Fragile State of Mind

Cold, bitter winds whipped around my feet as I navigated the shadowy cemetery. I could sense the impending snowstorm. In fact, as that thought was coursing through my mind, flakes began drifting down in front of my face. The temperature started to drop immediately, but thankfully it didn’t take me much longer to come upon the path to his headstone.

His name was Zacky Baker, and he was my best friend. Such a bright, carefree person, his life cut far too short by someone else’s idiocy.

I remember the night it happened. It was a night just like tonight, snow coming down in sheets, turning the whole world white. Zack had been driving to see me. I was at home in bed, sick with the flu. He’d made the trip hundreds, no thousands, of times without a single problem. But this time was different.

Just as Zacky was turning out onto the main road, another car-with a careless driver-cut him off. He veered sharply to the right in order to avoid a collision, and in doing so, he hit a stretch of black ice, which caused the car to fishtail out of control. Before he could regain control over the car, an eighteen-wheeler slammed full force into the driver’s side of his vehicle. The trucker survived the crash with hardly a scratch on him. My best friend, of course, was killed instantly.

I didn’t even get a chance to say goodbye.

But I visited his gravesite as often as I could, hoping that would bring some sense of closure. So far it had not yet come.

As I continued down the snow-covered path to his tombstone, I could hear jeering and laughing coming from up ahead. Drunks sometimes came here to sober up before being caught by the police. I just hoped they were far enough away from Zacky’s resting site that I could avoid them altogether.

I climbed over the crest of the hill where he lay, expecting to see his headstone covered in snow. But instead I saw it surrounded by people. After a few seconds of peering through the dark, I recognized them as people I knew from school. They were people I didn’t particularly like-neither had Zack-and they didn’t like us. So why were they here, visiting his grave?

But they weren’t here to visit. Two of the larger boys-obviously football players-were kicking at the tombstone, attempting to uproot it from the frozen soil. I felt my heart stop beating in my chest. They had that little respect for the dead? My dead best friend, specifically.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”, I screamed. My shrill voice split the cold winter night like a butter knife, instantly drawing all attention onto myself.

“Just paying Baker here a little visit.”, one of them responded, giving the headstone another good kick.

“Stop it!”, I said, rushing over and pushing him away. “Don’t you have any respect for the dead? He hasn’t done anything to you. How could you be so fucking cruel?”

All of them laughed. This was joke to them. I could feel the anger boiling my blood, warming me to the tips of my icy fingertips.

“Don’t you understand, you fucking freak?”, one of the females jeered at me. “Baker doesn’t deserve respect, even if his ass is buried in the ground.”

“Yes he does!”, I yelled. They all scrambled away into the surrounding woods, and I cocked my head in shock. I couldn’t have scared them that badly, could I? But then I realized it wasn’t me who had scared them, it was the blue lights that had began to flash at my back and the wailing sirens.

I took off like a shot in the opposite direction, hoping to pull ahead. But seconds later I met with the frozen ground, my face pressed against the snow. Icy cold metal wrung my wrists and I was hoisted to my feet. I could hear words floating past my ears, but I only caught a few. ‘Under arrest...defiling a grave...’

“It wasn’t me.”, I managed to choke out.

“Yea, right. And who else could it have been? The little green ghost?” Following these harsh words, I was shoved into the back of a police car and transported to the county jail. I was offered a phone call, but declined. There was no one who cared enough to come pick me up anyhow.

I sat in the tiny jail cell, whose concrete walls seemed to be closing in on me with each breath I took. Subconsciously I reached into the back pocket of my tattered jeans and drew out a photo. It wasn’t very old, but it always brought back a million memories. The sun was setting in the picture, creating a brilliant display of colors, almost like a watercolor painting. In the foreground stood Zack and I, his arms laced around my waist, my arms draped around his neck, fingering the soft black hair at the base of his neck. His head was bent towards mine so that our noses barely touched.

Just looking at the picture opened a floodgate of memories, as well as tears. I clasped the photo tightly in my hands as the tears waterfalled onto my lap. Things weren’t supposed to end this way. I was supposed to get my fairytale ending.

“Hey, I’m going to have to ask for whatever you have in your hands.”

My head snapped up at the sound of the voice. I’d forgotten I wasn’t alone. The female guard on duty-a tall black woman with large brown eyes-stood up from her desk and marched over to the cell. She held out her hand. “Hand it over.”

I walked over to the gate, exposing my tear-stained face to the scrutinizing light of the police station. With a rattling sigh, I dropped the picture into her hand, watching it float down to land in her open palm.

“Will I get that back?”, I asked quietly. The softness of my voice surprised even me. I sounded so weak.

“Seeing how it’s just a picture, probably yes.”, the guard answered. She looked over my picture. “This you?”

I gave my head a solemn nod, feeling more tears roll down my already wet cheeks. “And my best friend, Zacky. He died in a car crash about a year ago.”

“Zacky Baker? That was the grave that was defiled. Why would you defile your best friend’s grave?”

“It wasn’t me!”, I screamed hysterically, all my pain and anguish filling those three small words. “It was some idiots who had no respect for the dead. They didn’t give a shit about him when he was alive. But I did. I loved Zacky. He was everything to me. He was my whole world. His was the only person on this entire planet who cared about me. And now he’s d-dead.” All the misery and angst I’d been holding in for the past year spilled out, traveling in the tears rolling down my face. I laid down on the tiny bed and cried myself to sleep. But even that was no relief.

I was woken the next morning by someone banging loudly on the bars to my cell. Standing outside was a different police officer-the woman’s shift must’ve been over-along with my mother and twin sister. My mother looked furious. More like livid. It was all an act. She was pretending to be the concerned mother, but in reality she didn’t give a shit.

“You should’ve called last night.”, she spat. “I would’ve come to bail you out.”

“No you wouldn’t have.”, I said, my voice low. “I don’t even know why you’re here now. You don’t care about me. The only person who ever cared about me was Zacky."

“Oh again with this boy, Kriselle?”, my mother asked. “He’s dead, Kriselle, you need to get that fact into your head. Yes, his death was a tragedy, but he’s gone and you need to get over it.”

“Get over it?”, I repeated incredulously. I seriously couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She actually expected me to get over Zacky? “Get over it? How exactly? How am I supposed to get over the one person who gave a fucking shit about me?”

“That boy wasn’t the only person who cared about you, Kriselle.”, my mother stated flatly.

“Oh yea?” I was beginning to become hysterical once again. The fury in my veins was boiling over, aided by the heat of my agony. “Name one person who cared about me as much as Zacky did. Name one!” Both she and my sister were silent, just as I expected them to be. “See? I knew you couldn’t name anyone! Because no one cares about me like Zack did! No one!”

“Just come on. We’re going home.”, my mom said, waving me forward. I didn’t shift an inch. She was ignoring every single fucking word that came out of my mouth, and she was doing it on purpose. I didn’t want to go home, not with them. But then again, I couldn’t see how staying in this ever-shrinking jail cell could possibly help me.

As soon as I got home, I took a long, hot shower. In some way, I was hoping the scalding water would help to clear my mind. Because I felt like I was losing it. The events that took place at the cemetery last night had set something in motion. I didn’t know exactly what it was, but one thing I was absolutely positive about was it wasn’t going to end well.

After about thirty minutes-yes, I take long showers-I shut the water off and stepped out of the bathtub. The steam hung thick in the room, and it enfolded my mind like a malevolent fog. I tried to shake it away, but to no avail. I enveloped my body in clothes that I had purposely chosen to swallow me whole and faced the mirror.

God, you’re ugly.

The harsh whisper in my ear sounded like a disembodied spirit. More like a demon, if you ask me. These bothersome little ghouls had been haunting me for as long as I can remember, popping up even more so since Zacky had died. They were toying with my already fragile mind, driving me to the extremes of sane existence.

It’s no wonder no one but that...boy ever cared about you.

Yes, why would anyone ever care about you? You’re a wretched, dismal excuse for a human being. You pathetic little shit. Why don’t you just go and kill yourself? Everyone would be so much happier that way.

“No...”, I whispered to myself, trying to block the pathway to the malicious thoughts, but it was no use. Their chant was too strong, I couldn’t stem the flow. It was but two small words, but they were about to send me plunging over the edge.

Do it...

Do it...

DO IT...

“No!”, I screamed. In a fit of the insanity that was finally cracking through my false shell of serenity, I flung my arm forward as hard as I possibly could, and felt my fist connect with the bathroom mirror. Upon impact, tiny shards of glass flew everywhere. Sharp stings flashed through my body, scurrying away from the epicenter of the intense pain. My right hand was now horribly marred, covered in blood and fragments of what had previously been part of the mirror.

I slid to the floor, screaming out in agony. My hand was bleeding quite fiercely at this point, and I was afraid of losing too much blood. As I tried quite ineffectively to hinder the numerous trickles of blood, footsteps crunched over the glass covering the entire bathroom floor. Looking up, I saw my sister, shock and bewilderment clearly etched onto her face. Her gaze quickly swept the bathroom, taking in the shattered mirror, the sea of broken glass covering the floor, and me sitting in front of the sink, sobbing over my bloodied hand.

“Oh my God...”, she breathed, taking a step backwards. “Mom!”

My mother was upstairs in an instant, most likely because she thought my sister was the one in danger. Upon witnessing the same scene my sister had stumbled upon moments ago, she went into action. Maybe it was some maternal instinct she had kept tucked away in the deep recesses of her heart, I don’t know. I just knew that this was the first time she had ever acted this way. And it more than likely would be the last.

“You’ve got to leave the glass in there, Kriselle.”, she told me as I tried so very hard to pluck the shards from my hand. “Otherwise it’ll bleed worse. Dawn, pass me a hand towel from the drawer.” My sister swiftly pressed one into my mother’s outstretched hand and my mother in turn proceeded to bind it around my hand. I winced at the sharp pain and attempted to yank my hand from her grasp, but she held tight, saying, “I know it hurts, Kriselle, but we have to stop the blood. Now stop moving!”

“An ambulance is coming.”, Dawn announced, obviously hoping to calm me down. But nothing was working. My mother and sister flanked me and struggled to get me to my feet. At this point, I was shaking uncontrollably and as soon as I was standing, I was hit with a wall of dizziness and a tiredness so strong I immediately felt myself sinking again.

“What’s wrong with her?”, Dawn asked in a panic.

“She’s going into shock.”, my mom answered. “Come on. Let’s sit her down on the toilet.”

They set me down gently on the closed toilet seat and I leaned my head against the cold wall, the shock now causing me to shift in and out of consciousness. I was losing it, everything.

The ambulance arrived moments later, but I was too out of it to even notice being lifted onto a gurney. I flinched when they removed my mother’s homemade bandage and replaced it with the sterilized gauze. I caught a glimpse of my hand as they wrapped it up tight, and it scared me to death. What did I do to myself?

You’re losing your mind, Kriselle...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“Could have severely injured herself...mentally unstable...possibly suicidal...recommending admission...”

The jumbled mess of words meeting my ears upon my awakening triggered another onslaught of confusion. Where the hell was I, who were these people, and what the fuck were they talking about?

“Mom, Kriselle’s awake!”, a closer, much louder voice shouted. I sent an evil glare in my sister’s direction. Somebody didn’t know how to be quiet in a hospital.

My mother was standing at the opposite end of the room, speaking in hushed tones to a female doctor. The doctor was short-well short compared to my mother, who was a giant-with dark brown like mine, and brown eyes. Hmm, she must be Italian.

“Kriselle, I’m Dr. Morris. The surgeons had to use around two hundred sutures to repair the damage to your hand, but you’ll be fine. That, however, is not what I’m hear to speak with you about. Kriselle, I’m a psychologist, with a specialty in adolescent psychosis and schizophrenia. First off, I want you to know that I’m hear to help you. Now Kriselle, can you tell me why you punched the mirror?”

“The voices.”, I breathed simply.

This only worried Dr. Morris. I took note of the fact that this did absolutely nothing faze my mother at all. “What voices, Kriselle?”

“The voices in my head.”, I repeated with a little explanation. “They’ve been there for a long time, but they’ve never really bothered me much. But this time...this time they told me I should kill myself.”

“Is that why you punched the mirror?”, Dr. Morris asked. “In order to kill yourself?”

“No.”, I said, shaking my head. I was beginning to get agitated for some reason. “I did it because I thought it might make the voices go away.”

“How long have you been hearing these voices, Kriselle?”

“A long time.”, I answered quietly. “But like I said, they never really bothered me much. Up until about a year ago, that is.”

“What happened a year ago?”, she asked, and immediately I felt the tears burning the backs of my eyes. Even after a year, this was still a very tender subject area for me.

“Zacky died.”, I stated. I heard my mother snort and saw her roll her eyes. Apparently she was getting sick of hearing me talk about ‘this boy’. “He was my best friend. He never hurt anybody, he was nice guy. He didn’t deserve to die.”

Dr. Morris laid a soothing hand on my upper arm. “How did he die, Kriselle?”

“A-A car c-crash.”, I stuttered, already starting to choke on my tears. “H-He was driving t-t-to see me. I-I was sick with the f-flu. He’d driven to see me plenty of times, but n-nothing ever h-happened. But this time, some f-fucking bastard cut him off when h-he was t-turning onto the main road. He hit a p-patch of black i-ice, lost c-control o-of his car, and s-spun out into the m-middle of the r-road. Then he got hit by an eighteen-wheeler.” The last sentence came out as a soft whisper, unmarred by tears. This calmness didn’t last. Soon the chaos of my sobs returned. “H-He was k-killed instantly. I-I d-didn’t even g-get a c-chance to s-say g-good-bye.”

“So why do you think this caused the voices' strength to increase?”, Dr. Morris asked. “Why do you think this caused you to, in a sense, lose your mind?” That sentence scared me. Was I really that far gone?

“I felt so alone.”, I whispered. “No one cared about me like Zacky did. He was the only person I could ever go to for anything. And now he’s gone and I have no one. You have no idea what that feels like.”

“Kriselle, I’m sure someone can-”

“No they can’t!”, I shouted, the tears falling down my cheeks now full of anger. “No one can ever understand how I feel! The one person who ever loved me-the one person I ever loved-is gone! He’s dead, and he’s never coming back. And God, I miss him so fucking bad, it actually hurts. I’m talking physical fucking pain. All I want is to see him again. And the way I see it, there’s only one way to do that.”

“Kriselle, suicide is never the answer.”, Dr. Morris stated, quickly reading between the lines of my tirade.

“Then what the hell is?”, I snapped. “I can’t see him again while I’m alive, so the only possible solution is for me to be dead, too. It’s not like anyone would notice, anyways. Or even fucking care.”

Dr. Morris sighed darkly and stood up from my bedside. Turning away from me, she addressed my mother. “Ms. Cayion, as a professional psychologist, I’m hereby recommending your daughter for admission into what we call a 50/51 program. This is a program for individuals who are either a danger to themselves or others. And as I’m sure you can tell, your daughter is obviously quite a danger to herself.”

A danger to myself? Just because I wanted to be free of all this shit and see my best friend again I was danger to myself?

Maybe you are...

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Several days later, I found myself standing in front of some asinine treatment facility called ‘Misty Pines’ that was supposed to ‘help’ me. I didn’t see how, though. Unless they could perform miracles and bring the dead back to life, there was absolutely no remedy to my situation.

We had to wait for my hand to heal long enough for the stitches to be removed, because there was no doctor on site who was qualified to put new ones in if I ripped the old ones out. Which I probably would’ve done.

When Dr. Morris briefed me on my stay at this absurdity of man’s creation, she informed me off the rules. There were a lot.

First, I wasn’t allowed to bring any of my old possessions along for the trip. This was supposed to be a ‘cleansing process’, and apparently all of my childhood belongings were hindering me. But I snuck in that picture of Zack and me anyways. I hope they don’t search me.

Second, I would be forced to eat all of my food at all meals. It appears that they also house anorexic kids at this-for lack of a better word-camp, and so they make everyone eat everything. And they don’t give us forks and knives because of us suicidal people with severe mental problems.

There were a lot more rules, but mostly all I comprehended was blah, blah, blah. I was too busy pondering the fact that I would have to spend a minimum of three fucking months in some treatment facility that would try to ‘cleanse my mind’. I didn’t even know what that meant. And if I didn’t get better, they could hold me until I turn eighteen, which is in about eight months. Oh, and if I attempt anything even vaguely similar to the mirror incident, they can keep me as long as they want, eighteen or not.

I had a roommate. Her name was Nicolette. She was only fifteen, two years younger than me. She told me she’d been living here in this room alone since being admitted almost two months ago for anorexia. She asked me what my ‘condition’ was-we weren’t allowed to call them problems-and I paused. Zacky’s death was still such a tender subject, especially when I thought about telling a stranger. How could she possibly understand?

“My best friend.”, I started simply. “His name was Zacky, and he died about a year ago. In a car crash.” I noticed that as soon as the word ‘died’ had crossed my lips, I had her rapt attention. What was it about death that was so damn interesting? “I’ve been hearing voices in my head since I was really little, but ever since Zack died...they’ve been getting worse. And about a week ago, it got to the point where I punched my bathroom mirror.” Here, I showed her my right hand, mangled by scars and cuts. She gasped. Obviously she hadn’t been expecting that. But then again, no one was. Not even the ones who raised me.

Therapy was exactly what I expected it to be. We had group therapy, where we would sit in a circle of chairs and try to open up. They never put you with people who shared your woes, it was always different concerns lumped together. I refused to speak in group. Maybe it was because I was still standing solid in my belief that no one would ever understand my pain, or maybe it was because I had learned the hard way a long time ago not to trust anyone.

Then there was single’s therapy, where you would meet with a counselor and she would struggle to worm answers out of you. The only thing I let pass my lips was the story of Zacky’s tragic death, and then I closed my mouth. The therapist would urge me to talk, saying she was there to help me. Help me? How could she possibly help me? And what if I didn’t want to be helped? What if all I wanted was to see my best friend’s face again? Hear his voice? Feel his hand caress my cheek? I didn’t want to be helped. I wanted Zacky.

I refused to look into a mirror for days. But after awhile, it became unavoidable. I showered quickly, we were only allowed five minutes. That was fucking ridiculous. I tried so hard to avert my gaze from the large sheet of glass, but I caught a glimpse of myself and couldn’t turn away. There were other girls there, because we weren’t allowed to go anywhere alone-seemed to me like there were a lot of things we weren’t allowed to do-but that didn’t stop the voices from resurfacing.

You freak. Look at you. Stuck in a mental facility.

You’re crazy. No wonder they locked you up. You’re a danger to yourself.

No. Go away...

Why don’t you just run off somewhere and die? Isn’t that what you want?

Shut up...

Go kill yourself, little bitch. It’ll make everyone so much happier!

Get the fuck out of my head!

And you’ll get to see Zacky again.

The last one hit me hard, struck me to the core. I quickly fled the steamy bathroom, ignoring the calls and warnings of the other girls. The counselors were off on their smoke break-much I disapproved, I wasn’t complaining right now-so I wouldn’t have to worry about them. Upon my arrival, they’d taken anything that couldn’t been considered a weapon or tool used to aide in suicidal actions. God, they were so formal with everything. I knew for fact though that they kept them in a box locked away under the cabinet at the counselor’s desk in the front lobby. I was pretty handy. I could pick a lock.

I produced a bobby pin from my wet tresses, bit off the rubber end, and forced it into the keyhole. Within two minutes, I heard the tell-tell click! I’d been waiting for. I eagerly threw open the tiny cabinet door and rummaged around underneath for the box.

It didn’t take me long to find it. I groped through the contents quickly, knowing I didn’t have much time. But I couldn’t find anything! Finally my hand closed around something cold and oval-shaped. I extracted my hand from the box and found myself holding an ebony-colored swiss army knife.

Bingo!

I flipped out all the little appendages, seeking the miniature knife. Or at least the tiny scissors! Finally, on my next-to-last try, I produced a tiny gleaming knife from the interior of the army knife. Without hesitation, I placed it against my wrist, point facing my palm. But then I stopped. Should I do this? Was this what I really wanted?

Yes, Kriselle. This is what you want.

Don’t you want to see Zacky again? Don’t you miss him?

Just do it, you cowardly little fuck. Kill yourself and get it over with.

Don’t be scared, Kriselle. Zacky will be there waiting for you.

Once again, the last sentence sent me tumbling over the edge and I sliced the knife length-ways down my arm, stopping halfway to my elbow. Immediately, bright red blood began oozing from the somewhat deep cut. I stared at my arm, momentarily confused and dazed. It was legit. I, Kriselle Ann Cayion, had officially lost my sane mind.

It didn’t take long for me to bleed out, using the trick I’d learned in school. Down the road, not across the street, they’d always say. Little did they know it would one day aide in my suicide.

I remember hearing the piercing screams of the counselors when they discovered me behind the counter, lying in a pool of my own blood, blood which I’d spilt to ease my pain. Everything after that felt like an out-of-body experience. As they confirmed my death, called my family, moved my body...all of this I felt like I was watching from above.

And as I walked towards the bright light of the afterlife, a dark form appeared next to me and took my hand. I knew who it was, I didn’t even have to look. It was Zacky, coming to guide me to our eternal life.