Do Not Resuscitate

I can’t do this today.

I can’t sit through classes. I can’t stay awake. I can’t handle the judgmental stares. I can’t deal with life. I can’t. I really, really can’t.

I try to curl into myself. Will myself to disappear. Hope beyond everything that I can manage to have a heart attack. Put an end to this madness. Fall asleep and never wakeup. Right here, in my first hour.

Mrs. Alphabet is talking, droning on and on and on, about something I couldn’t care less about. Her voice buzzes in my ear, a continuous frequency of monotone boredom. I wonder how many people are actually paying attention. More importantly, how much time is left in this class? Why am I even here?

A folded note lands on my desk. On my arm, actually, right in the crook of my elbow. It taps the side of my face before landing. I don’t open it. I’ve learned the hard way not to open notes. I had friends once. I don’t anymore.

I flick the note to the floor and go back to staring at the back of What’s-Her-Name’s head. Her ponytail is off-center. The world blurs. My eyes go out of focus.

Another folded paper whacks me in the face and falls to the floor. Someone’s desperate to get my attention. Thanks, Dad.

There’s a short lull in the attempts, then What’s-Her-Name turns around. She has a folded piece of paper between her fingers, and she holds it out for me. I stare but don’t take it. I don’t want the stupid note. She raises an eyebrow, and her upper lip curls. She rolls her eyes, huffs quietly to herself, slips the note under my elbow, and turns around again. Her off-center ponytail shakes. I don’t touch the note.

I want to go back to Dad’s.

The bell rings. Finally. The class moves as one. I snatch my bag from the floor. Chairs scrap the ground. Bags rustle. Students burst into chattering nonsense. Mrs. Some Letter tries to talk over the noise. Something about readings for next class and the thesis project. I don’t care.

I’m slow to stand. I don’t think anything will stop the black spots at this point, but at least I’m not about to fall over. I leave the notes. I don’t want to see crude art of me, where my body is a balloon and my hair is a scribbled mess and there are more grey dots on my face than is realistic. They think they’re clever. They think they’re funny. They think they’re so talented because that’s what every teacher at this school tells them.

Brooklyn can draw a better picture.

I leave the room. Someone says my name on my way out. They’re either trying to get my attention or they’re purposely talking about me loud enough for me to overhear. I keep moving. Painfully slow, but moving nonetheless. I have a class across the building and up the stairs to get to. I’m going to be late no matter what, but I’ll be less late if I don’t wait around, listening to people say things about me. I can fill in the words just fine on my own.

I’m halfway to the stairs and I’m already winded. My focus in centered on walking normally. The extra socks stopped working. My feet and knees hurt. Everything feels stiff. This bag is heavy. It’s empty, and it’s making my shoulders sag. The hallway is never-ending. Frustration wells up in my chest, chokes me, makes my face hot. I’m exhausted. I hurt. I need to sit. Fuck.

People move around me, happy and chatting and normal. I get jostled in the crowd. I hit a locker. Something drips on my collarbone. I swipe at the wetness and look at my fingers. Clear. More droplets hit my skin. I brush it away, touch farther up for the source. My face is wet.

I’m crying.

Lovely.

I collapse on the first step of the stairs, in the far corner, make myself small by curling my legs and bringing my knees to my chest. I take rasping gulps of breath. I can’t get enough air. The tears won’t stop. I press my eyes against my knees. Hard. The fabric soaks up the tears. I’m shaking. I dig my nails into my legs. Sweatpants are too thick to penetrate, though, and there’s nothing more than a dull throb.

Make it stop. Please, make it stop. Oh, God, it hurts.

I cough. The sound echoes in the stairwell, a strangled, sad sound. The stragglers don’t stop to see if I’m okay. They’re too busy rushing to class. The bell’s going to ring soon. Smoking in the parking lot and quickies in the bathrooms ate up their time between classes.

On cue, the sharp sound of the bell cuts my skull. I release my legs to grip my head. The pressure doesn’t help get rid of the shooting pain. In seconds, the stairwell is empty. I’m alone and late for class.

So I don’t move.

No, that’s a lie. I rock back and forth. I’m halfway to “locked up for life in a psychiatric ward” material. The only thing left is the super stylish straightjacket.

The rocking makes my tailbone press against the cement stairs. It’s painful, but the motion is calming. The tears stop, the frantic panic and frustration and sadness disappears, and I’m in the numb haze again. For now.

I unfold from the cramped position and take a deep, shaking breath. I have to get to class. I scrub at my face, attempt to erase some of the signs of crying. The redness won’t disappear. I know that, but I try. I wipe my nose on my sweatshirt sleeve. Unsanitary, gross, but really, that’s the least of my worries at this point.

Gripping the railing, I heft myself up. Too fast. Blackness cloaks my vision, shocks shutoff my brain, and I fall into the wall. I clutch the railing, lean my bodyweight against the rough bricks. The spots go away in painfully small increments, until the world is back in focus. The lightheadedness leaves me feeling sick. I’m heavy. I’m tired.

Oh, look, I still have to walk up the stairs.

I’m sluggish. My steps are sloppy. I almost miss a step or three. I stumble. Catch myself. Avoid falling on my face. I’m using the rail for support because I can’t trust my legs to keep me up. I make it to the top. Holy mother of God, I’ve made it to the top of the stairs.

Note to self: petition for elevator use.

Dying counts as a disability, right?

I hobble out of the stairwell and into the empty hall. I expect a lone tumbleweed made of crumbled paper to bounce across the floor, maybe a dramatic swirl of dust, and the appearance of my greatest enemy dressed in modern cowboy gear. Except I don’t have a sworn enemy. Having a sworn enemy requires some kind of presence. I barely exist.

I hesitate at the classroom door. Physics is already well under way. I’m later than I anticipated. I was hoping for a couple minutes, but I’m, I don’t know, ten, fifteen minutes late. More probably. Going in isn’t worth the humiliation. People will look at me, and I’ll fall apart. It won’t take much.

But the school will call Dad.

I don’t know how he’ll react, and I don’t care to find out. More heartfelt talks or the “you’re a disappointment but I can’t call you that because that’s bad parenting so I’m going to say it in a roundabout way” speech, both would be torture to sit through.

I have no choice.

I open the door.

I have my head down, partially as an expression of apology but mostly to avoid meeting anyone’s gaze. The teacher stops mid-lecture. I’m uncomfortable under the stares. More than uncomfortable. Anxious, itchy, panicky.

“Nice of you to join us, Dannilynn.”

Laughter and chuckles. Some low and covered up by coughs, others outright and loud. I think my shoulders droop more, and they didn’t have very far to go.

Of course they’re laughing at me. I’m such a screw up, a fucking idiot. The students know it. The teachers know it. The principal knows it. By now, the janitors probably know it. They think I’m doing it on purpose. I’m purposely throwing away my education, I’m purposely being a disruption, I’m purposely being difficult, I’m purposely doing everything wrong. But I’m not. I’m really, really not. I just suck at everything. No matter how hard I try, I can’t do anything right, and I’ve tried. I’ve tried and tried and tried and finally got the hint.

Give up.

Some people aren’t meant to exist. I am one of those people.

I shuffle to my desk. I don’t bother giving my teacher a response, even if that response is only me meeting her eyes. She continues the lecture. People are watching me. Someone casually sticks their leg out in the aisle. I see it, though, and take the extra effort to step over it. The oldest trick in the book. They can get a little more creative than that.

I sit, stare blankly ahead. The teacher talks. Students take notes. There’s whispering and giggling and a muffled moan. The smell of vodka, tactfully contained in a water bottle, drifts. The back of the classroom is always a party.

Private school kids. We’re a terrible group.

“Dannilynn?” the teacher says, voice sharp.

I look at her, and she’s looking at me, hands on her hips, mouth twisted in a scowl. I’m here, aren’t I? What more does she want from me?

“Can you answer number three?”

Number three from what?

I have nothing on my desk. No book, no notes, no binder, nothing. There’s no point in calling me out. She’s brought attention back to me, made everyone crane their necks to peer at the blob in the back of the room.

Totally unnecessary.

I don’t want to care. I’ll die sooner or later, and the answer to question number three won’t matter. But my cheeks get hot. My chest feels like it’s concaving, my ribs being pressed down by an invisible force. I slouch farther down into my seat. I hear a cough that sounds awful close to “freak.”

“I expect better from you, Dannilynn.” And she calls on someone else.

She doesn’t like me. No one likes me.

But I hate me. I hate me more than they ever could. With every fiber of my being. How sad is that? I can’t find a single thing to appreciate about myself, nothing that I can desperately cling onto in a time of need, nothing I can hope will flourish into greatness.

I hate myself.

The bell rings. The usual choreographed leaving dance commences. Lunch time, aka sleep time, then two more long classes and I can leave. Block scheduling is a fantastic invention.

“Dannilynn, can you stay a minute?”

No.

I shuffle out in a mass of students. Quicker this time. It hurts, but I’m not staying to hear a teacher bitch at me. She’s done enough to embarrass me.

Walking down the stairs hurts my knees, but I keep my goal in mind. Get to the library. Cuddle up in the comfy chairs. Sleep until the bell obnoxiously wakes me up. A thirty minute nap is better than nothing at this point. I dodge students in the hall. The library door is in sight. I’m so close.

A body blocks my path, forcing me to stop.

“Dannilynn.”

Jennifer. That’s a name I’ll never forget. Head cheerleader, straight A student, dating the star quarterback, perfect hair, perfect face, perfect body, perfect clothes, class A bitch, every stereotype wrapped into one person.

Jennifer’s smiling at me. Not the usual shark smile but one that borders on being friendly. She’s faking it. She can’t stand me. Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, we used to be best friends. Now, we’re not.

She’s planning a sneak attack. Well, I’m not planning to stick around.

“I saw your da—”

I step around her and keep moving. She sputters. I push all my body weight against the heavy library door. It opens enough to let me slip through before Jennifer can gather her bearings. Safety.

“No food in the library,” the librarian says.

The library and I are twinsies.

Large tables and big, brown, padded chairs are in the back, secluded and hidden by shelves. Horny students come here. The alcoholics come here. Druggies come here. It’s a great alternative to the bleachers during class. At lunch time, no one is here. Except me.

The chair groans under my weight. I shift to get settled on the nice cushions, and it creaks. I’d take offense, but I have enough sense to know I’m not too heavy for the chair. I roll up the empty backpack and rest my head on it.

The backpack pillow works in a pinch.

Silence drapes over me. It isn’t warm or comforting. I still shiver. I still feel like hell. I still want to die. I still feel… Lonely?

Yeah, lonely.

Fucking overemotional pansy.

I close my eyes. No, not a pansy. That insinuates fear. Crybaby, drama queen, spoiled brat, idiot, emotional teenager, nuisance…

A gentle voice calls my name. Somewhere in the distance. I sigh. Shift. Cling to the comfortable heaviness in my limbs. Something taps me. I ignore it and drift in my happy place.

Until I’m being shaken.

I jolt upright, eyes flying open, disoriented. Where am I? When did I fall asleep? Is that drool on my cheek?

Yes, yes, it most definitely is drool.

Sexy.

There’s a hand on my shoulder, attached to an arm, attached to a shoulder, attached to the librarian’s body. She’s smiling down at me. Tender. Cautious. Why is she smiling at me like that?

"The principal is looking for you.”

I’m tired.

“Come on.”

She’s talking in a voice meant to calm a wild animal. I’m not amused by the comparison. I won’t attack her or flip out. Murderous rampages aren’t my thing. I want to go back to sleep, but she’s waiting for me to stand and follow her. She won’t go away.

Fine. We’ll go see the principal.

I grab my backpack-turned-pillow and haul my ass out of the chair. My legs are Jell-O. I feel weighty. I walk in clumsy, waddling steps, but I follow the librarian the best I can.

The halls are empty and dead silent. Students are either in the cafeteria or in class, depending on their schedules. Loitering in the halls is illegal, a crime worthy of the “Go Straight to Detention” card. Clearly, a student loitering in the halls is destined for a future of being someone’s bitch in jail. It’s the most logical argument I’ve ever heard.

Forward slash sarcasm.

There isn’t any sound leaking from the classrooms. Strange considering the loud drone of lectures can usually be heard. In fact… the classrooms are empty.

Every. Single. One.

What is going on?

I turn to the nearest clock. Analog, fuck. Step into the twenty-first century and get digital. Make my life easier. The little hands and lines are blurry. The clock is too high up on the wall. I think it says… Wait... No… It can’t be three. The alarms, they would have woken me up. I couldn’t have slept through two classes and multiple bells. A teacher would have noticed I was missing. The librarian would have seen me while shelving books. The next clock reads the same time.

Oh, God, I fell asleep and missed two classes.

The librarian opens the door to the office for me. The secretary barely glances in our direction. Which is fine because the librarian leads the way to the principal’s corner office. She knocks, cracks the door open, and peeks in. She talks low, I assume telling him she found me playing hooky in the library. He replies, and then she opens the door wide and smiles again.

“Go ahead.”

I hope she feels good about leading me to slaughter.

I step through. The principal stands as I enter. His expression is severe. He appears very unimpressed by my actions. Personally, I’m pretty impressed. I slept through the head-splitting school bells, and apparently, I’m invisible.

A smudge of white in the edge of my vision catches my attention.

Val. No Dad.

I guess ice cream is off.