Broken People

by Scott Hildreth

  When I choose to do something, regardless of the magnitude of the decision I am making, I always try to think of the way that it may affect others, and the effect it could potentially have, if things didn’t go the way I had planned. If all things point in a direction that is good, I will do what it is that I have been contemplating. So far, my life has turned out well. As with all kids, I have made some decisions that I would say aren’t necessarily great, but I do not regret them. I do not regret anything in my life, and I doubt that I ever will. My life’s experiences have made me who I am. Exclude any one of my experiences, and I may be someone different. I am comfortable being who I am. I am proud of the person I have become. As the doctors began to move Britney, I opened my eyes, turned, and followed them as they pushed her to the elevator.

  When we got upstairs, the doctors pushed Britney down the hallway, and told me to remain in the waiting room. They assured me that they would let me know as soon as she was done with the tests that they were going to run, and had returned her into a room. I sat in the waiting room tired, scared, and full of emotion. I hadn’t been there for long, maybe an hour, and I heard screaming from down the hallway. The voice was familiar, and was demanding answers. I stood up, walked out of the waiting room, and made eye contact with Britney’s father. Hurriedly, he walked to meet me in the corridor.

  “What happened, Michelle? Who did this?” he asked, frantic.

  I stood, crying, and stared at him, unable to make myself speak. Sobbing, I thought to myself, you did.

  Chapter 17

  Pomegranate skateboard

  FAT KID. Sitting at my desk, I spread the letters out, and sorted them by date. As I sorted them, and made stacks based on month and year, the reality of sitting in prison quickly came back to me. My father and I had exchanged letters the entire time I was in prison and this pile of old mail lay here as proof. I had kept all of the letters that we exchanged, and cherished them and the memories associated with them.

  As a child, my father and I were never really what I would describe as close. He was always my father, and I was always his son, but there was something I felt was missing. As I got older, I dismissed it as my own feelings of guilt, and feelings of worthlessness. I never felt that I made my father as proud of me as I wanted to. I grew up feeling, regardless of what I may have accomplished, as if it was never enough in my father’s eyes. Looking at all of those years and accomplishments now, under the retrospect microscope, I wonder how much of that feeling of inadequacy was just me wanting or needing praise that I didn’t receive.

  The human mind is a difficult thing to understand. It’s an extremely complex piece of equipment, for certain. Everything that mankind has developed since the beginning of time has been developed by the human mind. When realizing the advancements that we have made in the last two hundred years alone, it’s quite staggering. A person cannot look around them without seeing cars capable of traveling at speeds up to two hundred miles an hour at a rate of 25 miles per gallon. Cars that were once nothing more than wooden wagons. How could one not be impressed the capacity of the human mind? A make shift log cabin constructed out of tree limbs, mud, and leaves two hundred years ago has developed into structures hundreds of stories tall that are capable of withstanding winds at that height. And everything that is within that car or that building is or has been developed and manufactured by the human mind. Every computer, phone, capacitor, brake caliper, wrist watch, microwave, door knob, air conditioner compressor, carpet fiber, diode, stereo speaker, can opener, and light bulb has been a result of the human mind making advancements. Every year, every decade, every new generation, every century, we make measurable advancements. Having an understanding of the mind’s ability to make such technological advancements makes it difficult to consider the fact that we can’t identify and make minor adjustments in our perception of childhood memories. If we could, in turn, we might make major adjustments to our character defects as adults. It should be simple. In theory it is. It takes honesty, open-mindedness, and the capability to actuate one’s thoughts or beliefs.

  When I was a child, life was so simple. All I had to do was stumble through a day, not kill myself, and go to bed. Another day started when I woke up, and began a reiteration of the same thing over, just a different day. The weather was great in San Diego, and we had no real seasons to speak of. My life was, in my opinion, quite simple, and perfect. Get up, get dressed, and get started. Simple for even me.

  “What do you want for your birthday, son?” My father asked.

  “A skateboard,” I responded.

  “What, a skateboard, why? Are you a hippie? A skater?” he asked, looking down at me in disgust.

  Looking up at him in admiration, I wondered if I had made a bad decision. I wanted a skateboard, and all of the kids in the neighborhood had one. I had ridden my friend’s skateboards, and had become quite good at doing so. The thought of having my own skateboard thrilled me. I was quite sure that I could get through the remainder of my life with nothing else if I had a skateboard of my own.

  “Well, we’ll have to see. Anything else?” he asked as he lit another Salem cigarette.

  “No, sir, just a skateboard,” I said sheepishly, feeling somewhat uncomfortable of what I may receive instead.

  “Well, it’s coming up here before long, in a few weeks, I think,” he said, as he exhaled smoke.

  Wondering if he remembered for sure, I reminded him. “The thirteenth, Pop. It’s the thirteenth.”

  “Thirteenth, huh? Yeah, that sounds about right. Well, go play. We’ll see. Your mother will have dinner ready soon. Go out and play in the street,” he said, as he turned and walked into the kitchen.

  Go out and play in the street. He used to say that to me all the time. He would say that maybe a car would hit me. I remember, as a child, wondering if he really wanted a car to hit me. And if he did, why? What did I do to make him feel that life, for him, would be better if I were run over by a car? I lived my life, as a child, wondering whether or not, for sure, my father loved me the way my mother did. But, no matter what, I always respected my father. I always admired him. And I always looked up to him. I am sure I embarrassed him on many occasions, but he never embarrassed me. In my mind, my father was like a king. Everyone went to him for answers, me included.

  “Let’s go to the pomegranate tree,” my eight year old sister said, pointing to the tree across the field behind the house. My brother stood by my side with a stupid look on his face. As a child, he always had a stupid look on his face. Our house was in the middle of the block. We had a huge field between our home, and a school, which stood behind our home. In that field at the end of the block was a series of trees and several of them were pomegranate trees. The pomegranates were free for the taking, and were bitter and sweet. The issue with the pomegranates was the juice. It was worse than grape juice for making stains on your clothing. Being seven years old and eating a pomegranate without getting covered in juice was difficult. We had ventured to the trees many times, and had been in trouble for smearing our good school clothes with pomegranate juice, effectively ruining them.

  We raced to the pomegranate tree. Getting there, my sister and I plucked the pomegranates from the tree, and sat eating them until we were full. My brother, three at the time, always needed help with about everything he did. We took turns shoving the pomegranate seeds into his mouth. Eventually, we ended up in a pomegranate fight, and were smearing the fruit all over each other, laughing the entire time. I took some, and painted stripes on my brother’s face. My sister painted stripes on my face. I, in turn, rubbed a few in her hair, and on her shirt. My shirt was next, and my brother’s soon followed. Around the time when we were exhausted and full of fruit, most of the stains had dried, and had become a permanent part of our skin, clothes, and hair. I think we all realized, at the same time, that we were going to be in some deep form of trouble as soon as we got home.

  My mother was as understanding of a human as could ever exist. If my mothe
r were home alone, her response to seeing this mess would have been, “Well, let’s get some soap. And take those dirty clothes off before your dad gets home and sees them.” The problem, with this particular day, was the fact that my father was home. We wasted as much time as we could, but, eventually, we had to walk home. We did so, laughing and poking each other along the way. My father was bent over, landscaping in the front yard when we got home. We noticed him as we came around the corner of the house and into the front yard. We froze. Like little concrete statues, we stood. As fathers always do, he knew that we had done something. He looked up from his landscaping, and saw the three of us standing there, purple from head to toe, and screamed.

  “What in the fuck have you three little idiots done? You’ve been down at that fucking pomegranate tree again, haven’t you? What in the absolute fuck did I tell you about going to that God damned tree?” he screamed as he stood up. He was across the front yard from us, about fifty feet away.

  I stood and tried to remember what it was that he said about the pomegranate tree. I remembered nothing at all. I was drawing a blank. I suspected as always, he would remind us. He didn’t disappoint me.

  “I told you if you went there again, and spread that juice all over your stupid selves, that I was going to beat your little asses, and that’s what I am going to do. Do not ever, ever, go to that fucking tree again. Not for any reason. It’s off fucking limits. Do you understand me?” he screamed as he began to walk toward us.

  “Yes,”

  “Yes,”

  My younger brother nodded his head. In retrospect, I don’t think he spoke until he was five or six. He didn’t need to, my sister and I spoke for him.

  “Do you understand me?” My father screamed again, now about ten feet from us.

  “Yes, Sir!” the three of us responded at once. I knew we forgot something. Sir. We were raised learning to respect our elders. I called anyone that was, or appeared to be an adult, Sir or Ma‘am.

  My father was a former Marine; six foot tall, muscular, and about 180 pounds. Growing up, he taught us discipline, and to act as if we had discipline, always. He wasn’t abusive, or mean, and never was violent toward us. But, he demanded that we be respectful, and we were disciplined if we were not. I could not imagine, as a child, treating an adult in a manner that could be perceived as being disrespectful.

  Our heads hanging, we walked up the porch to the house. My mother, hearing the commotion, had come to the front door and stood, waiting for us. We walked up the steps, past her, and into the house. My father stayed in the yard. My mother got us changed, threw our clothes in the washer, and attempted to clean us up the best she could. I don’t recall much else about that night, but I do recall when we ate dinner.

  Sitting at the table, as my father looked at our purple faces in disgust, I wondered. I wondered about the skateboard, about my birthday, and, ultimately, how many more years I would have to wait for that skateboard.

  “I’m sorry, father, for the pomegranates. And for Matt’s face,” I said to my father as I looked at my purple-faced brother.

  My father, looking up from his meal, responded as he shook his fork at me, “That’s alright son, don’t let it happen again.”

  And, I didn’t.

  Growing up, regardless of what happened in our home, and I do mean regardless, we always knew that we could speak to our parents about it. As an adult, I look at that one thing as being the most important thing about growing up that kept me from eventually coming unraveled. No matter how difficult of a situation I put myself in, and regardless of my age, I always knew I could talk to my parents about it. And they always listened. And they always discussed the ins and outs of what it was they thought I should do, pertaining to the situation being discussed. Or, sometimes, what I should have done, considered, or thought. But, growing up, I never wanted to keep anything from them. This freedom, this open line of communication, this one thing, made a difference in the way I grew up. I never had a desire to run away from home. I never had a desire to commit suicide. I never had a desire to lie to my parents or to try to cover something up. Communication, I still say today, is key.

  As I spread the letters out, I tried to decide what it was that I was actually doing. What I hoped to accomplish. I spread them out and looked at the pile. A letter every few days, without fail, for almost three years. He wrote me regularly, no exceptions. No lapses. I couldn’t count on much as I sat in prison. I lost friends, I lost touch with my family, I lost my job, I lost my pride, and I lost my freedom. I gained a relationship with my father that I think I never had growing up. One where he told me he was proud of me. I sat in prison, of all places, and my father said he was proud of me, and he meant it. His letters continued to come, with regularity, and I looked forward to reading them. I looked forward to his letters more than I looked forward to anything else I received. I would forfeit food, water, exercise, and phone calls, before I would have forfeited his letters. During that time, he recalled things I did as a kid that I thought he didn’t notice. Things that I didn’t know he even knew. Things that I was sure he couldn’t or didn’t remember. But he did. And he made sure, in the letters that he wrote, that I knew that he did.

  My father was proud of me.

  I wondered when the last time Britney’s father said to her that he was proud of her, or the last time that he gave her a hug. I wondered when he last made reference to something that she had done, and said, “You made me proud of what you accomplished.” Maybe the prison that Britney was in now would make the difference.

  The first time I rode that skateboard, I did so with a smile on my face, still stained by pomegranate juice.

  Chapter 18

  Guilty minds

  MICHELLE. To state that what happened to Britney changed me would be an understatement. I could see changes in how I looked at things, how I reacted, or how I perceived something. Compared to before I found Britney, these changes were drastic. Some things that were important before were no longer important. Yet other things that were not important, all of a sudden became so. I felt as if I had done something wrong. Or, maybe I just didn’t do something I should have. Britney had been in the hospital for a few days, and was still in a coma. Although the doctors had said that I saved her life, it was difficult for me to see it that way. She was not alive. She lay in a bed, surrounded by people crying, and she didn’t acknowledge anything. She was fully comatose. The doctors had said there was some minor swelling of her brain, and that there was no real way of telling the damage from the oxygen being cut off to her brain during the hanging.

  What if I would have gone to the garage first? She probably wouldn’t have even had time to hang herself. What if I had sent Kid the pictures when he first asked? My procrastination could have cost Britney’s life. These thoughts consumed me, and became part of my daily thinking. I had not gone back to school, and felt as if I was incapable of doing so. My parents, in two days, had expressed a greater concern for what my brother and I were doing, and appeared to be a little more relaxed in their expectations of us. It had only been two days, and it was difficult to tell if they were really concerned for our safety, or if this was a knee jerk reaction that any parent would have following a suicide of a close friend of the family.

  It also troubled me that Kid appeared to change as well. He had shared with me the story of his loss of a girlfriend to suicide. We talked at length about his feelings associated with that loss. I was having the same feelings. Contrary to our earlier discussions about broken people attracting broken people, he has been more distant for these last few days. I suspect he now felt as if he had lost two people to suicide. In addition to feeling as if I let myself and Britney down, I know I let Kid down, and that didn’t sit very well with me. Letting down others hurts me far more than letting myself down. It disappoints me greatly to disappoint others.

  On the evening of the suicide Kid and I talked at length of his similar feelings after his loss of his girlfriend. He indicated that he has
spent his entire adult life attempting to make up for not identifying and preventing her suicide. After the suicide, he has made every effort to save people, feeling that if he did, it would make the pain go away. Ultimately, he uses his internet blog to solely assist people, in hopes that the feelings associated with the loss of his dead girlfriend, and the incident, would fade away. According to him, they never have. I cannot get comfortable with the thought of living my entire life feeling the way I do now. Having a better understanding of how Kid has lived his life, and the feelings he possesses, made me feel sorry for him. Other people that have been forced to live with the loss from a suicide certainly feel the same way. The victims in a suicide are clearly the survivors. And the pain is crippling.

  Although I have not seen it, my parents have said that Britney’s parents found a suicide letter. My parents said that Britney’s father, for some reason, was going to let them see it, but they have not seen it yet.

  I have no idea what expectation I have of the suicide letter actually bringing me comfort. To be quite honest, I expect none. Knowing her thoughts, prior to the suicide will do me no good now. I am filled with guilt in so many ways. I would be willing to bet that I am already knowledgeable about whatever her letter contains. I was aware of the problems she was having long before this day came. For years, she has been fighting feelings of worthlessness, bulimia, and has had little, if any, self-esteem. The lack of self-esteem in my opinion may not be totally attributed to, but is partly a result of, her parents never providing her with any form of assurance that they’re even aware of her existence.