. **end italics**
I watch flakes of dried blood liquefy on my arm and slide off my hand and on to the floor. The pale pink water flows toward the partially clogged drain and slowly disappears. The nausea hits me again, and I have to lean against the tile wall to maintain my posture. I feel saturated, but not just by the stream of water hitting the back of my neck. I feel filled, but everything that was inside me is now in the toilet. The nausea is now gone, and my jaw convulsions are becoming far more seldom. I hold my hand flat in front of my face. Steady as a rock. How could this be? No more than an hour ago, I genuinely thought my life was about to come to a bleak end. Other than a constant, dull pain in the left side of my stomach, I feel eerily fine. I face the showerhead and wet my hair. The water hydrates my scalp and pours down my face. I let it fill up my mouth, but as I begin to swallow, I taste a rancid acidity. My gut wrenches and I fall to my knees. Dark, thick liquid from my insides stops up the drain and I loudly heave once again. Steam from the shower and vomit mix together in the air and fill my lungs. I leap out of the bathtub and throw up, only this time out the window. While my head is outside, I breathe only pure fresh air, and it is almost intoxicating. After five or ten minutes of this, I pull my head back into the bathroom. The smell of vomit in the air is virtually gone, and so is the fluid that backed up the now shiny drain. The acid must have eaten away all the dirt. My hair is sticky and clumped together and I haven’t even put shampoo in it. If I take pride in one physical attribute it’s my hair, but this is far too gross. It has to go. I leave the shower running and grab hair clippers from the right side of the large white cabinet. I plug in the electric buzzer, look at it for a minute, and begin to shear myself like a sheep. Tufts of damp, sultry hair fall to the floor. I can see chunks of God-knows- what holding them together. I disgust myself sometimes. My head is completely bald after ten minutes, and I feel one hell of a lot cleaner. I shove the hair that was collected on the floor into an empty trash bag and tie it off tightly. I turn off the buzzer and carelessly throw it on the counter next to the sink. I don’t even bother unplugging it. When I return to the shower, the drain is completely clear and the steam no longer smells or tastes like puke. I grab a beige bar of soap from the rim of the bathtub and begin to rub it all over my nude body. I slide the Dial over countless scars on my arms and legs and a few stupid tattoos. Suds run down my left leg, and a sharp pain shoots through my thigh. Half a dozen slashes have begun to fester. Whitish goo fills the swollen, open cuts and they are surrounded by inflamed purple skin. I collect my nerves, take a deep breath, and scrub at it with the Dial. The pain continues, and worsens, but I’ve learned how to deal with it over the last few months. I massage shampoo into my bare scalp and wash my face with some sort of Clearasil type product. After zoning out for a few minutes and letting the powerful stream of water knead my back, I turn all three knobs to the left and dry myself off with my favorite green towel. Moisture drips from my body and within minutes I am fully clothed. I hastily shave my face, cutting myself a few times in the process. I can’t remember the last time I accidentally made myself bleed. Nothing a couple squares of toilet paper won’t fix. At this point, I feel almost normal. I feel brand new. I am saved. There are no physical indications that I had overdosed only a few hours before. I must have been saved by Someone…Something…But What?
**begin italics** The only sounds within earshot on that dreary autumn day were that of occasional gusts of wind, and the droning of some sappy rent-a-pastor’s monotonous voice. She seemed to be friendly with a lot of people, but there didn’t seem to be too many willing to show up and say their last goodbyes. Everyone there hated me. That was fine with me because I hated pretty much everyone there too. Except her. She was my angel. It’s a shame that she felt the need to explore the depths of perpetuity at such a young age. The virgin Mary transformed herself into Juliet. I had a funny feeling I would soon become her Romeo. I didn’t feel extremely depressed yet. I guess it just hadn’t sunk in. She’s gone. Everyone here thinks it’s my fault. The dichotomy of her lifestyle was unbearable, and I was the expendable side. But she wouldn’t give me up. I was responsible. I still am responsible. I should have broken it off and saved both of us some trouble. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Mary’s mother approached me slowly from the other side of the grave. Makeup was smeared all over her face and she almost resembled a raccoon. I would have laughed had the circumstances been different. I could see each individual tear on her face. She couldn’t have been more than six inches away from me now. “Why couldn’t you just leave her alone? Why? Why?...Each time she asked this question, her voice grew louder until it became a shrill scream. She began to beat on my chest and had successfully diverted all attention in the cemetery from Mary to herself. A salty tear rolled out of my eye and into my mouth. I turned away and began to walk toward my car. Her tiny fists relentlessly beat against the whole backside of my body. I sobbed harder. I could faintly hear the minister begin to speak again by the time I stuck my key into the door. **end italics**
Maybe she’s watching me from up above and had God pull some strings to save my life. It must be, because the God of the universe would have no interest in extending the stewardship that is my human existence. Mary took her own life, and, in turn saved mine. Thanks babe. I won’t disappoint you. We’ll meet again. Someday. “Greater love no one has than this, that they lay down their life for another.” You really love me Mary…I love you too.