Do Not Resuscitate

My skin itches.

They won’t stop staring, Dad and Val. They’re searching, analyzing, trying to figure me out, burning holes into me, making me itch. I’m on display, an animal in the zoo, a fish in a tank, trapped by Dad behind me and Val standing near her chair and Brooklyn constricting my legs. I want to pace. I want to run. I want them to stop looking at me like that.

Like the kids at school.

There’s nothing to find. There’s nothing left. Stop searching.

“You see my new Barbie?” Brooklyn asks, oblivious to Dad and Val’s silent probing.

Or maybe she’s more aware than I give her credit for. For all I know, she could be trying to dispel the tension. The silence is thick, painful, constricting. Even Brooklyn can feel it. They’re trying to stare the answers out of me. They think I’ll crack if they stare long enough.

I have no answers to give. I won’t crack.

Even Brooklyn is peering up at me now, still clinging to my legs with her chin pressed to my stick thighs. But she wants an answer to her spoken question, a question I could answer if I had the drive to say a word.

I’m too tired to play along. I want to collapse or eat or sleep or break down in a sobbing mess right here in the living room doorway. I need to get out of here.

“Don’t you remember what Daddy told you, princess?” Dad asks, cutting in with his soothing, fatherly tone. He’s the Pied Piper of the family, able to soothe small children with the sound of his voice. Brooklyn won’t throw a tantrum when I decline the invitation to see her new doll. “Danny’s not feeling well today.”

Is that what they’re telling her? We’re explaining my self-destructive journey with “Danny’s not feeling well.” Cute. Let me guess, “Danny’s taking a nap” is what they’ll tell her when I’m dead. Talk about an understatement.

“Oh,” Brooklyn says, nodding in her sage-like. She pats my leg sympathetically. “You go s’eepin,” she instructs.

Aye, aye, captain. Sleeping is at the top of my list of priorities. Right up there next to bawl till my eyes are puffy and daydream about all the food I wish I could eat.

I pat her head once and turn to leave, but Dad’s large body is in my way, blocking my escape path. Seriously, Dad, get out of my way. Stop hovering. Go back to the awkward greetings and giving me too much space. I try to convey the message, hope he’ll realize his wall of muscle is getting in my way, but he flashes a dazzling smile down at me. I drop my eyes before it can blind me.

“I'll take your bag,” he says.

Okay, Dad, since holding my duffle brings you so much joy in life.

Silence. Neither of us moves. I shift from one foot to the other, wait for him to move so I can dart up to the safety of my room. He’s still staring at me, probably smiling, his dimples on full display in an attempt to soothe me, the problem child. My gaze remains fixed on the skull, bat, thing on his shirt. I just want to go upstairs.

“Oh, right,” Dad mumbles.

Miracle of miracles, he moves. I take the opportunity to shuffle past him and begin struggling up the stairs. He’s on my heels, right behind me, and I try to keep a normal pace, one of teenager who isn’t about to collapse under the weight of her own body because she hasn’t eaten a solid meal in a week. I don’t need him asking questions. The less he notices, and he won’t notice much, the better off I’ll be. Sure, he’s aware I’m doing something, he just doesn’t know what that something is, and no one will know until I’m a cold body in my bed.

Or the Emergency Room.

Dad continues to dog my heels up the stairs and down the hall, encouraging me to keep up a pace that is way too fast for my body to handle. The door to my room is in sight, at the end of the hall, the goal, the finish line. I imagine my bed, imagine collapsing on it and going right to sleep, and I keep the comfort in mind to force my body to continue pushing its limits even though my heart is pumping too fast and my chest hurts and I can barely breathe and my legs feel like they’re going to give out. The sooner I get to my room, the sooner I get to collapse, and the sooner I get to sleep.

The door got heavier in my absence. I use all my energy to turn the knob and push the perpetually unlocked door open.

And there’s my room. Identical to the one at Mom’s house. Beige walls, a dresser, the vanity mirror, a night stand, a side table, the usual things. There are no pictures, no adornments, no trinkets, and no physical reminders of memories to indicate someone actually stays in this room two weekends a year.

But I have a killer bed.

The softest queen-sized bed on the face of the planet. I’ll miss that when I’m gone, too.

I head straight for my one true love. I don’t care where Dad throws the duffle bag, I don’t care what he does, I don’t care that he doesn’t want me here, as long as he closes the door so I can sleep.

I flop on the bed. Relief, blessed relief, floods my body, pulls me farther into the mattress. I cuddle against a pillow and shift to face the window. My go-to position. I can pretend to sleep, ignore people who open my door, and refuse to acknowledge anyone in this position.

The bag thumps against the pure white carpet. Dad won’t see any drops of old, dried blood because there aren’t any. I restrict my razor use to my connected bathroom. The door closes and there are footsteps.

In my room

Dad’s in my room. Why is he in my room? Get out, Dad, it’s time for me to sleep. Go away.

From the edge of my vision, I can see him walk around my bed and take a seat on the edge of the mattress, perfectly positioned to look at me avoiding looking at him.

“So, what's been up?”

The sky. Your credit score. Me, for far too long. Certainly not my grades.

“Your mom says you skipped school, you haven’t done your work, and you won’t talk to her.”

Mom talks too much.

He nudges my foot, like he’s ribbing a friend not trying to delve into his broken child’s head. He keeps his tone casual, an attempt at both comforting me and making me open up. “She sounded pretty frustrated.”

Furious, more like. I’ve finally made her snap.

“What’s your side?”

This whole good cop, bad cop thing Mom and Dad have going on isn’t going to work. Dad doesn’t care. He’s never cared. I’m only here twice a year, and he barely says a word to me, barely says anything beyond a “Hi, Danny,” and he thinks I’ll believe he wants to know what’s wrong.

I’m doing something right for once. There’s nothing wrong.

He sits calmly, lets the silence blanket us for a few minutes, tries not to appear eager for me to talk so he can send me back to Mom’s and go back about his business.

“You know, sometimes it helps to talk about it.”

It’s too late to talk about it, Dad.

More patient silence. No answers on my part. He sighs, a paternal, easy sigh I’ve not had the pleasure of being on the receiving end of since I was in diapers.

“We’ll get through this, okay? Whatever this is, we’ll get through it.”

I will, at least. If Mom and Dad would butt out.

“I’m glad you’re here.” He pats my leg. “I love you. You know that, right?”

I wish that was true.

“You need rest.” He stands and smiles tenderly down at me, like he smiles at Brooklyn when she gives him her crappy macaroni art. “Get some sleep.” He leaves, closing the door with a soft click behind him.

And I cry.

The tears start as slow dribbles down my cheeks, making my eyes feel hot and my nose tingle. They start falling faster and faster, harder and harder, until I’m choking on the ugly sobs I try to swallow. I bring my knees to my chest, curl into myself, and bite down on a tightly balled fist. The coppery taste of blood makes me want to gag.

I don't know why I'm crying, but the pain gives me relief. It gives me something to focus on other than the swelling pain inside.

I’m such a freak.

The passing self-assessment makes me cry harder, so I bite harder. Because that’s how I handle my problems. Pain to replace pain. Death to replace life. It’s what I deserve. I’ll never be good enough.

The tears subside, and I’m left feeling numb. My hand throbs. I need to blow my nose. I’m pretty sure my eyes are red and puffy. The taste of copper won’t leave my mouth. I want to fall asleep and never wakeup. I want to stop existing. I want to die. I can’t do this anymore. I should have just taken Mom’s sleeping pills when I had the chance.

I have to see this through. There’s no going back, no choosing an “easier” out.

I hiccup and scrub my face. Goddamn Dad and his games. Show Danny a little affection to get her to open up, make her realize how desperate she is for someone to care, leave her feeling pathetic. It hurts. Because his affection isn’t real. It’s one big, sick joke, and it’s not funny.

I need a tissue. For my nose, for my face, for my hand. I’m a leaking mess. Gross. The tissues are on the vanity. Grabbing them means getting up. I can’t move right now. I’ll have to wallow in my grossness.

There’s a lesson: never cry.

The beginnings of a headache hammer at the base of my skull. Fan-fucking-tastic. Just what I needed. I’ll never get to sleep. Not without tissue and Advil. Wait, does Advil have calories? I try to search my brain for the answer. I’m sure I’ve looked this up before. I can barely think beyond the pain and hunger, though, and I draw a complete blank. There’s got to be something. Calories, microscopic amounts of nutrients, dyes or colorings, something my body can cling to in a desperate attempt to stay alive.

No Advil then. Better safe than sorry.

I’ll lie here, in pain, miserable, and stare at the wall. The human body is weirdly resilient when it wants to be, even when the soul inside is dead, and I’ve already made the mistake of eating something today.

I’m so tired.

I’m so hungry.

I’m so…

Is the paint on my wall chipped? Dad will have to fix that when he converts my room to whatever he decides he needs it for.

There’s a knock on the door, and I jerk. Whoever knocked opens the door, despite the lack of reply. They know by now they’re not going to get a response. The knock was a curtesy, to let me have time to scurry to cover up or throw on clothing or stop the nefarious acts I could be doing.

“Dannilynn,” Val’s voice floats in the room, gentle and pretty, “it’s time for dinner.”

The day’s been wasted on crying and a self-defeatist attitude. I can’t see through the thick curtains. I don’t know how much time has passed, and I don’t know why Val is bothering announcing it’s dinner time. Family dinner isn’t my scene. I “eat” in my room. I always have.

“Dannilynn?”

Apparently, they expect me tonight. I must be in an alternate universe, the Twilight Zone, heaven. How else do I explain the plethora of weirdness going around? I’d say “no.” I’d keep lying there and pretend to be asleep. But this is Val, a delicate situation. Denying her could go so many wrong directions, and I don’t need her feelings of guilt on my conscience when I die.

Cheap move sending Val in.

I shove myself up and swing my legs over the bed, trying to get enough momentum so moving doesn’t hurt as much, but my arms shake under my weight.

“I’ll see you downstairs.”

I can hear the relieved smile in her voice, but she takes her leave, treads softly down the hallway, before I can see it. My eyes roll up to the ceiling, a silent question at the omnipotent thing up there. Why does she have to worry so much? She’s only making things more difficult for me.

I heave a hefty sigh at my empty room and push off my bed. Black spots appear, multiply, turn my vision black. My head feels light, and I’m shot with a wave of dizziness. I frantically grab for the post at the end of the bed, grapple onto the hard wood, and cling until the spots and dizziness fade.

Great, my headache has turned into a sharp pain and my body feels like it’s getting over an electric shock.

I haul my lazy ass from my room and down the hall. At the stairs, the smell of tomato-based sauce and meat tickles my nose. Saliva fills my mouth. A rumble shakes the pit of my stomach. I move blindly towards the smell, entranced.

Hook, line, and sinker.

The smell gets stronger every sluggish step I take, and when I turn the corner, into the dining room, it hits me full force. My knees almost buckle. Buckle. Because of a smell.

Serving bowls steam, large spoons in them to dish out huge servings. Fresh rolls line serving plates. Buttery rolls. The light glints off them just so. I know they’re buttered and warm. A few fatty salad dressings sit near one bowl. Ready and waiting for me to guzzle.

It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in my life

“Sissy!”

I almost leap at the sound of Brooklyn’s voice, I was too busy gawking at the food spread, and my gaze snaps to the happy family sitting around the table. Dad and Val are giving me encouraging smiles. They probably have no idea what they’re trying to encourage. Brooklyn is wiggling in delight in her seat, her legs tucked under her so she can reach the table since she refuses to use any kind of highchair or booster seat. At one point in time, her antics may have made me smile, but I can’t muster up the expression.

I don’t belong with them.

“I made your favorite,” Val says. Always eager to please. “Spaghetti. We didn’t have French bread or garlic bread. Dinner rolls were the best I could do. I have some salad, too.”

Spaghetti was my favorite when I was five, around the time Val started her on-again, off-again relationship with Dad. My favorite food now is, well, everything. I’m not picky when I’m starving.

I try not to appear too exhausted, too weak, or too ready to leap at the spread of food and shove everything into my mouth as I walk around the obnoxiously large table to the spot set for me. At Dad’s right. I’d prefer to be at the other end, where I can hide food in napkins and push food around my plate and avoid eating without the high chance of getting caught. This will have to do. Dad’s clueless anyway.

I sit. If anyone notices my swollen, red eyes, they don't pry or stare until I’m uncomfortable. There’s a stretch of silence, like they don’t know what to say now that they have this strange creature sitting at the table with them.

Shouldn’t have made me come downstairs.

“Well.” Val claps her hands. “Let’s eat.”

Sure.

They start passing bowls of spaghetti and meat sauce and salad. Dad mumbles some comment about how good it smells or looks or some crap. Val is asking how much food Brooklyn wants, adding spoonful after spoonful at each of Brooklyn’s excited declarations. She’s got more on her plate than I’ll have on mine. Dad passes me the heavy bowl of spaghetti. I struggle not to drop it. I block the tantalizing smell the best I can and focus my attention on my actions instead. Place the bowl on the table. Grab the giant spoon. Ignore Dad’s intent gaze. Mentally, I try to estimate the perfect amount to scoop onto the plate, the amount that will look like I’m going to eat when piled high and will look like I have eaten when spread around. A heaping spoonful should do—

“What happened to your hand?”