Status: FYI: two chapters posted March 20; COMPLETED

Do Not Resuscitate

Chapter 4

My initial reaction is to jerk my hand from the serving spoon and hide it under the table, away from Dad’s eyes, but I resist. Despite the army of butterflies climbing up my throat, I calmly scoop a perfect spoonful of spaghetti noodles onto my plate. I don’t meet his eyes. I can feel them on the side of my face, probing, pleading. Hiding my hand would make me look guilty, like I’ve done something wrong. I haven’t done anything wrong.

“Did you get hurt?” Dad asks.

I… Was that a serious question?

“Danny?”

“Matt,” Val’s voice is full of warning, against what I’m not sure.

“Valary, I—”

I peer up from under my eyelashes to see Val giving Dad the fiercest look I’ve ever seen her give anyone. Dad’s mouth is snapped closed, and he lets a heavy breath out through his nose. I don’t know what’s happening here, but I know I’ve caused this sudden tension between Dad and Val. The guilt hits me right in the gut. I want to throw up.

My fault. This is all my fault. I should have stayed in my room. I should have ignored Val and pretended to sleep. I’m such a fucking idiot.

I’m not hungry anymore.

“You gots a ouchie?” Brooklyn asks. With demanding authority, she rises up on her knees and presses her hands to the table. “Daddy, you make it better.”

Dad smiles at her, but the edges wobble. “I will, princess.”

His voice is gruff. He’s upset. I’m sorry, Dad. I’ll fix this. I promise.

He turns to me, smiles the same wobbly, reassuring smile. I can’t look at him. I drop my eyes back to my plate. Looking at the noodles, knowing I’ll be adding sauce and a little salad, makes me sick. I want to go back to my room. I want to hide. I want to cry. Again.

Pathetic.

He takes the bowl of spaghetti and places it back in its place in the middle of the table. “Do you want sauce?” He moves the bowl of deep red, meat sauce into my line of vision as he asks the question.

He’s pretending everything is okay, but it’s not.

I don’t want the sauce. I don’t want to look at it. I don’t want to smell it. I don’t want it on my plate. But I scoop a small amount onto my spaghetti anyway. Sauce is good for dirtying a plate. Dad does the same thing with the salad that he’s done with the sauce: moves the bowl, inquires if I want salad while putting the bowl in my line of sight. The portion I dish out is even smaller than the amount of sauce. An itty bitty serving of leafy greens, none of the tomatoes or carrots or croutons. He places a roll on the corner of my plate without asking.

I grab my fork and push food around my plate. Around me, sounds of Brooklyn’s babbling and Val’s gentle cooing and Dad’s gruff voice drift. Their words become a white noise, buzzing in my ears. I feel strange, out of place, sitting here with their happy little family. Not talking. Existing in their space. A silent observer who’s not really observing. I don’t like it.

How did this happen? I can’t remember. I can’t think. One day, I was Daddy’s girl and Mom’s shining star, and the next thing I knew, I was nothing, I didn’t matter, I was a failure.

Maybe, when I die, my whole life will flash before my eyes, and I’ll find the reason.

I don’t think I want to know the reason.

I want peace in death. I probably don’t deserve it.

“Done,” Brooklyn announces, loud, excited, cutting through the fog.

“That’s my big girl,” Val says.

She’s laying the excitement on a little thick. Like eating everything on her plate is the best thing Brooklyn can do at her age. Wait until she’s a preteen, a teenager, and the tabloids scream “M. Shadows’ daughter is fat,” and she’s refusing to eat her dinner, then give her encouragement. She’ll need it.

“I think it’s,” Val pauses dramatically, keeping the excitement thick in her voice, “bath time!”

“No,” Brooklyn whines.

Nice try, Val.

“Why not?”

“I don’t wanna.”

“But you have to take a bath so Daddy can read you a bedtime story.”

This makes Brooklyn stop. Clearly, having Dad read to her is a bribe worth considering. Even though, no matter what she does, Dad will read to her and tuck her in and kiss her on the forehead. She hasn’t realized it yet, but she’s still young enough for her rebellion to be considered cute.

“You read to me?” Brooklyn asks.

Well, demands, if I’m being honest. Brooklyn seems to enjoy telling Dad what to do. He is a pretty large man, and he bows to the whims of a three-year-old. The power is going to Brooklyn’s head.

“Of course, princess.”

Brooklyn contemplates his answer, then asks, “You fix Sissy’s ouchie first?”

This time, she isn’t demanding. She’s asking with hopeful innocence, legitimately concerned about my wound. She’d do the same for anyone. She’s that kind of kid, the one who wants everyone to be unharmed. I can’t help wanting to scoop her up in my arms and hug her to my nonexistent chest and hold her, to bury my face in her hair and cry and listen to her tell me everything is going to be okay, to soak up her concern.

But did she have to bring attention back to the bite?

“I’ll kiss it and make it better,” Dad promises.

“Good.”

“Alright,” Val hefts Brooklyn into her arms, “Bath time for you, little monster.”

“And Ducky?”

“And Ducky,” Val confirms, leaving the dining room with Brooklyn balanced on her hip.

I can hear Brooklyn’s prattling as they walk up the stairs, very important instructions about princess pajamas and bubbles and “not too hot water, Mommy,” until I can’t hear her anymore. There’s silence, and Dad and me sitting in it.

Well played, Val.

Can I leave now?

Dad sighs and heavily rests his elbows on the table. “Danny, sweetie, what did you do?”

I didn’t have a sock to gag myself with, so I improvised.

“Let me see.”

I’d rather you not.

It’s a request, and I could deny him. That would look suspicious, though. A bite wound is suspicious enough. And really, what good would keeping the bite out of his sight do now? He’s already seen it.

Dad takes my hand in his. His touch is gentle. He brushes his thumb at the edge of the wound. The skin tingles. A sense of safety makes me warm, content, almost happy. I stare at the bite mark with him, expecting it to close up magically, wishing it would go away to attest to Dad’s magical ouchie healing abilities.

It doesn’t. It stays open, red, real.

“Looks like it hurts.”

Yeah.

He stares at the wound a moment longer, taking in the ugliness. His eyes drift to the long sleeves of my sweater. I know he’s wondering if there are more. I know he wants to push the sleeves up and see the scars and scabs lining my thin arms. I know he wants to know.

I just don’t know why.

He’ll get nothing out of knowing, aside from proof he made the right decision in giving up most of his parental rights and the ability to plan ahead for the media execution.

“Mom thinks I should take you to talk to someone.”

No surprise there.

“I think she’s right.”

My thoughts stutter. I meet his eyes. He’s realized I’ve finally showed some sign of hearing him, of being alive, of being somewhat functional. I can see him mentally latching onto that eye contact as a sign of… What? Hope? His eyes soften, his grip becomes firm, he smiles. Except there’s nothing to smile about.

He agreed with Mom. They’re ganging up on me to send me to some shrink, a stranger who’s going to tell me I’m a brat. I’m a whiny, rich, white girl. I need to get over it. Other people have real problems. They think their shrink will knock some sense into me.

Too little, too late.

“Why did you do this, Danny?”

I want to look away before he sees my tell-tale body’s natural reaction to being outed, to being asked the question outright. The uncomfortable heat of embarrassment is rising up my neck and into my cheeks. Tears are gathering. My bottom lip wants to tremble. But Dad has me hooked. I can’t turn away from his stupid, caring gaze. He makes me want to let it all out. He makes me want to burst into tears and toss myself at him for comfort. He makes me want to turn back the clock, back to the time when he used to scare away the monsters under the bed.

I don’t know when I’ll see that expression again

"Whatever's wrong, it's not worth hurting over."

I know, Dad. It’s worth dying over.

“I’m going to make an appointment for you. Someone I know… well… it might take a while anyway. A week, two weeks. Sometimes the wait times are a little long. Is that okay?”

Whatever.

“Do you think that, maybe, if you feel like doing this,” he nods at my hand, “biting yourself again, you can come see me?”

This was a onetime thing, Dad. A fluke. I don’t regularly bite myself. I had to do it. I just did. It wasn’t like I could get up, dig around in my duffle bag for my Altoids box, go to the bathroom, lock the door, slice my arms open, try not to bleed on the floor, inevitably bleed on the floor, clean up the cuts, clean up the blood droplets on the floor, and shuffle back to my bed. It’s an exhausting process, and I don’t have energy to waste.

But Dad isn’t aware of my preference. If he’d ask me to roll up the sweater sleeves he was eyeing, he would see the scars, the ones I put there and forever ruined my body with. He won’t do that. He wants me to show him on my own, he doesn’t want to make a fool of himself by asking when there could be nothing there, he doesn’t know how to handle this situation now that his own kid is part of the equation. It’s easier with fans.

I’m glad he doesn’t ask to see the scars.

“I’d like you to come to me.”

Life’s unfair.

“You need to bandage it. There should be antiseptic and wrappings in your bathroom.” He lets his eyes fall, but I keep watching him. Wary. Unsure. He turns my hand to get a better view. “You might need Steristrips. I don’t think it’ll need stiches.”

It won’t.

Dad peers up at me from under his lashes. “Can you do that? Bandage it, I mean.”

Can I? Yes. Will I? That’s debatable.

“Please?”

I stare. He stares. We sit there, staring at each other. I won’t break first. I won’t break at all.

I am already broken. I doubt I have any more pieces to shatter.

Dad sighs, a deep, soulful, rushing burst of air. “I wish you would talk to me.” He says it under his breath, and I don’t know if he meant for me to hear, but I do.

You want me to talk now, Dad? After years of cancelled visits in favor of touring or recording or staying with your girlfriend-turned-wife, missed birthdays, leaving me at your house to my own devices so you could party, refusing to answer my calls when I needed someone to listen to me, abandoning me, giving up on me, you want me to talk to you? Tough shit.

Hell yeah, I’m bitter. I’m upset. I’m angry. I’m sad. I wanted him to be there. He didn’t even try.

Because he never fucking wanted me.

“Danny, I want you to be okay.”

Yeah, right.

More useless staring. Dad’s thumb dances around the bite, over the sensitive skin around it. A mindless gesture. It doesn’t bring me comfort. He doesn’t mean anything by it.

I’m exhausted. I’m emotionally drained. I’m going to collapse. Right here in the kitchen. I can’t handle these one-sided heart-to-hearts Dad keeps instigating. The rollercoaster takes too much out of me. I don’t have energy to be jerked on a chain like this. My shoulders are slumping. My thoughts feel sluggish. Sitting is a chore. Imagining walking up the stairs again hurts. This conversation needed to end before it started.

Dad doesn’t understand. He’s holding my hand, looking me in the eyes, analyzing the whole bunch of nothing buried in them. I’m waiting for his next questions, for his next unsolicited comments. I’m preparing for what will come. You’re getting thin, Danny. You didn’t eat much, Danny. You’re not fat, Danny. Danny, why are you doing this us?

Too bad I ripped up the note. Mom and Dad will never get the answer. Let them draw their own conclusions—tantrum, pressure from the media to be thin, whatever. I have nothing to say to them.

“You look tired.”

Ah, he speaks.

“Get to bed. I’ll clean up here.”

Yes, Dad, I—Wait, what?

He’s done. The conversation is over. He’s standing, expecting me to do the same so I can go upstairs and go to bed. He doesn’t glance at my plate. He didn’t notice I didn’t take a bite—not a single bite—the entirety of dinner. He’s so concerned about my hand that he’s completely oblivious to my eating. He doesn’t care to notice my indenting cheeks or the veins sticking out of my hands or the bony fingers. The imaginary biting issue is the only thing on his mind.

Genius.

This is absolutely genius.

I stand slowly and grip the back of the chair until the black spots pass. I expect him to comment, but he doesn’t. He can’t think past the self-inflicted wound.

Or maybe he does notice, and he refuses to acknowledge it. He’s unintentionally turning a blind eye because he can’t comprehend what’s happening. The “in other people’s houses” mentality. After hearing so many fan stories of suffering, and he must hear a lot of them, he knows how to empathize and talk them through but subconsciously refuses to acknowledge the signs in his child.

Staying with Dad might work out for me.

I start my “casual” shuffle out of the room, intent on leaving before he can latch onto some oddity and analyze it until he finally figures it out.

“Oh.”

His voice stops me at the doorway. I pause, my heart immediately beating in my ears, my head going light, my stomach tightening. No, no, no. I was supposed to get out of here clean. He didn’t notice anything. He didn’t let on. He can’t blindside me. That’s not fair.

“I’ll bring you to school in the morning.”

The relief is instantaneous. Not about my food. Good. Waking up in the morning is a chore, but I can take the city bus back. Wait twenty minutes, make sure he’s gone, walk to the bus stop, ride it back, and go straight back to sleep. He won’t know.

“If you need anything, call. Lunch, homework, to come home early, anything. I’ll be home all day.”

Well, fuck.