Status: Complete.
You'll Always Go Alone
My Final Breath.
I was encased in darkness, rendered immobile by my own sheer weight of broken, useless bones and ripped, bleeding skin. The beeps and whir of the machines that kept me alive had become my constant soundtrack for what seemed like an eternity. An eternity of noses drowned in antiseptic, of excruciating skin grafts that made me look like Frankenstein.
She’s never waking up. We’re just drawing this out a lot more than necessary, whispered the men who wore white, when I was the only one in the room. They believed their secretive exchanges couldn’t be heard.
What they didn’t realize was that I could hear every word that has ever been said to me or around me. From the confessions made by cowardly people who wouldn’t dare tell me otherwise, to the harsh sobbing that hurt my ears, but more importantly the “I love you so much, Hanna. Please don’t go” said to me by the boy I loved. A boy of sweet nothings whispered into my ear as we lay tangled together under cool sheets. A boy whom I’d never see again. His name was Cole.
October 8th, 2005 was the day that ended my life, though technically I was still breathing.
Car accident. Direct impact to the drivers’ side. One dead. One critically injured.
My best friend Laura died that day. A girl I shared a thousand different memories with. A girl who I’d planned on moving in with after high school and finally forming the band we’d only ever talked about. But most of all she was a girl who taught me that laughter and happiness was okay every once an awhile. Her favorite color had been blue; the color of the sky. The last thing her eyes saw was that very thing: the sky.
She died doing the thing that is so heavily drilled into our heads as something not to do: driving under the influence. Laura had been drunk out of her mind and I had been high off of heroin, a drug that had quickly become the center of my universe, my judgement no better than hers.
I had first tried heroin two years ago with the false idea that I wouldn’t get addicted to it, and maybe I wouldn’t have if I wasn’t in the dark place I was. At first, heroin was everything I could’ve ever wanted. It was cheap, fairly easy to come by, but most of all, it took my pain away. Heroin made everything okay even when it really wasn’t.
I was bullied for petty reasons, reasons I never should’ve let get to me, but there was such a heavy, consistent stream of insults being thrown at me that it was hard not to. If you wanted to give me a label straight out of the book of stereotypes, “goth” would be the correct one to use. Coming from a town of snotty rich people who sported Gucci and Chanel on a daily basis, my found wardrobe of mostly blacks and grays was unacceptable, to say the absolute least. My fellow classmates took my appearance as an invitation to torment me. They told me that there was something wrong with me. Did I worship the devil? Was I a murderer?
I believed heroin was a wonder drug, that heroin is better than everything else. Heroin made me who I wished I was. Heroin made life worth living. Heroin was better than anything else. What I didn’t know was heroin builds up a tolerance fast. Heroin starts to become expensive. I needed heroin to feel right. I felt sick because I didn’t have enough heroin. I couldn’t afford it anymore. How did $10 get me high? Now it’s become $100. I needed to find a dealer. This guy is a felon and carries a gun of threats. He could sell me the drug that lets everything become okay, even if it meant I had to be held at gunpoint to get me to pay. I had to steal the money I needed, I had to cheat and lie and deceive all so I could just have more heroin. My brother’s college fund became money for heroin. My parents’ wedding rings become money for heroin. Anything of any value became my way to get more of this drug I so desperately needed. No, it wasn’t working. Who have I become? I needed to quit.
But you see, I never did. I wasted my life chasing the wonder drug that made everything okay, and look where that got me. I would die in a hospital, alone, having done nothing worthwhile with my life. I would die a horrible, horrible person, and maybe I deserved it.
I died on June 16th 2005 in the exact way I thought I would. Alone as I started slipping into the darkness, as wave of a million different emotions swept over me meshed together beyond the point of being able to recognize each individual one.
Happinessfearlovesurpriseangersadnesscourageenvy.
Alone as a million different memories came to light all at once. Even the ones I thought were long forgotten. My entire nineteen years recapped in a matter of minutes.
Alone as I breathed my last breath, as my heart beat its last beat, and as my blood stilled in my veins. If it weren’t for the deafening screams of the machines as they announced the end of my short life, no one would have ever realized I was gone.
You see, you come into this world with the help of another, crying and screaming because everything is just so new and confusing. You have the promise of an entire life ahead of you, to learn and to make mistakes. Life is what you make it. Death is not like that, in fact it’s the exact opposite. Death is simple and clean-cut, no tricks to be found. One minute you’re breathing, and the next you’re not. Just like that. However, one thing’s for sure: you will always die alone no matter how many people are standing beside your bed.
The trip into whatever comes after is a trip you have to take yourself.
She’s never waking up. We’re just drawing this out a lot more than necessary, whispered the men who wore white, when I was the only one in the room. They believed their secretive exchanges couldn’t be heard.
What they didn’t realize was that I could hear every word that has ever been said to me or around me. From the confessions made by cowardly people who wouldn’t dare tell me otherwise, to the harsh sobbing that hurt my ears, but more importantly the “I love you so much, Hanna. Please don’t go” said to me by the boy I loved. A boy of sweet nothings whispered into my ear as we lay tangled together under cool sheets. A boy whom I’d never see again. His name was Cole.
October 8th, 2005 was the day that ended my life, though technically I was still breathing.
Car accident. Direct impact to the drivers’ side. One dead. One critically injured.
My best friend Laura died that day. A girl I shared a thousand different memories with. A girl who I’d planned on moving in with after high school and finally forming the band we’d only ever talked about. But most of all she was a girl who taught me that laughter and happiness was okay every once an awhile. Her favorite color had been blue; the color of the sky. The last thing her eyes saw was that very thing: the sky.
She died doing the thing that is so heavily drilled into our heads as something not to do: driving under the influence. Laura had been drunk out of her mind and I had been high off of heroin, a drug that had quickly become the center of my universe, my judgement no better than hers.
I had first tried heroin two years ago with the false idea that I wouldn’t get addicted to it, and maybe I wouldn’t have if I wasn’t in the dark place I was. At first, heroin was everything I could’ve ever wanted. It was cheap, fairly easy to come by, but most of all, it took my pain away. Heroin made everything okay even when it really wasn’t.
I was bullied for petty reasons, reasons I never should’ve let get to me, but there was such a heavy, consistent stream of insults being thrown at me that it was hard not to. If you wanted to give me a label straight out of the book of stereotypes, “goth” would be the correct one to use. Coming from a town of snotty rich people who sported Gucci and Chanel on a daily basis, my found wardrobe of mostly blacks and grays was unacceptable, to say the absolute least. My fellow classmates took my appearance as an invitation to torment me. They told me that there was something wrong with me. Did I worship the devil? Was I a murderer?
I believed heroin was a wonder drug, that heroin is better than everything else. Heroin made me who I wished I was. Heroin made life worth living. Heroin was better than anything else. What I didn’t know was heroin builds up a tolerance fast. Heroin starts to become expensive. I needed heroin to feel right. I felt sick because I didn’t have enough heroin. I couldn’t afford it anymore. How did $10 get me high? Now it’s become $100. I needed to find a dealer. This guy is a felon and carries a gun of threats. He could sell me the drug that lets everything become okay, even if it meant I had to be held at gunpoint to get me to pay. I had to steal the money I needed, I had to cheat and lie and deceive all so I could just have more heroin. My brother’s college fund became money for heroin. My parents’ wedding rings become money for heroin. Anything of any value became my way to get more of this drug I so desperately needed. No, it wasn’t working. Who have I become? I needed to quit.
But you see, I never did. I wasted my life chasing the wonder drug that made everything okay, and look where that got me. I would die in a hospital, alone, having done nothing worthwhile with my life. I would die a horrible, horrible person, and maybe I deserved it.
I died on June 16th 2005 in the exact way I thought I would. Alone as I started slipping into the darkness, as wave of a million different emotions swept over me meshed together beyond the point of being able to recognize each individual one.
Happinessfearlovesurpriseangersadnesscourageenvy.
Alone as a million different memories came to light all at once. Even the ones I thought were long forgotten. My entire nineteen years recapped in a matter of minutes.
Alone as I breathed my last breath, as my heart beat its last beat, and as my blood stilled in my veins. If it weren’t for the deafening screams of the machines as they announced the end of my short life, no one would have ever realized I was gone.
You see, you come into this world with the help of another, crying and screaming because everything is just so new and confusing. You have the promise of an entire life ahead of you, to learn and to make mistakes. Life is what you make it. Death is not like that, in fact it’s the exact opposite. Death is simple and clean-cut, no tricks to be found. One minute you’re breathing, and the next you’re not. Just like that. However, one thing’s for sure: you will always die alone no matter how many people are standing beside your bed.
The trip into whatever comes after is a trip you have to take yourself.