Blighted Soul

My palms were sweating uncontrollably and my nerves were still frazzled from the night before. Instead of the usual late night crying, I had experienced the most vivid and horrid dream where I was trapped in a grave with my parents’ decaying bodies. Someone from up above was shoveling dirt onto me while I screamed and begged for them to stop and help me out. It wasn’t until the last shovelful was thrown in that the person leaned over the edge and sent me a wicked grin. It was me.

I was very on edge, but I’d convinced myself that I could do this. After all, I was only eating breakfast with my family.

I found them in the kitchen, already eating. When they saw me standing at the entrance to the kitchen, their eyes widened. I cleared my throat awkwardly before saying, “Good morning.”

They hurried to regain their composure and greeted me with a chorus of “Good morning.” I went to one of the cupboards and pulled out a plate. The food I put on it was minimal: two spoonfuls of scrambled eggs and whole wheat toast. I opted out of the too-sweet orange juice and chose water instead. I knew I was becoming ghastly skinny but withdrawals from the drugs had robbed me of my appetite.

I tried my best to engage in their morning conversation but my mind constantly wandered back to that dream. And, if I thought hard enough, I could still smell the ripe aroma of corpses. With a sigh I set my fork down, my appetite completely gone. When I looked up, I was surprised to see that everyone’s eyes were fixed on me.

“We have jelly, if you want to put some on your toast. Make it a little less bland,” Scott suggested gently, but I could tell he was ready to force me to eat, if need be.

“No thank you,” I said in a whisper, bowing my head. Suddenly I was beginning to think that this was a bad idea.

“We have raspberry,” Hudson smiled at me from across the table, “Your favorite.”

“I’m fine,” I said. I managed a smile in his direction.

“I can make you some bacon—” Scott began, but I’d had enough.

“I said I’m fine,” I said sharply. “Really, I’m not hungry. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to go get ready for school.”

I pushed my chair back and was almost out of the room when Scott’s voice pulled me back. “When was the last time you ate, Evan?”

The last time I ate was yesterday morning, and I’d had even less than this morning, but that wouldn’t help my case right now. And I knew exactly what he was implying. I spun around on my
heels and stared him right in the face. “You think I’m anorexic now?”

“I don’t know what I think anymore,” he yelled, exasperated. He dragged his hands down his face and then sighed. When he spoke again his voice had softened. “Look, Evan, I’m just worried. Okay? We’ve been talking about it and—”

“Scott, don’t.” Lawson said firmly under his breath. Hudson and Kauffman gave him equal looks of irritation.

Ignoring them, Scott continued. “We’ve been talking and, if you don’t start improving, we’re going to have to take you to a treatment center where you’ll stay until you get this whole thing straightened out.”

I staggered back a step. For a moment, my heart seemed to be suspended in air. They’ve been talking behind my back? About sending me away? I looked into the eyes of my brothers and saw guilt in their eyes. Guilt and sorrow, like they were mourning the death of someone. And I suppose they were. Because to them, I was dead. I wasn’t the same fun-loving and joyful Evan that loved everyone and everything. I wasn’t their happy-go-lucky brother anymore.

Hell, maybe I was even dead to myself. Dead with a million disquieting thoughts to hammer the inside of my skull day and night. The only time I ever felt anything was when withdrawals would seize my body, my every thought. So what was stopping me from making it official then?

So, looking into the eyes of my brothers, I spoke my last words to them. “If I don’t get this straightened out?” I asked in a pained whisper. “What happened to you guys helping me improve? What happened to ‘We’re doing this because we love you’?”

“This is our way of helping you,” Kauffman insisted.

“And we are doing this because we love you,” Hudson said.

“No,” I said coldly. “You’re not. You’re doing this because you’re sick of dealing with me and you don’t want my blood on your hands. Well guess what? I’m sick of me, too.”

“Evan, wait—!” I heard Hudson cry, but Scott must have stopped him.

“Just let him go. He needs time to himself. He’ll come around.”

All of the tears that I had been holding in began to spill out as I climbed the stairs to my room. By the time I found something sharp enough, my vision was blurry with tears.

That morning, instead of going to school, I slit my wrists.