The Unanswered Door
PG recommended for young readers
Blood runs down my arm, slowly at first, but faster now. Sticky yet smooth to the touch. I'm putting more pressure onto the solid wood grip. This allows me to tare my tender flesh open more. Metal eats away at the bonds of my skin layer by layer. Skin, muscle, and bone. Now, it is done, that fast. I will lay down and silently cry. I have perfected that skill at least. No one is home but still, I lock my bedroom door. Click.
My pillows are plush and smell of detergent. On my nightstand are my Bible and family photo. The frame is black and slim, a graduation gift from last month. I see posters of my favorite musicians and my diploma on the dresser across from me. My closet door is open, displaying a rainbow of fabric and shoes. My desk and bookshelf are freshly organized and dusted. A white envelope, sealed, catches the eye from its place on the desk. Writing the letters within is one of the hardest things I have done. They are full of apologies and excuses but all the same an end of ….. well …… me. Now, it is a waiting game.
Deciding to end my life was a process. I started writing drafts of my letters. Who I need to address and what I needed to say. I wrote to several people and sealed them individually before combining them into a single envelope. First was my sister. I told her about how sorry I am for leaving her alone to grow and live. I explained that my depression is getting the best of me because of the abusive relationship with my birth father. I discussed the anxiety that I now have with him finding us and leaving me with no choice but to get a restraining order.
Next, I wrote to my parents. I thanked them for loving me unconditionally. I told them that I could not be more grateful to be out of the system and the life that was installed with not belonging. I begged them to forgive me for going this far, but that I believed it better than continuing to suffer. I ended by explaining that Kelly would be safer without me in the picture when my father next comes looking for me.
Lastly, I wrote my best friend, Amber. In all honesty, I would not be here if she had not gotten me through high school. Life would have ended much sooner. I apologized for not talking with her or letting her talk me out of accepting death. I begged her not to take it personally because there is nothing she could do about my decision or my father trying to worm his way into my life once more.
Memories begin to dance through my mind as I lay in bed surrounded by clouds.
When Emma and John asked if they could officially adopt me and remove me from the system for good, I couldn't have been more grateful and loved. After being in the foster system for over 6 years and always being afraid that I was never safe, it was nice to be chosen for once. Happy 8th birthday me. Saying "yes" was a dream I dared not to dream.
I remember when my sister was born, how she screamed. Mom, Emma, let me hold her first. This is the moment I am most proud of. Looking down at her swaddled in pink. I silently promise never to hurt her and to always protect her. Promises I have now broken, becoming my greatest regret.
I know that these memories are hazy fragments of a life that will now go unlived but……
What am I doing? I think. Why can't I focus?
With a struggle, I open my eyes a slit. Oh, right, the blood loss is……
Red all over my stomach and arms. My comforter and floor are burgundies, too. I realize that my pain will end soon and I will stop feeling the throbbing in my arms.
The blade gleams silver along its length. She seems to be asking "why me? Why not the steak knife or the gun so cleverly hidden in dad's floor safe?"
I do my best to shrug. Unsure if I succeeded or not I reply,
"Because we are friends. You always help me figure things out."
"No, I just cut your vegetables."
"See, you are important to me, how could you not be? After all, I am a vegetarian."
"I wish you would have chosen differently though, that's all." She comments. "And why
do you want to die anyway?"
"I'm frustrated with life not going my way. I keep failing and don't have the energy to keep going. You know I don't like guns. The steak knife is too big for me to really get a good angle with."
"I know. What about the pool in the backyard? You could have tied mom's dumbbells to your feet," she inquires simply.
"That's something that people would notice sooner. You know that." I reason.
She continues to question me, but I doze off once more.
This whole scene is gruesome. I've never done well with gore, but for some reason, this seemed like the way to go. From this vantage point, the sheets are a tangled heap of pooled blood, and there's a kind of gloom over the room. I'm pretty sure it is coming from me, or my body at least lying in a pool of my own blood. I must have become incontinent because there's an underlying sour oder masked by the stench of iron filled blood. The body on the bed seems familiar in a tortured way, yet it is distant in an unexplainable way.
A shadow passes across the threshold. Someone must be home. Here we go.
First, they knock. But with no response, the handle jiggles.
It is time for me to go. I don't want to be here anymore and I don't want to see the pain that I know I inflicted.
