Seeking Solace

All I remember between passing out again and waking up, is sirens and flashing lights, water everywhere, loud shouts and whispered voices that rang in my ears for what felt like years rather than short seconds, and being ripped away from warms arms that I didn't deserve.

They stuck me on a hospital bed for a few hours, and that's where I woke up.

When I wake up and look around for a minute. There's something about the blank white walls that say nothing but everything at the same time, the way my skin tingles uncomfortably as if I can feel the pain and wounds that people have felt here before, it feels like a cold prison, and surrounds me on all sides, white sheets on an ice-block bed, and the colorlessness...and then there's still the pain, my pain, the pain my head, all over my body, the pain of the coldness, the agony that's building up again in my chest as I remember, remember what I did, what I failed to do, what could have happened, what should have and what I'd wanted to happen, the pain I'd wanted to escape, and then my thoughts kick in, frantic and wild, where am I, what am I even doing here, how did I get here, I don't want to be here, let me out, save me.

I feel like screaming. I feel like if I do, maybe I could force all of my agony out of my body. That my heart would stop screaming if my voice did it instead. Not just that though. I feel like if I just do it loud enough, I won't notice if I strangle myself with the IV I realize is stuck in my arm, it won't hurt as much when I scratch my face raw.

So I do. I scream.

But something holds me back from hurting myself any more. The furthest I get is burring my face in the rock-like pillow on my ice-block bed, and almost suffocating myself as I scream. The screaming soon becomes a cross and between torn shrieks and tears, which die down the shaking sobs after the nurse comes in and finds me.

Even though I fight with her hands, I'm so much weaker after everything I've put myself through, and before I can even really think about what I'm doing, everything just fades away again.

And now here I am, hours after that, after my first failed suicide attempt, pretending to be asleep while my mother watches and sits in the chair beside me, too stricken to move much more than her head in the direction of the door or my bed.

I haven't been awake long now, but it's too quiet and I feel like screaming again, or else finding the nearest open window and jumping out, but before I can do that, I hear the shift of a curtain being drawn, and the voice of my father. So I listen.

"Has he woken up yet?"

I don't hear the reply, but I assume my mother shakes her head.

"The doctors say they'll check him tomorrow and he'll probably be able to go home."

She still says nothing. My father sighs. It's quiet for a long time.

"Frank's friend...he said he fell in," I hear my mother say, and her voice sounds raw and unused, "He said there was no one else there."

So he lied for me.

But who is he if it isn't Gerard? Because it couldn't be him...he's out of town and didn't know where I was at the time...but Luke wouldn't...would he?

And as I'm wondering this, I hear something else that makes my heart break, as if it wasn't already crumbled into dust by sorrow and guilt; "I...I don't know where I went wrong," she says, her voice hopeless, "What if it was my fault?"

How can I possibly not hate myself now? I can feel the hate of the entire world, just imagine their disgust if they were to hear this story of mine.

They'd tell me to die. They'd tell me I'd be better off dead. The world would want me dead.

And I would a agree with them. I would agree and try again.

I want to try again.

"We'll talk about it later," my father says stiffly- he was never any good at comforting people, a trait he's passed on to me- "We should go home, get some sleep."

After a few moments, I hear her get up, and then leave with my father.

I open my eyes.

I look for a clock, but don't find one. I have a bed next the window in the room at least, and the blinds aren't completely shut, so the moonlight pours in and paints everything in shades of silver. I pull my arm out from under the covers and turn my arm over in the light, wondering if my parents have had a chance to see the scars I've carved there. Scars that I've become attached to. I shouldn't think it, but I hated that they'd begun to fade, that I'd let them go for so long. It feels better, to have them here again, raised lines along my arm, varying shades of red and purple against pale skin. I remember the first cut I made, how guilty I'd felt, how stupid I felt for doing it. But then the second one came, the third, the fourth, until I couldn't get by without having a wound to remember every time self-hatred overwhelmed me. And as I look at them all now, just silver lines in the gray light, I think they're beautiful. I think that they are part of me. I think that if I could keep them on my arm forever, I would. I'm not sure why. I guess because I feel like there's nothing else I can use this body for, other than to engrave my failures on it. As if I were to forget, they'll always be there, reminding me that at least my failures hold some beauty.

I'm not fearless enough right now to really get up and go to the window, but I eventually put my arm down and just watch the moon through the slits in the blinds, until when I close my eyes, it's waiting there behind my eyelids, a photograph temporarily printed there for me to keep for a moment.

Just like before, I wonder how this could have happened. How it turned out to be me who failed to kill themselves, who ended up in hospital, who's now here, admiring the scars on his arm and thinking about how much better it would be if I had been allowed to die.

I don't want to sleep, and I don't want to face tomorrow either. I have nothing better to do though. I can hear people breathing all around me, the slow, even breathing of sleep, and I wish that I could do that. I don't have nightmares all the time, but when I do have them, they remind me that I'm worthless. Almost always, they involve people that I love dying, and me living and not being able to help them. They drown, they're murdered, they are torn away from me by monstrous winds and other ridiculous things, and every time I wake up, I remember their faces and how all I could do was watch them die.

So my usual conclusion is, if I can't help anyone, there is no point to my being alive. Therefore, it's no big deal if I die.

I figure if they decide to get me a shrink or whatever, I'll just let them know it's too late, and it would be wasting time if they were to see me.

That's how it works. That's how my life was always meant to work. I see nothing in my future, other than suffering that can only be ended with death. A death that no one will understand most people will most likely condemn me for, but a death that removes me from society where I'm not needed.

The next day comes with a bunch of tests to make sure I'm not dying, a fresh set of clothes and the shrink they want me to see. They move me to another room to see her, a quiet place with a tiny couch, a window that stops me from feeling totally claustrophobic in such a small space, and a chair that my counsellor sits in when she eventually appears.

She's not what I expected, although I'm not really sure what I expected. I guess a middle-aged woman in a suit with a clipboard or something, who'd ask me about how I felt and not really care. But she's different. She's dressed smartly, in a way that reminds me of how James dresses for himself rather than for appearances sake.

She smiles when she comes in, all easy going and cheerful, and for a while all I can do is shrink back into my seat and look down at my hands. "I'm Jennifer McKinley," she introduces herself, "You must be Frank?"

I nod, glance once at her face and then look back down again quickly.

She sits down and looks at the paperwork she's brought with her. "So...the story is that you had a little accident with the lake in the park the other day...but they have reason to believe that it wasn't just an accident."

I really want to know who this 'they' was, so I can punch them in the face.

I don't need help. I don't need to be told that I'm fucked up, I already know that. If anything, I need to get the fuck out of here, go to the house that caused this whole mess and just die there.

That's not entirely true though, I think. Part of me wants my parents to at least know. I want them to know that I didn't do it because someone told me to. I didn't do because I wanted attention. I didn't do it because I hated them.

I did it, because it's the best idea I've had my whole life.

Jennifer sees that I'm not entirely ready to answer anything she might want to ask me. Her brow furrows anxiously. "Do you self-harm, Frank?" she says softly.

I feel everything in my body just tense up; for a second I feel as if my heart stops beating, my lungs stop functioning, and my blood just turns to ice as I run around frantically in my head, looking for a a lie, an excuse, something to hide behind...

There's no way I'm telling her, or them, or whoever. If I do, I won't be able to finish what I started.

And as I'm thinking that, another part of me thinks that I'm lying to myself. That maybe I don't want to die yet. After all, I did make a promise.

A promise that I've already broken badly enough that I wouldn't be surprised if he left me completely. It's not like I ever deserved him in the beginning, I knew that.

So in the end, I just say nothing and tear at my fingers. After a while of uncomfortable silence, she sighs.

"All right, Frank," she says, "Your parents and I have already agreed that you see me at least every week-" God, I hate it when they arrange stuff for me and then wait for me to find out rather than tell met themselves "- and when you're ready to talk, you can. Okay?"

I look up vaguely in her direction and nod slightly. She smiles, a tired, weary smile and then stands up. "I'll be right back," she says, before she walks out the door and lets it swing closed behind her. I hear her talking to someone, and I recognize my dad's voice.

I'm not sure if I totally trust her. I'm not sure if I'm ever going to be able to trust her.

I just really, really want Gerard.

While she's gone, I carefully lift up my sleeve to see how my arm's healing. I really don't know how I kept all these scars hidden. I know that by now, pretty much everyone's seen them, but I still wonder if anyone knew before this, other than Gerard. Knew that I was breaking...and did nothing to help me.

The door cracks open and I jump, pushing my sleeve back down to cover my arm. My dad stands there with a mixture of nervousness and anxiety on his face. By now it's the only expression I've seen for hours, and it's pissing me off.

"We're going," he says, "They're letting you out."

That's the best news I've heard so far today.

I realize though, as I'm sitting in the passenger seat next to my dad in the car, that no one seems to think that I'm a suicide risk. Wouldn't they keep me in the hospital longer if they thought that? Wouldn't they monitor me? When it comes to the cuts on my arms, wouldn't it be obvious?

But when I think about it, with all the other scrapes and bruises I can feel now that the anaesthetic is wearing off, they probably just thought they were mostly from almost landing on the rocks on the bottom of the lake.

No one really says anything after that, so neither do I. I'm not okay with just letting things 'go back to normal' but it looks like that's what's going to happen.

And that's what does happen.

I get home, get a load of fake hugs, dump my bag upstairs and lie down for a while. Then I try calling Gerard, but he doesn't pick up. I fall asleep and wake up in the dark with my clothes still on, covered in sweat and remembering what it was like to almost drown. I got downstairs and eat dinner. I see my birthday cake sitting on the kitchen counter, but I don't say anything. When my mom suggests that I cut it, I shake my head and she drops the subject.

I go back upstairs. I lie down some more and struggle with not adding more cuts to my stinging arm. I try reading a book but I can't concentrate on the words. I spend too much time thinking about all the pain I'm feeling. I find that I like the physical pain better than the emotional pain. At least I can take painkillers if it gets really bad. Not like with this, this thing that makes me feel like it would be a good idea to jump out my second story window and just splatter myself across the back yard.

That's how I spend my Monday. And then the next day, I have to face school.

To say that I am dreading it, would be such an understatement, it would be a lie.

And I'm fucking terrified and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.