Do Not Resuscitate

I hate school.

So I don’t go.

It’s not like skipping another day matters in the grand scheme of things. No one’s expecting me to do work. No one’s expecting me to show up. No one’s expecting anything from me. No one cares. They all finally got the hint: Dannilynn is a moron. Dannilynn is destined to be a perpetual failure. Dannilynn is nothing.

Hurts. Deep. Cuts right into my chest and through my lungs and makes it hard to breathe. I try to catch my breath, lean against the school gates, just inside the campus, near the early morning smokers and a group of students passing a bottle hidden in a suspicious brown bag. They don’t glance at me. They go about their business. I catch the scent of cigarettes and alcohol, and it’s calming, like a familiar hug.

Reminds me of Dad and the hugs he would give me when I would fall and skin my knee or when I ate Play-Doh that one time and cried because it didn’t taste the way red should taste or the other times I was an irrational child and it was okay to be upset.

I’m too old to be upset. I’m too old for hugs over irrational fears. I’m too old for tears to be a way to ask for help.

The reminder opens the hurt again, and the stench of smoke and alcohol makes my body clench, shake, threaten to collapse in a heap on the rough asphalt. I need to get away.

I shove myself off the fence and head to the open gate, the one Dad drove out of minutes ago to keep the flow of carpool traffic moving. He’s long gone. He’ll never know I decided to take another day off.

There’s no one watching the gate this morning. The carpool line is moving without assistance. Barely. Cars honk. Parents appear upset. The woman in the front of the line is old. She keeps hesitating. Blocking traffic. She gives me ample opportunity to shuffle across the road at the slow pace that has become my norm.

And I’m off campus. In the deep, introspective, immortal words of Brooklyn: easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

The gate will close when the bell rings, the barricade meant to keep the perverseness of the outside world out. What a joke. The outside world is harsh and disgusting, but the zoo inside the closed gate of school is worse. Much, much worse. The teachers, the administration, the students, they jump on weakness, and I am weak.

I’m tired of them. I’m tired of life. I’m tired in general. Never-ending exhaustion.

I want to go back to Dad’s and cuddle up in my bed, burrow under the comforter, sleep, ignore the world, but I can’t. Dad will be home. I’ll get in trouble. I can’t sit through another talk from him. He’ll probably snap, send me back to Mom, who doesn’t want me either so she’ll send me off to… I don’t know… boarding school, Aunt Elizabeth’s house, a hospital. After she gives me a long lecture about how I’m ruining her life and I’m so difficult and I’ll get the unspoken message loud and clear. “I wish the condom didn’t break,” “I should have gotten an abortion,” “You are my worst mistake.” She can’t say those things out loud, but I know she’s thinking them.

I feel the same way.

Going back to Dad’s is out. I do the next best thing. I go to the park.

Okay, it’s a crappy alternative, but my options are limited.

At this time of day, the park is empty. I have my pick of any bench or chunk of earth or uncomfortable playground equipment. Terrible options all around. My ass is going to hurt regardless of where I choose to sit. I haven’t gotten around to sewing pillows into my sweatpants.

I pick the bench near the entrance. I’ll be able to hear the bell from here. The gates will swing open for the buses to leave before the carpool line is allowed to filter in. I’ll have time to make it to the front steps before Dad pulls up. Perfect.

I roll up my backpack, turn it into a makeshift pillow, place it on the bench. This is my desperate attempt to protect my bones. I try to settle into it.

Stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life.

The backpack is lumpy. There is no cushioning. The zipper digs into my tailbone. A pocket pokes my fat-less butt. I can feel the hardness of the bench through the layered fabric, too thin to protect any of my body parts. This is not comfortable by any stretch of the imagination, and I’m stuck out here till school is over. I did not think this through.

I’m freezing. I should have brought a blanket. I’m shaking and I’m hurting and I’m tired and I’m a hot mess. The paparazzi would eat this up. M. Shadows’ daughter roaming the streets of Huntington Beach, thin and shaking like a drug addict. An anonymous source says she performs nefarious acts for a fix. Her father lives in denial. What, oh what, will happen to rock’s favorite child?

They wouldn’t recognize me. Pictures of me haven’t circled the internet since I was, like, ten. Brooklyn is the fans’ new obsession. They adore her, with her chubby toddler cheeks and her sparkling hazel eyes and her desire to tell the paparazzi literally everything about her life.

People published a story about the bird she saw once. She tried to pet it. It flew away. It was blue.

The bird, not the story.

They’ve forgotten I exist. Fine by me. I don’t like cameras or spotlight or people shoving microphones in my face. The next time my face circles the internet and the magazines and the trashy tabloids will be when I’m in a casket.

It’ll be a small affair, my funeral. Dad’s close friends, Mom’s close friends, family. Press won’t be able to squeeze in and get a morbid picture of my overly made up face cushioned by white pillows and deep in a peaceful sleep. They’ll have to settle for my last yearbook photo.

And then the fans will destroy me. They won’t understand. No one will understand. How could I kill myself when I have M. Shadows for a father? I’m just some stupid, rich, white girl looking for attention. I spilt my Starbucks and decided I couldn’t live anymore. My zero pant size wasn’t small enough. Daddy wouldn’t buy me a new Porsche, and gosh, I’ll show him.

I can’t drive. What the hell would I do with a Porsche?

They’ll paint Dad as a saint who tried to do all he could to prevent this from happening. They’ll talk about Jimmy. They’ll talk about Justin. They’ll talk and talk and talk till they’re blue in the face, and I’ll be the inconsiderate asshole every way they spin the story.

Whatever. Let them say what they want. I’ll be dead.

God, my ass hurts.

I’m petitioning for a supped up coffin. Complete with the softest pillows in the world and a heating unit and a shiny, dark wood façade. Gorgeous. For once, I’ll be beautiful. Decorated in a casket meant for a queen, like I actually matter or something. Weird, the way suicide changes the way people feel about the deceased.

How long have I been out here? Too long. The sun is moving in the sky, stay-at-home moms are bringing their children to play on the slides and swings and seesaws, miscellaneous people walk dogs, a few students from school obviously complete a drug deal with their backwards glances and stiff postures, a squirrel hop-runs past me.

Squirrels are cute.

I’d like my soul to come back as a squirrel. Or a child prodigy. Or a tree. Preferably a tree. Sounds like a peaceful existence. Besides, the world needs more trees. I’ll be useful, needed, important. That’d be nice.

Some guy throws a Frisbee, and his dog leaps to catch it. Dogs aren’t supposed to be off their leashes in this park, but no one cares. Children run around. Moms watch, talking and drinking and laughing. The students have completed their drug deal and now they’re climbing on the playground equipment. How fun.

I need sleep. Not loud screeching children and barking dogs and the group of obnoxious kids from school and the hard bench and the uncomfortable backpack and the pain in my head and the heaviness in my limbs. I need sleep. I need sleep. I need sleep.

A bubble of frustration wells up inside of me, chokes me. I’m going to cry. For absolutely no reason. God, I’m fucked.

I dig my nails into my palm. They don’t actually bite into the skin, only press on the surface and threaten to bend. The light scratch is not enough. I need a razor. I don’t have a razor. Dad stole them.

Asshole.

There are people eating nearby. A mom and a dad and a child. Consuming sandwiches and drinking juice pouches. I can see the ice cubes falling out of their cooler and water glistening on their drinks. Cool liquid.

I’m thirsty. To the point where my mouth is dry and swallowing hurts.

The emergency credit card Dad gave me—Just in case I’m late, Danny, and you need something to eat said with a forced smile—burns in my pocket. This counts as an emergency. I’m dehydrating. I’m dying.

I’m going to the convenience store.

I stand slowly. Very, very slowly. My muscles are tight, my legs are wobbly, my butt is sore. Walking is going to suck, but the convenience store is close, across the street from school, barely a couple minutes from the park walking at a normal pace. I can do this. I can.

I grab my backpack and shuffle-stumble my way out of the park. I’m consciously aware of eyes on me. I’m walking weird, and the stares make me think about the way I’m walking, and thinking about walking makes me walk weirder. This is supposed to be natural. An action the brain commands subconsciously, up there with breathing and blinking and forcing the heart to pump. I can’t walk right.

Freak.

The convenience store door chimes when I open it, and a burst of cold air cuts through me. Don’t people know how to turn an air conditioner off? The cashier is staring at me. I think he thinks I’m going to steal something. Dirty teenager with greasy hair and grungy clothing who’s not in school and is thinner than a crack whore, that’s a giant red flag. Sorry, dude, no excitement for you today. I have Dad’s credit card, and all I’m getting is a bottle of water.

The drinks are in the back. I walk around the long way, avoid the aisles of snack foods and go down the weird miscellaneous aisle full of drugs and toilet paper and cans of wet cat food and notebooks and…

And a small pack of razors. Five in a pack. Marked up at an obnoxious price. Shiny, sharp, new.

I shouldn’t.

But oh, I will.

I snatch the pack off the hook and continue down to the drinks. Excitement courses through my veins. My arm tingles in anticipation. I am shaking. I’m going to hide these good. Dad will never find them. Maybe in my backpack or behind the dresser or under my mattress or in a drawer with a padlock of my own.

Suck it, Dad

I grab a large bottle of water from the refrigerators. It’s heavy. I’ll chug half of it down once I pay, though. The thirst is great in this one.

I walk up the aisles, towards the register with the wary cashier. The package of razors are going to make him uncomfortable. I’m prepared for the look of suspicion and concern and discomfort. I’m too tired to try to cover up my purchase by grabbing miscellaneous art materials. I don’t care—

Cheetos.

Shit, I’m surrounded by food. The shiny plastic wrappers wink at me in the crap lighting. I forgot to go the long way. The razors, damn it, they distracted me. I stare at the junk. I can’t move. I’m itching for all of it, every stupid, calorie-packed item. I’m so hungry.

I snap.

I don’t know what happens. One second, I’m staring at the shelves of food, trying to muster up an ounce of contempt for it so I don’t eat it, and the next, I’m behind the convenience store dumpster, shoving handfuls of chips and cookies and little cakes into my mouth. My stomach is expanding, painful. My jaw is cramping. There are crumbs and chunks of food falling to the ground around me and colorful wrappers decorating the concrete.

What have I done? I ruined everything. For a stomach full of disgusting junk food. I’m such a fucking idiot. I was so close. So, so close. No, I can fix this. I have to get rid of it. That’s all. I know how. I’m good at this.

Guzzle the bottle of water until I feel even more uncomfortably full. It sloshes around inside of me. It’s enough to make me want to vomit fingerless. Good. Snap open one of the plastic bags. Hold it open, brace it awkwardly on the concrete. Shove my middle finger down my throat. Far as it can go. Wiggle.

Splatters of vomit fill the bag. Splatters hit my face. Warm, chunky vomit slides down my hand and onto my sleeve. I didn’t roll it up, but I don’t care. I don’t stop. When one bag is filled, I tie up the swirl of disgusting colors, set it to the side, grab the next bag, and preform the ingrained steps over again.

It hurts coming up. My nail scratches the back of my throat and my teeth bite into my knuckles and I choke on soggy chunks of bready pastry and the chips rip at my esophagus and I feel relief with every spew. Sweet relief.

I will be okay. I know I will.

The second bag is full, so I move onto the third bag, the last bag. I have to keep going, even though my throat is on fire and my stomach isn’t happy and I’m not sure there’s food coming up anymore. One more bag. Just one more bag, and I will be fine. It doesn’t make any sense, but I do it. I vomit into the third bag. Over and over and over and over. Till I’m halfway through and my throat and jaw are protesting and I question whether I can keep going.

The bell rings. Loud. Jarring. I’m not finished yet. I don’t have time.

I throw up. I can’t stop. Not until I finish this bag. Dad will have to wait. I throw up and throw up and throw up. I have to finish. I have to.

There’s a second bell. The one for the buses to leave. I’m almost done. Almost there. I hurt, but I can’t take a break. I can’t relax my muscles. I don’t have time for that. I can hear the honks of the impatient parents. I can only hope Dad is stuck somewhere at the end of the line or late. Because I’m finally finished. I begin to tie the bag, stop short.

There’s blood. Blood in the bag. A lot of blood. I broke something. I’m dizzy, off-balance, and I haven’t tried standing. I want to sit here and wait for it to pass. I don’t. I can’t. I have to go.

I tie the bag in a half-assed knot and stand. Black dots, dizziness, nausea despite the amount of vomiting I’ve done. This is normal. It is. I stumble towards the school, struggling to see through the haze of dots and strange clouded vision. Normal. I’ve dealt with this. I have. I’m okay.

I cross the street, cut through the line of cars, stumble the entire way. I focus on trying to walk in a way that doesn’t make me look like I downed five shots straight and trying to make out the shapes through the populating spots. Up the steps, past the few students still here, into the building. I am late. Dad’s going to know I skipped school and there’s vomit on my hand and I can’t walk right and I am deteriorating and I don’t care what the small group of students standing outside and the few remaining in the hallways have to say about me.

Fuck them. Fuck this. Fuck everything.

"Danny.”

Dad?

I can make out his bulky frame rushing to me. A flash of white in the background. Val is here, too. Why are they both here? In the building? Go outside and wait in line and pretend you didn’t see anything, Dad.

“Where have you been?” Dad asks.

I need to sit down.

“We’ve been looking for you for hours.”

I’m not that late. I can’t be that late. There are still students here.

It’s hard to see. It’s hard to move. I have to stop. Heat creeps through my body. Uncomfortable. I’ve never been this hot. I need to take off my sweater. I need more water. I need to sit down.

“Danny?”

Huh?

“Are you okay?”

No, I’m—