Commit This to Memory

"Dear everyone,
I'm sorry you have to read this, but you have to believe that this was something I needed to do.

In the shortest terms, I've given up. I'm tired of trying to make myself happy, and I'm tired of being miserable all the time. I can't do it anymore. You know me, when push comes to shove, I crumble and fold.

I could blame Justin for everything. He is the main source of my problems, truth be told. But a lot of it is me as well. I should have just stayed the hell out of Minnesota. Then none of this would have happened. There wouldn't be this shit storm of a situation to begin with.

So this is it, this is good-bye.

Sorry for everything,
Betty."
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After the tour, I move in with Antonia and Kaylee. It's a miserable living arrangement.

I'm drinking a bottle of scotch a day and Antonia has me smoking pot again. I'm turning mean and nasty. I know I am, because that's what always happens.

Antonia and I are sleeping together again. God knows why though, neither of us really want to. I'm cold and distant onwards her. Afraid of getting too close to the edge and falling. I know she doesn't like it because we argue constantly. We argue, then we have sex, and for a day or two afterwards everything's okay until the cycle starts back up again.

And when she's gone, I hit on Kaylee. Not even in a good way, but in that horrible drunken way where we both feel disgusted and ashamed.

Kaylee hates it but she won't tell Antonia because she'll just deny it because she doesn't want me to leave her. Toni is at that stage where there's the fear of dying alone so she clings on to the closest thing to a man she has. In this case it happens to be me.

So the three of us are miserable but none of us wants to admit it. Or maybe I'm just the one who's miserable. I guess I'm okay with that. I should be miserable. I owe it to Betty.

It's 1 in the afternoon and I'm already on my 5th scotch and soda. I'm sitting on the couch watching "Pulp Fiction". Both girls are at work; I'm alone.

What seems like a lifetime ago, I would have thought this was perfect. You know, the pretty, loving girlfriend, drink in my hand, drugs not too far away, watching Tarantino. Now, I'm not to sure that this was what I wanted at all. I'm not sure why I thought this was a good idea.

I pause the movie when Mia ODs, maybe this wasn't the best movie choice. Sighing, I go to the kitchen to refill my drink. My glass doesn't quite make it to the top of the counter and it shatters on impact.

"Fuck," I hiss as ice and glass fall on my bare feet. "Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck." Carefully I try to slide my feet along the floor without cutting them. One piece manages to slice open the bottom of my foot anyway. "Ah! Fucking piece of mother fucking shit!!" I scream as I take a giant step out of the kitchen with my good foot. "God fucking dammit!" My stream of swear words continues as I hobble down the hall to the bathroom, leaving a trail of blood on the carpet.

Gingerly I sit down on the toilet and lift my injured foot to inspect the damage. There's a lot of blood. "Shit." I grab some toilet paper and mop up as much of it as I can but the blood keeps flowing out of a two inch gash in the arch of my foot. I don't think it should be bleeding this much. Somewhere in my fuzzy half drunk brain I remember that alcohol thins your blood. So that kind of explains it.

"Looks like you've managed to screw things up again," a voice says. I look up to see my refection smirking at me.

"Yeah I know," I mutter, grabbing a towel and pressing it against the wound.

"You just cannot resist fucking things up can you?" I can't look at the mirror. I can't look at myself telling me my shortcomings. I know it's just a hallucination. That it's all in my head. Somehow that makes it even worse. "You probably could have fixed things with Betty. If you know, you weren't so you."

There's a soft chuckle and I bite my lip, staring determinedly at the floor.

"Now look at where you are: living with two girls who probably hate you and farther from where you wanted to be with your sobriety. What for? So you can prove a point to a girl who doesn't give a shit anymore? GET OVER HER. She didn't give a shit 10 years ago; she doesn't give a shit now. Get that through your fucked up head."

"Shut up," I mutter.

"What was that?" I hear the mocking tones in my own distorted voice.

"Shut the fuck up," I yell. "You don't know a goddamn thing about it!!" I glare at my eyes in the mirror. I know my own eyes are angry and dark but the reflection shows them mocking.

"I don't know anything about it?" my reflection asks, condescending. "I'm inside your head. I know everything."

"No, you just know the darker parts of me that plays on my insecurities. Betty was the only person who ever mattered. I'd be nothing without her. She's the failed attempts I'll never forget. It's my curse being in love with her all these years. No matter what, I'll always be in love with her. Nothing can or ever will change that. Even if she doesn't give a shit."

"See now that," says my reflection. "Is what you should have told her." Then my reflection goes back to normal, just me staring at myself, all moves copied.

My foot gives a painful throb as someone yells, "What the fuck happened in here?" Kaylee must be back.

I stagger out of the bathroom and mutter, "I think I need to go to the hospital." Then I black out.
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When I come to I'm in a hospital bed and there's a doctor at my feet. My glasses are off but I can tell by his blurred movements that he's giving me stitches. My initial knee-jerk reaction is to pull away-I hate needles-but when I try my leg just gives a feeble twitch.

"Oh look he wakes," I hear Kaylee say in a bored tone. She's flipping through a magazine, eyebrows raised, lips pursed. Her sharp make-up looking highly sinister without my glasses on.

"And we're done here," the doctor says, standing and tidying his tools. "I'm going to get a couple of days worth of medication for the pain and you'll be good to go."

As soon as he leaves Kaylee says, "Jesus Christ Pierre, who the fuck faints over a cut?"

"There was a lot of blood," I mumble. "And it hurt to walk!" I slowly sat up and grabbed my glasses. "Thanks for bringing me," I add quickly. She just shoots me another death stare.

"I never should have started talking to you."

The doctor comes back and hands me a small prescription bottle. He's telling me instructions on when to take how many, but I'm not listening. I won't follow them anyway. He tries to insist that I take a wheelchair or crutch home but I wave him off, telling him I won't be walking much anyway.

As Kaylee and I walk out of the room and down the hall, I see Anna. Part of me wants to wave, the other part wants to hide somewhere but she see me before I can do anything.

"You heard," she cries running up and smothering me with a hug. "I thought I would be so mad if I saw you but I'm so relieved!" She lets go of me and looks at Kaylee. "Who's this?"

"My ride slash roommate," I answer. "And what are you talking about? I'm here because I hurt my foot. What happened?"

"Betty, tried to kill herself," says Anna quietly.

"She what?" I yelp. "And she's here? Can I see her?" I look at Kaylee. "Do you mind leaving me here?"

She just shrugs with the same cold indifference and says, "Find another way home." She walks on.

Anna raises an eyebrow at Kaylee's retreating figure then motions for me to follow her. I'm biting my lip trying to stop the flow of questions in my brain. "She took a handful of pills and slashed her wrists," she says as if she's read my mind. "It's actually a miracle she's still alive."

"That's what they said 10 years ago," I say, more to myself. Anna looks shocked. "You think the girl would have run out of miracles by now."

Betty's room is just like every other hospital room I've ever been in. Except on the bed rather than myself or a stranger, is a sickly angel. God, that even sounds cheesy in my head. There are dark shadows under her eyes and long bandages on both arms.

"She blames you, you know," Anna whispers. There are tears in her eyes as well as mine.

"I blame myself," I say. "If I hadn't been such a jackass. If I had realized then that she was so important to me, maybe things would have worked out differently. I just can't seem to let her go."

The though of our most recent meeting being our last, was terrifying. I needed her to wake up.

Please wake up.