Reckless Driving; Reckless Life

MONDAY [four days after]
My therapist told me to keep a journal of all of my feelings and thoughts about ‘the accident‘. She tells me to call it an ‘accident‘. Says I can’t blame myself for what happened. She tells me that if I just write down the things that bug me, then I’ll be okay soon. As if the whole memory will just disappear from the face of my mind forever. Expire. Get throw out in the trash on Thursday mornings. Just dissolve into a sea of nothing and pain.
That’s how I feel. I feel like I’m swimming in a sea of hurt and pain, and I can’t seem to remember any type of stroke. No backstroke. No butterfly. No freestyle. I can’t even doggie paddle. I just sit in the middle of a raging sea of terror, bobbing up and down. Yelling between mouthfuls of salty, angry water. Screaming for help. ‘Help, somebody help me!’ No one ever comes to my rescue. No inner tube. No big, yellow raft with an oar. No lifejacket. Angela was my lifejacket. The only thing keeping my head above the water. The horrible, cold, dark water that filled my mind. She let it empty and dry out then filled it back up with her love.
She use to tell me that her love was the only gift she had to give. But I always told her that just allowing me to hold her hand and look into her eyes, and kiss her lips was a donation to me. To the ‘Save Kyle Lansing From Himself Foundation’. Her contributions were greatly appreciated. A frequent donor. A loyal donor. The only donor. But now there’s nothing to grab my hand and help me shake the water from my ears. No one to pull me ashore after a long float on the sea of crazy. No one waiting for me. No one wanting me.
Alone.

WEDNESDAY [six days after]
The funeral was today. It was harder than I thought it was going to be. Her mom told me it was going to be closed casket, but it wasn’t. I wasn’t prepared. I couldn’t handle it. When we were walking up to the casket, her dad was on my left, and her mom was on my right. Dave held my arm. Janet held my hand. Firm grip. Soft hands. No middle ground. Complete opposites. Like me and Angela.
Everyone would always tell me that they didn’t understand why me and Angela were together. Like it was such a mystery. We were complete opposites. A negative pole and a positive one. But we instantly attracted. Two little magnets that somehow found each other in the big electron pool that is high school. Protons and neutrons and the peon. Engrossed with one another. Needing each other to function. The filament in the light bulb. The sugar in the cotton candy. The air in my lungs. The ground beneath my feet. I needed her to live. I still do. I always needed her to live. Especially today.
The only way I could of handled this was if she was with me today. But I wouldn’t need to handle this if she was with me. We walked up slowly. Too slowly. No, too fast. I don’t know. The whole thing felt wrong. I could see out of the corner of my eye, the tears ran down Janet’s face. The same tears rolled down Dave’s weathered face. My face was dry. I was trying to be a man about it. Crying is for babies and little girls. Not for men. Not for men like me. I closed my eyes and let them lead me up to the casket. Darkness of my closed eyes shielding me from the darkness of this situation.
They stop. Janet takes a deep breath and holds it in, and Dave’s grip tightens. I know we’re here. They can see her. I know they can. I try to prepare myself. I count to three and open my eyes. Janet can’t hold her breath anymore and it comes out as big, heavy sobs. Dave breathes heavy, and the tears roll out of his eyes like heavy rivers. Like floodgates broke. Like the apocalypse has just became crystal clear to him.
I stare blankly at her. I almost laugh because I know it’s not her. That’s not Angela, I told myself. It looks nothing like it. It can’t be her. Angela’s face was never that white. Angela never wore that much blush. She never wore lipstick. Never. She wouldn’t of been caught dead in that ugly, gray knit sweater. The morticians did a horrible job. You could still faintly see the cuts on her face. The one by her nose was most obvious. She had the cutest nose I’ve ever seen in my life. Not anymore. Not since the ‘accident’.
I now know what it feels like to have your kneecaps shot off. Only because that’s what it felt like when I saw her little birthmark by her ear that told me it was really her. My knees gave out from under me and I fell to the ground. Dave’s tight grip did nothing for me. I collapsed on the funeral parlor floor, gasping for air. Such a tiny discoloration can pack such a heavy hit. In that exact second, a million thoughts flew into my head. Like small, pin-like razors. Poking and pinching. Stabbing and ripping at brain matter. The second I hit the floor, my heart broke. It was so quite in the service that you could almost of heard it if you were sitting close enough to the front in the ugly, folding chairs.
The rest of the service is a blur. Dave picked me up and after that, I don’t remember much. No one spoke to the crowd. No one sang her any songs. No one gave her any flowers. No one kissed her goodbye. No one did anything to save her. I didn’t save her. I couldn’t move.
When they put the casket down into the ground, I wanted to jump in after it. I wanted to be buried alive and die today. Die with her. Die by her. Die for her. I wished so much that I had jumped in that hole. Probably feel more like home than anywhere else does. Everyone left. The funeral director and another guy took down all the decorations around the grave. They let me stay. Let me watch them cover her casket with dirt. Let me stand there and hope for early death. Let me die inside.

THRUSDAY [seven days after]
It’s only been one week without her but it feels like a million years have passed since the last time I saw her alive. I guess that’s just the way it feels. Feels like hurt and anger and resentment and salt in wounds. Feels like the worst headache ever. Feels like I’ll never smile again. Feels like I’ll never want to smile again. Feels like the corners of my mouth have unceasing weights on them. I want to smile so maybe the flesh that connects my lips will rip and I’ll have an excuse to never grin every again. I’m sick.
Frank told me they emptied out her locker at school. He got into it before they did and took out the picture of us and put it into my locker. Frank also took her notebook that she’d write me notes in. He said that I deserve to have it. I don’t deserve anything. Dave and Janet deserve to have their daughter back. I don’t deserve air. I don’t deserve life. I don’t deserve to be here right now, living.
I’m sad. And I will never get better.

FRIDAY [eight days post ‘accident’]
I’m a murderer.

MONDAY [eleven days since the ‘accident’]
I went to school today. Some assholes painted her locker and decorated it with roses and pictures of her. They wrote sayings on it and put quotes from the Bible on it in washable marker. I can’t walk past it. I can’t see her smiling face in those pictures. The last time I saw her face, she wasn’t smiling. She was dead. Dead as she’s ever going to get. Finished. Lifeless. End. Done. Gone. Over with. Curtains closed. Sleeping in heaven with the angles while I lie awake at night with the devils in my head.
Everyone tells me how sorry they are. Like it makes a difference. It’s not like any of them know how I feel. They don’t understand what I feel to be back in the place where I met her. They don’t get that these halls scream ‘Angela’ to me. Every locker’s combination is AN left-GE right-LA left. The empty desks that she use to sit at are like little knives stabbing me in the eyes every time I look at them. Out for blood. Me wanting to let them allow me to bleed out slowly. Every announcement and every bell on the intercom beating it into my head that she’s not here anymore. The moment of silence for her before lunch. I can’t take it anymore.
I left before lunch. They lady in the office told me that it’ll get better as time goes on. I wanted to punch her in her fat fucking face.

WEDNESDAY [thirteen days after]
My therapist read me parts of my diary aloud in my last session. It’s weird hearing someone else say my words. It’s almost as if she knows exactly how I feel and that she’s going through the exact same thing as I am. Which I know is not true. It’s my own memories and words. It’s just that…it makes me feel good. Almost as if with every word I write, Angela is getting a little bit closer to becoming the bunny rabbit she always talked about becoming reincarnated as.
I know that sounds ridiculous. Maybe I just think that so I feel better about the accident. The ‘incident’ is what my parents call it. At least that’s more accurate than it being called an accident. Incident means an event that is usually violent. What happened was definitely violent. Violent enough to kill her. Violent enough to never see her smile at me again. Accident says that it was no one person’s fault. That’s not accurate. It’s my fault.
If I don’t take the blame, I’m a horrible person. If I do take the blame, I’m a horrible person. There’s not middle ground for me settle on. I need something solid in my life right now. I need to know just one thing. Knowing just one little thing would make me feel so much better.
Did she feel any pain?

THURSDAY [three weeks after the incident]
I didn’t write last week because I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t make myself tell any more secrets about her. I don’t want to ruin my memories of her by putting them down onto paper. Just saying her name feels inappropriate. Feels like it’s a sin. Feels dirty. Feels like I’m selling her short. When anyone else says her name, it makes me angry. Angry like I could punch their faces. Angry like I never want to hear anyone ever say her name.
When I sleep at night, when I do sleep, I dream of her. Mostly, I dream of things we’ve already done together. I dream of the picnic last summer on the beach a lot. Sometimes my dreams have words and other times it’s like a silent movie with a musical score in the background instead of her voice. Sometimes it is black and white and other times it is in full color with the most brilliant blue skies I’ve ever known. I dream of the times we went to the park. And the time we played in the leaves. And the time we had our first kiss under the stars. I dream of that a lot, too.
But out of all the things I dream about, I dream the absolute most that she’s still alive. I dream that I had taken the other road home and I dream that I hadn’t had that drink. I dream that I’m a hunter and I kill all the deer so there wouldn’t of even been a deer on the road that night. I dream that she makes it out alright. I dream that I die so she can live.

FRIDAY [twenty-two days post]
I keep telling people that I don’t miss her so much that it hurts. I shouldn’t lie or else I won’t go to heaven like she did. I’d do anything to be with her again.

SATURDAY [twenty-three long days]
I hung out with Frankie and his girlfriend Lacy. They make me sick. Sharing love with each other right in front of me. Like they don’t know how much it hurts me. Like Frank can’t tell I’m fighting back tears as we sit in the pizza place. I can’t move to get away from them. My skin stuck to the fake leather on the booth. He holds her hand under the table like I always did with Angela. Just like I did with her. Except I really loved her. Frank just wants sex from Lacy. I bet you money that’s all he wants. Not me. I would never use Angela like that. Never in a million fucking years.
I leave them and I cry as I drive to the cemetery. I haven’t cried since I first heard the news. Feels good. It’s just cold enough outside that I’m glad I had my jacket. I park on the road and I walk to her grave site. The grass hasn’t grown in the new dirt yet. I kick some to the side, and I know that there won’t be real grass here until next year. Warmer weather isn’t on the horizon. Warmer feelings aren’t in my heart anymore. I knelt down in front of her gravestone and the wind makes my tears hurt my face.
I yell at her. I yell so loudly at her that I’m sure that everyone in this whole damn town can hear me. I don’t care. I yell at her that I’m sorry. I tell her that it’s my fault and that I wish that I had made her put on her seatbelt. I swear vengeance on every deer in the woods. I swear to kill every single one of them to make up for your death. I scream at her that I’m sorry that I didn’t see the deer in time. I tell her that I’m sorry I had that beer. I tell her that it’s all my fault. I tell her that I wish so badly that it couldn’t of been me that went through the windshield. I tell her that I will never be able to forgive myself. I mean it when I say it. I yell at her to wake up. I scream into the ground to get up. That it’s not funny anymore. Like everything is a big joke. I tell her to wake up and kiss me. I yell at her for not smiling at me right now. I beg her to stop playing this mean joke on me and to come out from behind the dingy trees and bear hug my neck and tell me that she’ll never leave me, never in a million years.
I cry because I know she’s never coming back.

SUNDAY [twenty-four long, long, long days after]
Someone had the brilliant fucking idea that I should go to church today to try and find some peace in Jesus Christ. My mom and dad decided to come with me. We all got dressed up in clothing we never wear. For what? To sit in dusty pews and smell the rotting smell of the elderly that should be in the nursing home but aren’t. The whole time we’re there, I feel like sheep. Like we are all just a big batch of sheep waiting for slaughter. Waiting to be led into a room, hung upside down by our hooves and have our throats cut. We’ll bleed out by the time the choir gets to the closing hymn.
We’re the first to leave. The pastor meets us by the door and he shakes my hand and blesses me. Like I wanted it. He tells me that with the help of God, all my worries will disappear, and I will find comfort in the Lord. All I can think about is how clammy his hand is. Why would God give his servant such an unpleasant handshake? I nod to him but can’t focus on his words. Meaningless words. Just like the Bible.
I don’t stay for the fellowship lunch afterwards. My parents do. They’re trying to get back ‘in touch’ with the people they have left behind. They feel bad for their careers getting in the way of Jesus and friends and bad potluck dinners. Whatever. I put on my running shoes and I headed out to the park.
The air is just cool enough to make my sweat feel chilly on my skin. I hate that feeling. I can’t wipe it off cause then I get hot, but I can’t just let it congregate on my skin. I don’t have time to dwell on this thought because a girl jogs up next to me. She tells me that she hates to run alone and asks me if I mind if she joins me. I tell her that I do mind. She stays with me for the whole run. Three miles of no talking.
On my cool-down lap, she starts to talk to me. Like actual conversation. Her name is Elizabeth. She’s new. My age. Smoker. Social drinker. Fake brunette. Real blue eyes. Friendly. She brings up the fact that she’s going to smoke a joint after the cool off and asks me to join her. I don’t refuse. It feels good to be back in sync with something. Even if it is just a bit of weed. Peyote.
Her place wasn’t far away but we drove in my car to it. When we got to the apartment complex she told me to park next to her car, like I knew which one it was. Caught me off guard. Like she thought I was Jesus and expected me to just be all-knowing. I parked next to the green Neon one the west side of the building. We took the stairs up to the third floor. There was a perfectly fine elevator we could of hopped into and rode up but she went straight for the staircase. Caught me off guard again.
I don’t know why but her apartment just felt safe. Almost like I’ve been there before. But I know I haven’t. I’ve never been in this apartment complex before and I’ve lived in this town my whole entire life. The pure white walls and the off green carpet soothe me as we take seats on the couch. And almost like magic, Elizabeth pulls a joint out of thin air. She lights it, passes. I breath in, pass it. We go back and forth passing it to one another after the disgusting smoke has filled our lungs and we let it creep out of our mouths slowly, like ghosts.
We talk.
Talk about nothing.
Talk about everything.
Well, not everything. I don’t tell her about Angela. I don’t tell her that I’m a killer. I don’t tell her anything too serious. She tells me about her life growing up and why she moved here. Tells me her step-farther hit her and so she divorced her parents and moved here. She asks me why I was running and I tell her that I was trying to clear my head. She asks me why I was trying to clear my head and I tell he that it’s filled with bad things. She asks me what kind of bad things. I tell her the dangerous kind. She asks how dangerous. I tell her extremely. She asks too many questions. I don’t know if I’m just on edge about being alone with her or if it’s the pot making me all giddy and jumpy and excited about nothing. Excited about her.
Excited that she doesn’t know what I’ve done. Doesn’t know why I hurt so badly. Doesn’t understand why I need to forget about everything. Even if it is just for a couple of hours, sitting on a couch, in an apartment, with some girl I just met.

MONDAY [twenty-five days since my heart broke]
I went to school today. It’s getting easier every time I come here. The Principal took down the stuff on her locker by my request. He told me that no one is going to use the locker. He even put a lock on it that only opens with a key. He told me that there is only two keys that open it. He gave them both to me. No matter how many times I have said that I hated that man because of all the detentions I’ve spent with him. Today, he is the nicest man I have ever met in my whole life.

TUESDAY [twenty-six days since ‘it’ happened]
I’ve noticed a few things. I’ve noticed that things are getting back to normal. Normal as in, no one cries about her anymore. No one stops at her locker just to touch it. No one tells me they’re sorry anymore. No one puts flowers on the place in the road where the accident happened. No one does anything for her anymore. Except me.
I still go to her grave. Mostly I just sit down in front of her gravestone and trace her name with my finger on the granite. I take the time to clean all of the leaves off of her resting spot. She always kept a clean room, so I figure that she’d want a clean grave, too.

THURSDAY [twenty-eight days post]
Me and Elizabeth go for a run today. She says she saw me in the cemetery a few days ago. I almost die right in my tracks. I stumble and try to keep my pace with her but I can’t stop thinking about why she must think I was there. My mind is racing is like a doped up circus clown. I’m sweating like it’s going out of style. I don’t say anything so she tries to guess why I was there.
She starts off with it’s my after school job to tend to the graves. No.
She follows it up with that I’m graveyard poet. No.
She asks me if I do it for community service. No.
She asks me if it’s the burial spot of my Grandma or Aunt. No.
She finally gives up and tells me to just tell her. I tell her that I need to sit down. We go over and sit next to a tree without any leaves left on it. Dead. I pull out a joint from my hoodie pocket and light it up. I know I’m going to need this to explain why I was there. I take a really long drag and one more before I pass it to her.
There’s something about the mixture of pot smoke and cool, autumn air that just makes you want to talk about killing your girlfriend.

FRIDAY [twenty-nine days after]
Elizabeth is amazing. I mean, she is simple amazing. So understanding. There is so much comfort to be found behind her blue eyes. So much comfort in her calm voice. So much love in the way she holds my hand when I tell her. So much forgiveness as she hugs me when I start to cry bitter tears. So much peace to be found in her slow heartbeat. Elizabeth is a lot like Angela.
I know it seems like I’m trying to replace Angela. I’m not. I just have found a haven in Elizabeth that I don’t think I can find anywhere else in this messed-up world we all live in. Elizabeth is a new trust for me to build on. She is slowly allowing me to tell her things that are eating me up inside and in the process, she is slowly allowing me to let my burden out to softly float away from me forever. No boomerang back to me. No pain anymore. Freedom.

SUNDAY [thirty-one days since death consumed my life]
My parents went to Church today. Asked me to go, too. I declined. I didn’t want to go to their church. I have my own form of religion now. Running. Running in the park and on the streets and wherever else there is ground for my feet to push off of. Running with Elizabeth. Lizzie, as I now call her. As she asked me to call her. Just like how I use to call Angela Angie. Just like that but better. Better because she’s not dead.
I don’t want to say it. Almost feels like I’m betraying Angela when I run with her. But I don’t mean to. It just feels so good. Feels good like waking up to breakfast already made. Good like a warm hoodie of your favorite college football team in the crisp fall weather. Good like holding hands on a cool-down lap in the park. Good like kissing someone you really like. Good like Elizabeth and me getting stoned. Good in the best way possible.

MONDAY [thirty-two days after]
We went running.
Yeah, we.

THURSDAY [thirty-five days post]
No school today. That’s good because I have plans. Good plans. Good as in everything I wrote earlier about things that feel good. Just not in that exact order.
It all started when I woke up today and put on my warm hoodie. Then, I met her at the park and she brought me a bagel with cream cheese on it. Breakfast ready for me. She watched me eat as she stretched out. I ate while I watched her stretch out. Tasty and sexy. Good for the stomach and the mind. We mixed up our usual running pattern with one mile running, one mile slow jogging, one mile walking. We did six miles today. Six miles of talking and just being with each other. Six miles that even the devil himself couldn’t of wiped the smile off of my face.
We held hands on the final lap to cool off but it just made me hotter. We walked and she let her arm swing softly. Like it was cradling a small child in it. Swinging softly. Holding on to my hand like it was the easiest thing in the whole world to do. Like my hand was magnetized to it. Like we were made for one another, almost. Like I didn’t want to let go after we got into my car to drive over to her house.
We got drunk. As in, completely, absolutely, fucking sauced. On top of that, a few bong hits had everything just a little bit more loose. Loose in the way that we couldn’t walk in straight lines and couldn’t stop laughing at nothing and everything. Loose in the way that she kissed me. Kissed me like I wanted her to. Kissed me drunk. Kissed me hard. Kissed me wet. Kissed me like Angela use to. Kissed me until she stopped and wiped her mouth. I just kinda sat there. I didn’t know what to do. Wanted more but didn’t know how to ask for it.
Prayers answered. She took off my hoodie and told me she wanted to model it for me. Model it like a real model would do. Model like sexy. I gave it to her and she stepped out of the room and I took another hit on the bong and let the smoke creep out of my nose like the ghost of Angela leaving me. Like Angela leaving me to do what I wanted to do. Like I was free to do things. Bad things. Good things. Lizzie things.
She came back in the room with my sweater on. And nothing else. Well, not nothing. Panties. Lacy, black, small panties. Bad panties. Good panties. Elizabeth panties. I was stunned. She spoke in slurred English as she asked me if she looked like a model. I told her that I needed a closer look to be sure. I had her spin around and I gave her a critique. Three little words: ‘I’d fuck it’.
Good as in the way kissing someone you really like is just so fucking awesome. Everything that followed is private, I guess. Heavy breathing and nail marks. Moans and sweat. Bedroom and couch. Good. Really good. Good in the best way possible.

FRIDAY [thirty-six days after]
Woke up today with a hangover and a head rush. Not a good combination. Not a good feeling. Not a good way to start a Friday. I had forgotten that it was Friday. A school day. Another fucking school day. They seem to run together. One shitty day of school into another shitty day of school. The only thing that makes it worth waking up in the morning is Elizabeth but…
I feel like such an asshole when I realize that I’m waking up next to her. Lizzie. Elizabeth the replacement. The new Angela. The new ‘best thing that ever happened to me’. The new reason I wished I wouldn’t of woken up today. When we were high last night, Angela had left my mind but now. Now, she’s back with vengeance. Telling me I’m such a creep. I’m such a dirt bag. Such a piece of shit. Not worth it at all. I mean nothing to her. Nothing to anyone. Worthless.
I just can’t seem to tell her in my head that she’s right about everything. But I am positive that she knows I hate myself for her.

SATURDAY [thirty-seven days and counting]
I didn’t run with Lizzie. Didn’t answer her phone calls either.
Your welcome, Angela.

SUNDAY [thirty-eight days and still counting]
I went to church today with my dad. Mom is feeling flu-ish so she stayed home. Told us to explain it to the congregation so they didn’t that she was skipping out on Jesus. I really tried to pay attention to the Pastor when he was up on his podium. I listened to his words as best as I could. I even tried to sing with everyone as a hymn was being sung all around me.
More importantly, on the way home, my dad pulled the car over onto the shoulder of the road. Turned the car off. Turned to face me. Actually talked to me. First time he has tried to have a conversation with me since Angela went into the ground. I never really noticed before but he has my eyes. We share the same sad eyes. His and my reflection have the same pain behind their eyes. We have a connection that I never took the time to notice before right now. We are one in the same. But like all things I get my hopes up for, he too let me down hard.
The whole conversation, if it could even be called that, it was more of a long yelling war, was that he was mad at me. Mad at me that I let my grades slip. Mad at me that I haven’t been talking to him and Mom about my problems. Mad at me that I have been drinking just about everyday. Mad at me about smoking pot. Mad at me that I don’t just get over Angela and get on with my life. Mad at me for hanging out with Elizabeth. Mad that I would want to be around a ‘girl like that’.
He talked like he knew everything about me. Like he was God Almighty and just knew everything that I knew. Like he was inside my brain. But he doesn’t understand. I can’t concentrate in school because I need Angela, and she’s not here so now I need Elizabeth. I don’t talk to them about my problem cause they won’t understand. I drink to make Elizabeth seem like Angela. I smoke pot to make me forget about Angela all together so I can just be with Elizabeth, as herself. I can’t get over Angela because I don’t have enough pot to dilute my memory all day, every day. I can’t stop hanging out with Elizabeth cause I need her to be my Angela. I have to be around a ‘girl like that’ because if I didn’t have someone to replace Elizabeth/Angela, I would kill myself.
I don’t tell him any of this. The last thing I say to him right before I slam the car door shut is that it’s my life and I’ll do what I want with it. I slam the door so fucking hard that the glass should of broke. It didn’t but it wanted to. Wanted to break the awkward silence. Silence of walking home by myself after my dad speeds off and leaves me in a cloud of dust. Whatever.

WEDNESDAY [forty-one days since the accident]
Lizzie, I mean - Elizabeth, came by the house and my dad told her to never come here again looking for me. I bet she cried.
Good.

FRIDAY [forty-three days post accident]
When I left school, Elizabeth was sitting on the hood of my car. Waiting for me. Hunting me down like a fucking predator. Like I had escaped from her zoo and she was on a mission to find me, with whatever means needed. I stopped dead in my tracks. Almost turned and went back inside but I could feel her eyes burning a hole into my skin. I know she saw me. I know she was looking at me and waiting for me to look at her. I kept walking to my car. Head down. Tail between my legs. Anger behind my gritted teeth.
She asked me why I had been avoiding her. I told her I wasn’t.
She asked me why I lied to her. I told her I didn’t.
She asked me why I won’t return her calls. I told her I forget.
She asked me why I was such an asshole. I told her cause I am one.
She asked me why I called myself as asshole. I told her cause it fits.
She asked me to ‘just talk to her’. I told her I can’t.
She started to cry and I told her to get off my car. She slide off and I got in the driver’s seat. She caught the door with her hand before it closed. You know what the fucking bitch said to me? She told me that she had been waiting for me to forget about Angela so she could have me all to herself. I hope Elizabeth joins Angela, painfully.

FRIDAY [fifty days and I just don’t care]
A lot happens in a week. A lot of shit that I don’t want to talk about.

TUESDAY [fifty-four days…whatever]
Frankie and me hung out today. Skipped school and just hung out. Like we used to way back in middle school. We just drove around mostly. I went through a whole pack of cigarettes and even bummed a few off of him by the end of the night. Mainly we drove around on the back roads. Just looking at the houses. Studying the way some are old and some are new. Some are brick and some are paneled. Studying their differences and thinking about how that really actually connects them all together. Like me and him. Connected.

THURSDAY [fifty-six days after]
I have become such a bad smoker since Angela’s death. I mean, I’ve smoked since I was twelve years old but just recently has it gotten so much worse. I was just a social smoker. I was just a guy who smoked when he got drunk. I was just a kid who smoked when he was high but now… I’m just looking to give myself some cancer.
Maybe I want cancer.
Maybe it would make me feel better about Angela.

TUESDAY [sixty-one days of shit]
So my therapist tried to help me figure out what me wanting cancer was all about. Like its an actual mystery. She tried to make it sound like my inner-child was fighting with emotions that are adult. And all this other bullshit. It seems that all she ever says anymore is bullshit. Just lies and sad faces and notes on the legal pad she writes about me on. Notes she can look back on to see if I’m getting better.
Let me help her out with this…
I’m getting worse.

WEDNESDAY [sixty-two days of shitty shit]
School sucked. It always does. No worries though. Winter break is coming up.

FRIDAY [sixty-four days of mother fucking shit]
Today is Angela’s birthday.
You know, if she were still breathing.
I prayed before I went to sleep last night that I wouldn’t wake up.
God is so cruel.

SUNDAY [sixty-six days of nothing and pain]
I drank so much on Friday that I just woke up today. Felt nice to sleep that much. Felt nice to actually sleep. Even if it was an inebriated slumber. Inebriated sleep is better than sober sleep anyways.

MONDAY [ sixty-seven days post accident]
Maybe my father was right about me after all. All I do anymore is get drunk and smoke pot and run though packs of cigarettes faster than a marathon runner on his best time in his whole life. I don’t like him being right about me. Not one little bit.
Maybe I need help. More than just therapy. Maybe I need to do something drastic to get help. I need help. I want help. I have to have help.
Maybe…just maybe…this is my cry for help.

MONDAY [ eighty-one days]
I don’t know why I still write in this old thing. I don’t go to therapy anymore so why bother? Why take the time out of my busy schedule of doing nothing to write in this shitty, little book about what happened today? I only have one reason for it.
Irony.
Irony.
Irony.
My last entry in this thing said that I wanted to get more help. That I needed more help. That I had to have more help in order to go on with my pathetic life any longer. I wanted to get sober and stop smoking. Writing in a book with coffee stained paper about my ‘cry for help’. The irony of the whole thing is that now I’ve gone even further downhill.
I filled my need to fix myself with more substances. I’m not ever sure how it happened, really. I blame this kid that goes to my school mostly. One day, he was walking home or somewhere and I just pulled over and picked him up and drove him. And as a thank you for my generosity, he gave me three little pills. Two Vicodin with a Xanax chaser. Just a simple gift to show his thanks. Just three little pills.
But to me, three is such a lonely number. So I bought lots of friends for the other pills to play with. I can’t really say that I would chase one pill with another pill because that would imply that I stopped taking them ever. Getting better only happens when the OxyContin blocks my pain and the Valium lulls me to sleep. Inner peace in a pill form.

FRIDAY [eighty-five]
Ran out of OxyContin. I would kill someone to get more. I’ll just have to get by on my Vicodin, I guess. Frankie keeps telling me that I can’t mix all of these ‘things’ together. Oh yeah, he calls them ‘things’ like they’re some sort of monster. These pills are not monsters. They are angels. Little round angels that slip and slide their merry, little way down my throat with the help of a shot of tequila or a rum and coke.
They are not monsters. I am the monster.
Someone…anyone…kill me. Destroy me. Please.

WEDNESDAY [ninety]
I just can’t take living anymore.

FRIDAY [ninety-two days]
When I die, I won’t be lost.
I could never pay up to the cost.
The cost to cross to the other side.
From the idea of eternity, I’ll always hide.
Maybe I’ll slit my wrist, and pray to die.
Or maybe the good Lord will take me up to the sky.
Either way, I’ll go out with a bang and a clap.
For death is in my hands, I’ll lay myself down to my final nap.

FRIDAY [ninety-nine days]
I am going to go to her grave tomorrow.
Why?
Just out of morbid curiosity.
There’s snow still on the ground. It’ll probably cover up her name on her headstone until I come up and brush it off. I’ll brush off the snow and try to brush off the embarrassment from my face. I’ll feel embarrassed because the flowers I bought her will still be leaning up against her headstone. The only difference from when I bought them and tomorrow is that they’ll be dead, too. I will be completely ashamed that I didn’t come and take them off and replenish them with new flowers. Ashamed that I had let her slip though the cracks in my life that were becoming Grand Canyons. Fearful of what she will think of me when we meet again. I’ll leave that exact second I think of this and I’ll go and buy her flowers. Her favorite kind. I’ll return to her burial plot and place them next to the stone.
Next, I’ll sit down and lean on it. Letting the cold creep up on me. Creep up on me like a ghost. Like the ghost of Angela. The only way I will be able to warm up is by taking a quick swig from my flask. I will next slowly turn to face her shiny stone and I will softly kiss her name engraved on the rock as it is engraved in my heart and head forever. I’ll return to my reclined position as I dig into my jacket pocket. I’ll fish out a bottle. It’ll be a mixture of pills, but mainly Valium. I’ll pop the top like I’ve done so many times before but this time I won’t stop at two or three pills. No. I will pour the whole bottle out into my cold, shaky palm. I’ll slowly ease the pills into my mouth and empty the flask to help force them all down. I’ll clear my throat once. Then I’ll pull my jacket closer to myself and close my eyes because I’ll be getting sleepy. Very sleepy. Like a hypnotist holding me under his control, my head will slowly roll forward and I will loose all control over my body and my own life. The only difference is that when someone counts to three, I won’t wake up.