Broken People

by Scott Hildreth

  “What happened?” she asked again, in a monotone voice.

  “I kicked that asshat’s fucking peanut butter. Look, try one of these,” I said, as I grabbed one of the already scanned bars, and waved it in front of her face.

  She accepted the bar, and successfully scanned it the proper amount of times, and gave me the total.

  “$16.10, please,” she requested, again in a monotone voice.

  I shook my head and handed her a hundred dollar bill. She held it up to the light, looking for the watermark. After placing it in the register, she began to count my change. “And ninety cents makes seventeen, three makes twenty, and twenty, forty, sixty, eighty make a hundred,” Smiling, she counted my change. I held my hand out, palm up, lips pursed, and stared into her eyes the entire time she counted.

  I took my change, and as she was attempting to place the candy bars in a plastic bag, grabbed the bag and the bars out of her hand, and tossed the bag back on the conveyor. Frustrated with mankind in general, I turned and walked out, wondering if these types of people did this to everyone, or just to a select few of us. I walked away, shaking my head, hoping that the remainder of the day would be without incident.

  Walking to the car, my phone beeped, indicating an email message. Certain that it was Shellie, I reached into my back pocket, and retrieved my phone. It was from Michelle, and the subject was Many Things. Michelle, if nothing else, kept me on my toes. I decided to read it after I got to the coffee shop. I slid my phone back into my back pocket.

  Sitting at the stoplight, waiting for the left turn arrow, I began feeling uncomfortable. I took my phone from my back pocket and tossed it into the passenger seat. I still felt uncomfortable. Hot. Cold. I turned the temperature control down to 55 degrees. It was 60 degrees outside, and early spring, but I was feeling as if I was having a heart attack. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, and wiped my hand on my pants. I’m going to fuck around and actually die two hundred yards before I get my coffee. Perfect. The car honking behind me brought me to my senses, and I proceeded to inch my way to the coffee shop. Entering the approach slowly, to prevent bottoming out the car, time stood still. An odd tingling over my entire body began to wash over me. I was having a heart attack. Fuck. Once in the parking stall, I just sat and took slow deep breaths. The parking lot was empty. As I sat in the car with the air conditioning blowing on my face, I began to feel better. If I am going to die, I want to die driving, or somewhere where I will fall out of my chair and onto the floor. I want people to have to step over my dead body. I do not want to die in my car, where no one will notice. I want people to scream. Oh my God, is he dead?!!!! I want to lie there, dead as absolute fuck, and have everyone walk around me or step over me until the ambulance arrives. The line in the coffee shop would be so much better. To die in line at the register would be satisfying, if there’s satisfaction in dying, that is. The ambulance attendants would check my money clip, and find nothing to identify me. My driver’s license is hidden in my car, always. I never carry identification.

  “Does anyone know this guy?” The paramedics would ask as they zipped up the body bag. The entire coffee shop would respond, in unison, “Yeeesss,” The paramedics would then ask, “What’s his name, he doesn’t have ID in his pocket,” Everyone would look at the person beside them, and mouth the words, “Fat Kid”. The paramedics would ask again, “Anyone? Does anyone know his actual name?”. “Fat Kid, that’s all we know,” would be the universal response. A police search of my phone would turn up no name.

  I absorbed the air conditioning for an immeasurable amount of time, and the feeling didn’t pass. Tingling all over, sweating. I would prefer this to happen in the coffee shop. In line. I really want my death to be a mess, a memorable mess. In a perfect world, I had always dreamt of someone pushing me from the roof of my condominium onto the sidewalk below, during rush hour. That would be a satisfying way to die. A huge pile of dead flesh right there on the sidewalk. Cars stopping, people screaming, looking at me, and pointing up at the roof. In the absence of the swan dive off of the high rise, I would settle for the line at the coffee shop. I looked up, and toward the store. The coffee shop was as empty as the lot. Damn the luck.

  I reached behind me, grabbed my laptop, and got out of the car. Shouldering my bag, I began to walk across the lot. I locked my car. Hearing the beep of the alarm sounding made me smile. Tingling and sweating, I continued walking slowly down the sidewalk to the entrance. I focused on my sneakers, making sure my feet were still carrying me at a reasonable pace. Entering the front door, I saw the trash receptacle and smiled. As I passed through the door, I reached back and dropped my keys inside the trash. This would be an ending worth noting. I entered, and walked to the register.

  Doll face greeted me at the register, “Hey Kid, the usual?”

  She must have pinned her ears back, she actually looked cute. “Yes, Gretchen,” I said, and handed her a twenty. “Keep the change,” I said as I turned and walked to my seat. She held the money in her hand, stunned, and stared. I smiled. She smiled in return.

  I got my laptop out, opened it, and turned it on. I got out my scale, and placed it on the floor. I tapped it with my toe, and waited. Stepping on, I was relieved at the display. 320, exactly. I picked up the scale, smiling, and placed it inside. I felt as if I was out of my body, my soul acting as a hovering halo to my body. I felt peaceful.

  “KID, AMERICANO AT THE BAR,” the barista barked.

  I took a few steps to the bar, grabbed my coffee, tipped it up, and downed half of it. Walking back to the table, I felt at peace with this being my last cup of coffee. I decided to savor the second half.

  I sat, placed my coffee on the table, and logged onto my email account. Several meaningless emails were present, but the two most recent emails stood out; One from Shellie and one from Michelle. Anxious, I opened Shellie’s first.

  Kid,

  You were sweet. Thank you.

  Shellie

  I stared at it. I was sweet. Past tense. Not, Kid, you are sweet. She, in her mind, had reached the turning point. I had to get in touch with her. Fuck. No phone number, nothing but an email. I looked at the date and time. It was a few minutes old. I had probably received it while I was in line. I needed to respond, but I needed to keep it short. She would lose interest if she opened a rambling email. My entire body tingling and chest aching, I tried to clear my mind.

  Shellie,

  The pain will end. I know this, first hand. It takes time.

  Contact me as soon as you get this.

  I love you,

  Kid

  I read it, reread it, and pushed send. There was nothing else I could do. I felt helpless and empty. I began to recall my girlfriend that died when I was younger, who oddly enough, was named Shellie. The poem she left me changed my life. I carried it in a wallet with me for a decade. When I put the poem away, I put the wallet away with it. I haven’t carried a wallet since. We make adjustments in our lives to get by, to survive. Sometimes we don’t actually heal. We make adjustments. We deny. We mask. We cover up. We hide things. I can’t change the fact that Shellie committed suicide while I was away. No more than I can change the fact that she left me the poem. I put the poem away to separate Shellie and the thoughts of Shellie from my day-to-day life. I quit carrying a wallet because the wallet reminded me of the poem, and the poem reminded me that I was helpless. Incapable of providing whatever may have been necessary to save Shellie from the pain. Pain that ultimately exceeded her capacity to cope with it. I hurt, and I still hurt today. The pain never ends. I run from it, and I deny it exists, but it does exist. It has never left me. I run from person to person attempting to save someone, thinking all along that this person will be the one that makes the pain go away. And the pain never stops. It burns from within me and consumes me. Living with that pain has not become part of who I was, it had become me. It has, since that day, controlled my life. Try as I might, not a week has passed, since that day, that I haven’t at some point in t
ime wallowed in the guilt of Shellie’s suicide.

  I opened Michelle’s email. It had a few paragraphs, and two attached photos. I looked at the typed text, but couldn’t begin to focus. The photos at the bottom of the page got my attention. I scrolled down, and stared. My heart raced. I swallowed a lump in my throat, feeling as if I was swallowing a tennis ball. Filled with a level and type of emotion that I couldn’t identify, I immediately typed a response.

  MICHELLE RIGHT NOW. THIS IS AN EMERGENCY. 911. NO MATTER WHAT YOURE DOING, STOP. CALL ME.

  I clicked send. Frantically, I searched for my phone. It was not on the table, nor in my bag. Not in my pocket. Where is my fucking phone? Standing, frantic, I searched for my car keys. I was clearly losing my mind. Breathe, Kid, breathe. You got this. Breathe in, breathe out, and don’t do anything stupid between breaths. I emptied my pockets onto the table. I grabbed my bag, and dumped its contents onto the floor. Both piles were void of keys and phone. And it hit me. My keys were in the fucking trash can. And my phone was in the front seat of my fucking car.

  I ran outside as fast as I could. I picked up the metal trash can. I turned it upside down and dumped it onto the concrete. Three days of trash fell from the can onto the sidewalk. All I could see was a mound of coffee cups and McDonalds sacks. No keys. I bent down; bear hugged the trash can, and stood. Through the empty lot, I began to run as fast as I could, with the trash can in my arms, toward my car.

  About ten feet from the car, I heaved the can like a missile at my passenger side window. The window shattered, and the alarm sounded. As the alarm wailed, I reached into the passenger seat, and grabbed my phone.

  Chapter 14

  Heroine

  MICHELLE. Sitting in class was so boring sometimes. I was ready for this year to end, and for these people to fade away. I sat in class, ready for the new chapter in my life to begin, and to go off to college. To begin defining who I was, and start developing what it was that I was going to become, a doctor. The thought of being a doctor satisfied me deeply. It was more of a dream than anything. I wanted it, and I was accepted into a program in school to obtain it, but it was something that still seemed so unattainable to me. The excitement of finally becoming that person was more than I could imagine. When I thought of it seriously, it was difficult for me to do so without feeling, and sometimes even showing, tremendous emotion.

  I heard my phone buzzing in my purse. It was a solid long buzzing sound. Someone was clearly calling. Finally, the buzzing stopped, and it went to voicemail. I decided after class I would check it, and see who called. Trying to decide who would call, I began to wonder what it might be about. No one called me during the day, ever. I had sent Kid an email this morning, after I found the pictures on my computer, but he never called. He would always text me, and tell me to call him. I began to scroll through names in my head of people that would possibly call me. I thought of no one that would, unless there was an emergency. My phone began to buzz again, a short buzz; clearly a text message. As I continued to wonder, it began to buzz constantly, again. Someone was calling. I stood, grabbed my purse, and walked to the teacher’s desk.

  “Mr. Nelson, I have an emergency, I am sorry, I have to go to the restroom,” I said smiling. I then looked at the floor, trying to look embarrassed.

  “Go ahead, Michelle,” he said, without looking up from his desk.

  I walked down the hallway, and to the bathroom. I didn’t dare pull out my phone in the hall way. My phone had been taken by staff on countless occasions for not following school policy. I walked through the door to the bathroom, and pulled my phone from my purse. Looking at the screen, I saw that there were three voicemails. Clearing the screen and looking at the call log, I had seen that Kid called all three times. I also had an email from him, and a text message. I opened the text message. When I did, I saw that there were about fifteen messages, all about the same.

  KID: MICHELLE EMERGENCY 911 CALL IMMEDIATELY NO MATTER WHAT YOU’RE DOING A LIFE IS AT STAKE

  My heart started to race, and I hurriedly pushed the buttons to call Kid. I was shaking, and my body filled immediately with emotion. It rang once and he answered.

  “Michelle, don’t say a fucking word, just listen. The picture, the picture of the girl. Who is she, do you know her?” His voice was different. He wasn’t screaming, but his voice sounded direct and urgent, very matter of fact, and crisp. Like a police officer in an interrogation.

  “What girl, Kid, I’m lost. I’m sorry, you’re scaring me. What’s going on?” I was standing there shaking from head to toe.

  “Michelle, listen. God damn it, pay attention. The girl in the pictures you emailed me. Who, specifically, is she? Do you know her?”

  “Yes, I go to school with her. She’s a friend, she lives down the street. Is it bad? What did you see?” I was afraid he had seen something bad when he looked into her eyes and read her. I stood, continuing to shake, wondering what was going on.

  Again, in his sharp, matter of fact voice, as if he were interrogating me, he asked, “Michelle, again, fucking listen. Focus. Is she at school today?”

  I thought. Well, she normally sits over by the… “Uhhm, no, she isn’t, why?”

  Clear and crisp, he spoke, as if he were a police officer barking out orders at a crime scene, “Michelle, shut up and listen. Just listen. This is fucking important. I need you to do something. Now listen. That girl in the pics. That’s the suicide girl I have been telling you about, Shellie. She wrote me an email a few minutes ago. I am afraid she is going to kill herself this morning. Like now. You need to leave school and go, as fast as you can, to her house. See if you can find her. Do not call police, if she hears sirens, she may do it immediately.”

  Filled with confusion, I spoke, stuttering, and stammering for words, “Kid, …..that girl is….. Britney. She lives down the street….she goes to school with me. It’s not Shellie, what’s wrong with you? You’re scaring me.”

  “Mother fucker, Michelle, Britney changed her name when she emailed me. She changed it to Shellie. Right now, go! She may be dying. Stay off your phone, don’t text or call, don’t wreck your car. And don’t call police until you arrive. Find her Michelle. Find her. You have to find her and stop this.” He was frantic, and sounded as if he were in tears.

  I pulled into the driveway with no recollection of leaving the school or driving. I shifted my car in park, and jumped out. I ran to the front door of the house, and checked the handle. It was locked. I beat on the door, screaming Britney’s name. I turned from the porch and ran to the side garage door, to see if her car was in the garage. I looked through to window, and as I did, over the top of her parked car, I saw her. The images played in my mind as if they were in slow motion. Britney stood on top of a ladder, kicking her legs, with a light blue rope around her neck. I tried to open the door, it was locked as well. I beat on the door and screamed her name. She didn’t notice. I kicked the door as hard as I could, over and over. The door made cracking sounds but didn’t open. I got back away from it, ran toward it as fast as I could, and kicked it, right beside the handle. The door flew open.

  Running around the back of the car, I saw her hanging there, and the ladder rocking back and forth. I ran to the ladder, grabbed the bottom, and held it still. Screaming her name, I hurriedly climbed the ladder, grabbed Britney’s waist, and tried to carry her up the ladder. My legs burning, I pressed harder and harder, until I had all of her weight against me, and the rope was loose. I sat her down on a step of the ladder, balancing her there. She was limp. Hysterically, I removed the rope from her neck, screaming her name. As I stood on the ladder below her, I grabbed her body in my arms, and tried to carry her down the ladder. Somehow, the ladder collapsed, and we both fell to the floor.

  She lay flat on the floor, lifeless. I shook her, and screamed her name. She did not respond. I ran to the car, and got my phone. Frantically, I called Kid, and ran back into the garage as the phone was ringing.

  “Did you find her…?” Kid asked, e
xcitedly.

  “Kid, she was hanging. Oh my God, I got her on the floor, Kid. I got her on the floor. She’s on the floor, Kid. She’s not hanging. She’s on the floor.” My voice was strangely quiet and cracking. I began sobbing uncontrollably; tears were rushing down my face. My entire body shaking as my lifeless friend lay on the floor in front of me. I would give anything for her to live. Anything. Please God, do not take this girl from this earth. Not now. Please God, help me make the decisions that I have to make to save this girl from dying. Help me be strong, God. Please. Help me through this.

  “Michelle! Hang up. Do CPR. Call 911. And get paramedics there, right now!”

  I hung up and called 911. Britney remained lifeless on the floor. I couldn’t tell if she was breathing, and if she was, she wasn’t doing it very well, or on her own. As the 911 operator talked, I heard nothing. I kept talking to Britney, asking her to never leave me. I touched her cold pale face, and fixed her hair. I prayed for God to give me the strength to perform his will. I heard sirens in the distance. The sound of the sirens got louder and louder.

  Police officers were the first ones in the garage, and the paramedics were right behind them. In a matter of minutes, paramedics, police, and firemen were filling the garage. Someone opened the big garage doors, and there were people everywhere. This was so confusing. Someone handed me my phone. The 911 operator was gone. They covered Britney’s face, and hooked a machine to her. I cried, and cried, until the crying turned to sobs. Everyone was talking at once.

  “Ma’am, what relation are you to the victim?” the police officer asked me.

  “I’m her friend, I found her hanging by that bed sheet that’s tied to the garage,” I said, quietly, pointing to the bed sheet hanging from the garage roof.

  “Ma’am, what time, specifically, did you find her?” he asked, in a monotone voice. He was actually holding a small note pad in one hand, and a pen in the other. Was this really happening?