Together We Will Go

by J. Michael Straczynski

  I don’t want people thinking I did this because of a shoelace. My reasons are my own, and I don’t have to justify them to anyone.

  Last year I found an old book on manners at a used bookstore, and one of the chapters said that when someone invites you to dinner or a party and you don’t want to go, you don’t have to respond with a bunch of excuses, explanations, or justifications that will just end up sounding exactly like what they are. It’s your choice, your life, and you don’t have to explain yourself. The proper response is simply, I appreciate the invitation, but alas I cannot attend the party. Please give my regards to everyone who can make it.

  I appreciate the invitation, but alas I cannot attend the rest of my life.

  Please give my regards to everyone else who can hack it.

  I’d always heard the phrase “Live every day as if it were your last,” but I never really understood what it meant until now. Everything I do is potentially the last time I’ll ever do it, so I go as deep as I can, savoring every moment, looking at all the details that I missed before because I didn’t have to pay attention, as if I was immortal, and tomorrow was guaranteed. Now everything is luminous. Everything is joyful. There’s no more worry about the future, about getting a job, or making plans or being judged or hitting the right grades or who I should be or where I should be or when I should be there. No more hesitations, second thoughts, recriminations, or doubt.

  I am the arrow loosed from the bow. I go where the air and my velocity take me.

  My life is my own, it belongs to no one else, and I will do with it as I wish.

  So exciting.

  * * *

  TylerW1998

  Woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t breathe. I could feel my lungs moving, but nothing was happening, like I was drowning. Fighting panic, I grabbed the sports O2 canister I keep in my bag and sucked down oxygen until it passed. When the room stopped spinning, I licked my finger and the spit was pinkish and frothy. Pulmonary edema. Not the first time, but it may be getting close to the last time.

  I spent the rest of the night sitting up in bed, trying not to use the O2 unless I really needed it. I wanted to text someone, just to distract myself, but it was four in the morning and I didn’t want to bother anybody.

  And I just started crying.

  Whenever something really terrible happens, I think there’s a part of our brain that says, This isn’t real, it’s just a nightmare, and any minute now I’ll wake up and it’ll all be the way it’s supposed to be, except you don’t and it isn’t and it’s as awful as it ever was. Your leg is stuck in a bear trap and you can’t open it and you can’t get out and there’s nobody around to help you, there’s just this searing pain that gets bigger and bigger until you black out, and when you finally wake up again there’s this split second when you think, Thank God that wasn’t real, then the pain comes back and it is real and your brain keeps looking for a reset button that’s not there, going crazier every day because there’s no way out.

  That’s how I’ve felt ever since my condition started taking a turn for the worse two years ago. I suppose I should be grateful because the doctor didn’t think I’d even make it this far, and yeah, it’s great that I did, but the thing is two years isn’t enough.

  It takes just two years to get an AA degree, two years for a baby to grow molars, two years of dating before anyone in your family takes the relationship seriously, two years for Mormon missionaries to do whatever the hell Mormon missionaries do when they’re in Africa or China… two years is a thirty-second time-lapse video of a freeway under construction, two years is a heartbeat!

  And I’m nearly out of those.

  And it’s not fair, because I’ve never hurt anyone or done anything to deserve this. I don’t want to die. But I also don’t want to spend my last days in a hospital room, hooked up to IV drips and monitors with a breathing tube stuck down my throat, drowning in pink froth until my lungs fill up and my heart explodes. This is better. I’m just afraid that my illness might not let me get all the way to San Francisco, that my road may be a lot shorter than the one Karen and Lisa and Mark and the rest are on.

  But at least I’m not alone on that road, and though I can’t do a lot physically right now, being here for them in other ways helps me feel like I’m doing something good on my way out.

  If I have to die, then let it be with people I care about, doing something to help them. Let me die for a reason. That’s not so much to ask, is it?

  * * *

  Hi, I’m Audio Recorder!

  Tap the icon to start recording.

  MARK ANTONELLI: Test one two three…

  ZEKE: Hey.

  MARK ANTONELLI: Hey.

  ZEKE: D said you’re going to a party.

  MARK ANTONELLI: Sort of. I’m supposed to meet the new guy so he can scope me out, make sure I’m legit before signing on while I’m doing the same to him. All the frats are having parties tonight, so it’ll probably take a while to find the right place. Shanelle, Theo, and Lisa are coming along.

  ZEKE: Oh, good because Lisa’s been a real—

  MARK ANTONELLI: Yeah, I know. It’ll be good to give her a break from Theresa. You saw what happened this morning?

  ZEKE: Yeah, I didn’t hear what they were arguing about, but for sure Lisa was pissed. I keep waiting for shit to go down with them.

  MARK ANTONELLI: You want to come to the party?

  ZEKE: No, man, too much noise, not Soldier’s scene.

  MARK ANTONELLI: How’s he doing?

  ZEKE: He’s pretty tired. He slept most of the day, but he’s awake now, so I thought I’d take him for a walk. I carry him to different trees and flowers so he can sniff at everything. For a cat, that’s like going on vacation, right?

  MARK ANTONELLI: Sure. Just don’t go too far from the bus in case we have to bug out.

  ZEKE: Okeydokey.

  MARK ANTONELLI: Hey, Zeke—

  ZEKE: Yeah?

  MARK ANTONELLI: If you have time to write up a journal entry, it would be great.

  ZEKE: I haven’t had a chance.

  MARK ANTONELLI: I know, but everyone else is doing it, so…

  ZEKE: No, it’s okay, you’re right. I’ll try to get something down after the sniff tour.

  END RECORDING

  * * *

  SunnyShanelle

  After graduating high school, I went to a community college for about a year before giving up. I used to dream about getting a degree in psychology so I could be a counselor to kids who were as screwed up as me (fun fact: most people in asylums want to be psychologists when they get out, so what does that say about crazy people, psychologists, and me?), but even if I got an AA my folks couldn’t afford to send me on to a four-year college and I wasn’t earning enough to go on my own, so what was the point? And I couldn’t focus on anything. I was depressed all the time. All I wanted to do was sleep and eat. Mainly eat. Then sleep when I couldn’t eat. Mama tried cutting back on dinner to help me lose weight, but I’d just sneak money out of my dad’s wallet to buy junk food and hide it under the bed. The more I ate, the more depressed I got, and the more depressed I got, the more I ate. I was sleeping twelve hours a day, going to bed at dawn, then getting up when it was dark. Sometimes I didn’t see the sun for days. Which of course just made me even more depressed.

  When my dad realized I was dipping in his wallet, he said that if I wanted money I had to earn it or get it as a reward for losing weight. Since the back half of that wasn’t going to work, I tried getting a job at the mall, but nobody wants a fat girl selling clothes. They like finger-thin bulimia cases that would snap in half if you touched them the wrong way. And nobody wants to hire someone my size for a job that takes a lot of heavy lifting because they’re afraid I’ll have a heart attack and fall over dead and their insurance won’t cover it.

  I finally found a job working for a phone solicitation company that helped people consolidate debt when they were behind on their credit cards. I actually kind of en
joyed it because I felt like I was helping people and nobody knew what I looked like on the phone, they just heard my voice, and my sunny disposition won them over! I even had guys flirting with me during the calls, and that was a first for sure!

  One of these was Phil, and once we realized he was only about ten miles away he kept asking me for a date. I told him he wouldn’t want to go out with me because I was a “big girl.” When he asked how big, I texted him a photo. He texted back “no problem” and asked me to meet him at a restaurant downtown for dinner. He was twelve years older than me, but that was okay. I figured we could meet in the middle of him being too old and me being too big.

  I spent hours getting ready. I wanted to look all sparkly for the big night, so I picked up some Laura Mercier Baroque eye shadow which looks good with my complexion. It cost twenty-three dollars, but it was worth the investment. I was so excited that I got to the restaurant twenty minutes early.

  He showed up right on time, but when I walked over to him, I saw The Look in his eyes. The I didn’t know you were this big look. He tried to hide it, but it was all over him. “Hey, I sent you a photo,” I said, and laughed, trying to make it not a big deal.

  “Yeah, I know, you did, it’s just… cameras always put on twenty pounds, so I assumed…” He ran out of words as the hostess took us to our table.

  He didn’t talk as we went over the menu, but I could feel him getting upset. Not just upset, angry, like I deliberately got fat that day just to piss him off. I asked him what was good here to eat. “It’s all good,” he said without looking up from the menu. Then the waiter came over and I asked if we could have some sparkling water. When he brought it over, Phil said he had to go to the restroom.

  He never came back. He gave the waiter twenty bucks for the water and a tip, then slipped out the back.

  It was the Valentine’s Day card all over again. He hadn’t set out to do it deliberately, but that didn’t change how it hit me, and I started crying. When the hostess came over to see what was going on, I told her what happened and she said that if I wanted anything to eat, it was on the house.

  But for a change, I wasn’t hungry. Just angry. I mean really angry, at him, at me, at the world, at everything.

  And I drank every drop of that fucking bottle of sparkling water, because he owed me at least that much.

  The next day I decided he owed me a lot more than that, so I canceled all his cards, tanked his credit rating, and gave his address to a collection agency he’d been ducking.

  My boss fired me when he found out what I’d done. I was mad about it, but the other girls working the phone bank said I should just be glad he didn’t sue me, but I knew that if he did, it would open up a big can of worms about how well he was running things if one person could do all this, so he did what he could to fix the damage, then booted me out the door. And I was right back where I started.

  That’s when I started cutting myself.

  I was home alone, angry at what happened, at Phil and my boss and myself and my folks, and I could feel a pressure in my veins getting worse every second, like somebody pumping too much air into a balloon, until my whole body was shaking and I felt like if I didn’t let the pressure out I’d explode, so I picked up a steak knife and dragged it across my arm, not too deep, just enough to draw blood. And just like that, I got all quiet inside, like I let the rage out of my veins, and the pressure dropped and I actually felt better. I looked at the blood like, Oh, hello, friend, nice to meet you.

  After that, any time I found myself getting upset I’d go into a bathroom if I was out, or my bedroom if I was home, and make a little cut, usually high up on my thigh, where nobody could see it, and let a little blood out. I always felt better afterward. Even my folks said I seemed happier and calmer. Then Mama saw bloodstains on the wrong part of my pants when some of the scabs came off, and all hell broke loose.

  More later. Going to a party!

  * * *

  Hi, I’m Audio Recorder!

  Tap the icon to start recording.

  MARK ANTONELLI: If I record this?

  VOICE 16: Shit, yeah, record away, I got nothing to hide. Is that just voice or voice to text?

  MARK ANTONELLI: Voice to text. Just a second, let me edit this. Music’s pretty loud, but it should be okay with the microphone.

  EDIT VOICE? Y/N Y

  ENTER VOICE 16 NAME: PETER

  MARK ANTONELLI: Okay, that should do it.

  PETER: Test, test. So how come I’m just Peter and you’re Mark Antonelli? Shouldn’t I be Peter Routh?

  MARK ANTONELLI: Fine, hang on, one second.

  EDIT VOICE? Y/N Y

  ENTER NAME: PETER ROUTH

  PETER ROUTH: Can we also put in my middle initial?

  MARK ANTONELLI: Fuck off. And stop staring at the screen.

  SHANELLE: Mark! I brought you a beer!

  MARK ANTONELLI: Thanks, Shanelle. This is Peter, he wants to join up.

  PETER ROUTH: Once I know you’re serious.

  MARK ANTONELLI: Once we know you’re serious.

  SHANELLE: I’ll let you two fight it out. I gotta go keep an eye on Lisa.

  PETER ROUTH: Did you know he only has you on here by your first name?

  MARK ANTONELLI: Will you stop with that shit?

  PETER ROUTH: Let’s go over there so nobody can hear us. How many people you got so far?

  MARK ANTONELLI: Counting me and the driver, eleven. I figure we’ll max out at about fifteen. So what’re you studying?

  PETER ROUTH: Double major, philosophy and psychology. Which means I win most arguments I get into, and if I do lose, I can make you feel bad about it afterward.

  MARK ANTONELLI: So why do you want to come on the bus?

  PETER ROUTH: Because of my fashion sense. Why the fuck do you think?

  MARK ANTONELLI: I’m asking because everyone who’s signed up so far has a reason.

  PETER ROUTH: And you don’t think I do?

  MARK ANTONELLI: I’m just saying, you’re a good-looking guy, you seem to have your shit together, you don’t seem sick or depressed or…

  PETER ROUTH: You want the whole thing?

  MARK ANTONELLI: I got no other plans for tonight. Why do you want to kill yourself?

  PETER ROUTH: That is totally the wrong question. People don’t decide one day to kill themselves. Never happens.

  MARK ANTONELLI: I’ve got nine other people on the bus who would disagree with that.

  PETER ROUTH: I’m just saying that the suicidal impulse is always there. It’s like when your car pulls to the left, and you have to keep both hands on the wheel to keep going straight because if you take your hands off, the car veers into oncoming traffic. Same with suicide. The pull is always there, but because we have things to do, because we have reasons not to kill ourselves, we keep both hands on the wheel. So it’s not so much that people decide to kill themselves, it’s that one day they run out of reasons not to kill themselves. They take their hands off the wheel, surrender to the pull of the suicidal impulse, and next thing you know, bam.

  MARK ANTONELLI: So what made you decide to take your hands off the wheel?

  PETER ROUTH: It’s been a long process, but if there’s one thing, last summer my girlfriend, Jessie, was hit by a car. She spent months in a coma with no brain activity, just gone, nothing there, but her folks kept her plugged in because they could afford it, because they didn’t believe the doctors. If Jessie could have seen what they were doing to her, she would’ve done anything to stop it. Same thing happened to my father, they kept him around long after he would’ve wanted because he was in no condition to say let me go. I’m not going to let that happen to me. I’m taking hold of my destiny.

  MARK ANTONELLI: Yeah, but you’re, what, twenty-four? You’ve got years ahead of you.

  PETER ROUTH: So did Jessie, and look what happened. Don’t you get it? Maybe it happens tomorrow crossing the street, or a year from now, or twenty years from now. It doesn’t change the fact that all of us are
going to decay and endure horrific shit that nobody should ever have to endure and I’m not doing it. No fucking way. I’m gonna go out loud and powerful and raging while I still can.

  MARK ANTONELLI: But there’s a lot you could do.

  PETER ROUTH: As what? A cog in a machine? For a corporation? For a boss? For some faceless master on a distant mountaintop? Just so I can end up in a cheap apartment because I can’t afford a house, sick all the time because I can’t afford a doctor, overeducated and underemployed, and the planet’s completely fucked because of corporate greed and plastic and too many people clawing at every last drop of whatever’s left? Who wants that shit? Me? Hell, no.

  MARK ANTONELLI: So for you, suicide is a rational choice.

  PETER ROUTH: Given everything I just described, suicide is the only rational choice.

  MARK ANTONELLI: If that’s true, then why is society so against it?

  PETER ROUTH: Because it breaks their control over us, because doctors are afraid of getting sued for missing the warning signs, because credit card companies want to get paid and families don’t want the guilt. In primitive societies, when somebody wanted to walk out into the snow or give it up to the wolves, they let him. If he wanted to go back to creation or another birth, they said fine, do what you gotta do. You’ve heard of seppuku, right?

  MARK ANTONELLI: Sure, everyone has.

  PETER ROUTH: It’s suicide, no different from chugging pills, but calling it seppuku somehow makes it brave, makes it the honorable thing to do. In early Greece and Rome, people killed themselves all the time. It was just an accepted part of life. In Rome, if you wanted to kill yourself, you went to the Senate, walked them through your reasons, and most of the time they said great, no problem, here’s some hemlock.