Madness

by Zac Brewer

  “Can I ask you something?” Duckie wasn’t swinging anymore. Nor was he looking at me. I knew what he was going to ask before he even opened his mouth again. I wished he wouldn’t. “Why’d you do it?”

  It. The word was so much easier to say than asking me why I’d attempted suicide. But I understood. Just the word suicide made people uncomfortable. Hell, it made me uncomfortable—but I’d rather people just ask me outright than pussyfoot around it.

  I drew a heart in the dirt with the toe of my shoe, then stomped on it, leaving an imprint of my sneaker in the middle. If I didn’t answer him, he’d just keep asking. That was always his way. So I took a slow breath into my lungs and said, “I can’t tell you why. Because you wouldn’t understand. It’s not any one thing. It’s just . . . everything.”

  I could feel him looking at me, willing me to meet his gaze. But I refused, instead focusing on all the weeds that had grown up around the playground. How did such an awesome place become so used up and worn out? “You’re speaking in present tense. Do I have to worry you’ll do it again?”

  I pushed back with my feet and lifted them up, letting myself swing back and forth for a minute.

  Finally Duckie grabbed one of the chains of my swing and stopped me. “Brooke. Seriously.”

  I stared forward, my eyes locked on that stupid Nazi graffiti. For a moment, I felt more robotic than human. “No. You don’t have anything to worry about.”

  He didn’t believe me, and I was waiting for him to call me on it. We both knew that killing myself was still very much on my mind. But I’d deny it to the very end. I think we both knew that too.

  To my amazement, he dropped the subject without so much as an argument. For the moment, at least. “Prom’s coming up. You going with me or what?”

  “That’s a hell of a way to ask someone to be your date to prom. Some people propose such a thing in grand gestures that make the askee swoon. I get asked on a decrepit swing set with ‘or what?’ attached.” I nudged him with my elbow, but he didn’t smile. So I tried a different approach. “I thought you were going to ask Tucker.”

  His eyes lit up at the mere mention of Tucker. “And risk having my heart broken by a pretty boy with brown eyes and a dashing smile? Nah. I’d rather go with you.”

  “Liar.”

  “That makes two of us, doesn’t it?” Suddenly the lightness of the moment was gone. Duckie was done with casual conversation. He was done pretending that everything was roses and rainbows with me, the way my mother had pretended on the drive home from Kingsdale. He was ready to talk about what I had done that night at Black River, whether I was ready to or not. “Look. I know you don’t want to hear it, but you scared the shit out of me, and I’m worried about you. Since your mom’s phone call from the hospital, I’ve been going over all sorts of things you said or did in the past, looking back to see if there were any signs you were that close to the edge. Then I remembered the bandages on your arm. You were cutting, weren’t you? Just tell me.”

  My jaw tightened stubbornly. “Take me home now.”

  “Not until you tell me what really happened. I wanna hear it from you, Brooke. Not from whispers in the hall. Not from carefully worded medical descriptions. I want to hear what exactly you were thinking, feeling, doing that night. From you. My best friend.”

  “Fine. I’ll walk.” I stood up, and he immediately caught my hand in his.

  “I’m sorry. I just . . . I can’t pretend that it didn’t happen.” He wouldn’t have to, but he had no way of knowing that. “Come on. Stay. We can still have fun.”

  But the fun was over. The stolen moment of peace and reminiscence had been tainted. “Just take me home.”

  The drive back to my house was long and silent. And when we finally pulled into my driveway, I got out with my backpack and shut the door hard behind me. Duckie didn’t say a word, but I could feel his apology hanging in the air. I moved up the walk and let myself in without looking back at him.

  I arrived home an hour earlier than I would have if I’d stayed at school the entire day. No one else should have been home, but as I started heading up the stairs, my dad cleared his throat to get my attention. He and Mom were sitting in the living room, waiting for me. That was never a good sign.

  Dad pointed to the couch, and I begrudgingly took a seat but said nothing.

  Mom began. “The school called today.”

  Shit.

  “They said you missed your last two classes and that you were seen leaving school grounds in Ronald’s car.” Her mouth was a thin, angry line. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Nothing, I guess. But it was my idea. I had to practically threaten Duckie to get him to come with me.” The lie left my mouth easily, and with good reason. If they had any clue that skipping school had been Duckie’s idea, I’d be grounded from seeing him until the end of time.

  Dad muttered, “At least one of you has some semblance of good sense.”

  “You know the rules. Straight to school and straight back. No stops.” Mom was raising her voice, but I wasn’t sure she was aware of it.

  In direct contrast, Dad’s voice was calm. Too calm. Scary calm. “Perhaps taking the bus is a better idea for you.”

  Spit wads, dick jokes, and the rampant smell of body odor hit my memory like a Mack truck. Was he serious?

  “Dad, I’m a senior. Do you have any idea how ridiculous I’d look riding with the lowerclassmen?”

  “We could always hire a tutor and have you homeschooled.” He leaned forward in his seat, eyes on me. He was challenging me. Warning me. The room suddenly felt much warmer than it had earlier. Uncomfortably so. “You tell us, then. What other option is there? Because today you proved that we can’t trust you.”

  “I’m sorry, okay? We just went out to our old elementary school and sat on the swings for a while. Duckie asked me to prom. It was really no big deal. He was with me the entire time.” I flicked my eyes between them, wanting more than anything for them to believe me.

  My mother snapped, “If you’re lying to us—”

  “I’m not. Really. It won’t happen again.” It was another lie, but the truth was going to get me precisely nowhere.

  A long silence followed as they looked at each other. I got the impression that a conversation was taking place silently between them, but couldn’t be sure what was being said about me exactly.

  Finally, my mom wiped away tears that I couldn’t see, and Dad turned back to me. When I looked at him, I saw a stranger. Gone was the man who’d carried me into the ER after Duckie had accidentally pushed me out of the big oak tree in our backyard when I was eight. Gone was the man who’d taught me how to operate power tools when I was twelve. Gone was the man whom I’d loved more than any guy on the planet. He wasn’t my dad now—I mean, he was . . . but he was also my warden. I’d never felt more detached from him.

  “You get one more chance. Step out of line again, and we’ll have to rethink how much time you spend with Ronald.” Dad’s jaw twitched slightly. “Got it?”

  “Yeah . . . I got it.”

  Once the interrogation was completed, I went upstairs and hung the new cranes up beside the one that Joy had given me. Then I sat at my desk and began folding more, trying not to think about my parents and their seriously asshole threat to keep Duckie and me apart. I thought about the shrink I was supposed to start seeing soon as part of my outpatient treatment, Dr. Daniels, and how he could eat shit if he thought I was sharing any of my feelings with him. I also thought about Duckie and the fact that he knew that my dark thoughts hadn’t been magically cured by some pills. He knew me better than anyone. Better than myself even.

  It really irritated me sometimes.

  I didn’t notice how long I’d been sitting at my desk, folding paper cranes. Not until I heard my mom shout up to me, “Dinner’s ready, Brooke! Come eat.”

  I stood on my bed and hung the new cranes. As I stepped down, I brushed them with my fingertips, sending them to flight. Then
I went to the kitchen, my stomach rumbling.

  Dad was nowhere to be found—probably tinkering in the garage or off doing whatever it was that dads did when they were avoiding their families. Mom had set a bucket of chicken on the counter beside smaller containers of mashed potatoes, gravy, sweet corn, and biscuits. A chef my mother was not, but she could order up fast food like a pro. It occurred to me that I hadn’t heard her leave or return. Either I’d been super distracted by folding cranes or deeply lost in the hurt and anger over the idea that my parents would threaten to keep my best friend and me apart.

  As I filled a paper plate, she asked the inevitable question, “How was school today, anyway? I mean, the brief time you spent there.”

  Nice burn, Mom. I shrugged in response. “It was . . . school.”

  The air was heavy with the absence of Dad and neither of us bringing it up. “Any word on what the play is going to be this year?”

  I already knew where this conversation was headed, and I wasn’t looking forward to the destination. She’d been trying to get me onstage since I’d first mentioned an interest in the theater back in the eighth grade, even though I’d made it clear I would rather have a supporting role backstage. It was like nothing I did was good enough for my mother. She couldn’t just be proud of my decisions, she had to tweak them and make them hers. It was annoying. “I don’t know. I didn’t ask. Last I heard they were still debating between something Shakespeare or a musical. I think it’s between Romeo and Juliet and Fiddler on the Roof. One of those, I guess.”

  “Have you thought about trying out for a part? Being on stage instead of heading up makeup crew? It’s your senior year. Graduation is merely months away. Might as well go out with a bang.”

  “I don’t know.” I did know, just like I knew every time we had this conversation. But I also knew she wouldn’t listen.

  “You’ve been involved in the plays since the eighth grade. It would be a shame not to spend at least one play on the stage rather than behind it.”

  I flopped a pile of mashed potatoes onto my plate. They’d been so overwhipped, they almost looked like whipped cream. With my fork, I molded the pile into a tiny volcano before topping it off with gravy lava. The poor little sweet-corn people had no idea what was coming for them. “It’s called being backstage, Mom. And I just don’t feel like it, okay?”

  “I think it would be good for you to get back into a routine. To keep your mind off things. That’s all.” She put an odd emphasis on things. Because in my family, we didn’t utter phrases like suicidal ideation or wanting to off yourself. We smiled for the camera and pushed our pain down deep. It was just the Danverses’ way.

  “I said no. And before you ask, I’m not going to prom either.” She looked at me as if I’d slapped her. I shook my head. “Just leave me alone.”

  I scooped up a few of the gravy-covered corn people and put them in my mouth. So long, little corn people. Rest in peas.

  After a long silence, Mom cleared her throat. I was really hoping she wasn’t going to push the play issue some more. I was over it. “Don’t forget your therapy appointment tomorrow with Dr. Daniels. You want me to drive you?”

  That was my mother for you. If I said something to upset her, she’d make sure to remind me of my flaws. What she was really saying was, Fine, then. Don’t be onstage, like I want you to. But don’t forget to see your therapist, you little freak.

  “I’ll get a ride with Duckie.”

  “You sure? Because I can take the afternoon off. Then maybe afterward we can—”

  When I dropped my fork onto my plate, it landed in the potato volcano, crushing it. There were no corn survivors. I didn’t even look at my mother as I stood up and started walking away. I went upstairs, closed my door, and shut out whatever fantasy she was building up in her head about whatever stupid mother-daughter bonding activity she thought would make my depression dissolve into thin air. As if taking a few pills and getting a mani/pedi would be enough to make me want to go on living. As if that was all it took to escape from the darkest recesses of my mind.

  Her voice followed me upstairs, drifting through my bedroom door. “Brooke, where are you going? I was just trying to talk to you.”

  I spent the next several hours lying on my bed, wondering if Grandma still existed somewhere or if everything that had made her Grandma had dissipated into nothingness the moment her brain activity ceased. I wondered if after you died, you went somewhere with mansions and angels, if you just hung out and stalked the living without them realizing, or if you just . . . weren’t . . . anymore. I wasn’t sure what to believe, and it didn’t really matter anyway. All that mattered was that I would be free of this pain, free of this existence, and on to something else.

  Once the silence of night took over the Danvers household, I slipped quietly from my room and began looking for something—anything, really—to use to kill myself.

  I looked all over the house—even the garage—but nothing stood out to me as a tool to end the hurt. Finally, I slumped on the floor of my bedroom, resigned to the fact that I might just be stuck in this place of nothingness and pain for a long time.

  That’s when I saw it.

  It was as if I’d made a wish and someone or something had granted it. My parents had been very meticulous about removing potentially dangerous things from my room. But they’d forgotten one thing.

  Peeking out, just barely, from behind my desk was the power cord that was plugged into the wall and attached to my MacBook Air. I crawled over to it and pulled my desk away from the wall a few inches. After unplugging it, I detached the smaller cord from the larger extension. With a deep breath, I gripped the thicker cord and gave it a good yank with both hands. It seemed pretty solid. Plus, it was just over five feet in length, so I was certain I could get a good knot around the closet bar, with plenty of room for my neck.

  This was it. I was ready. Mom was sleeping down the hall. Dad was snoring in front of the television. I was alone. And I was mere minutes away from freedom.

  A strange panic filled me. If I didn’t do it now, they might discover the cord and remove it. If I didn’t do it now, I would wake up tomorrow . . . and I just knew that my first thought would be one of regret.

  I opened my closet doors and looped the cord around the bar, pulling it snug. Without thinking, without feeling, I tied the other end around my neck and stepped up on my hamper, thankful for such a tall closet. It was almost over—all my pain, all my anguish, all my absolute sorrow. I was one small step away from the freedom that I so longed for.

  There was a moment, a brief one, when I wondered if it would hurt. I pictured the videos I’d watched on deeply buried sites online of people strangling themselves to death. They’d kicked and flailed, and I wasn’t certain if that was just the body’s natural reaction to strangulation . . . or if it was a sign of having second thoughts. I wanted to die, but I didn’t want to hurt. Not a lot, anyway.

  As if in a response from the universe, my left foot slipped and I fell in a short drop, dangling in my closet. The pain was unbearable. I was choking, flailing, my tongue protruding from my mouth. Images from the videos I’d seen flashed through my mind, but still, I didn’t have my answer. Part of me knew that the pain would soon end. Part of me was struggling to be free of the cord, for what reason, I had no idea. Then there was a loud crash, and I slammed onto the floor. I coughed and coughed until air at last entered my lungs in a fiery gasp.

  A pile of clothing and hangers covered me. The closet bar had broken. I coughed again, my lungs burning, my neck and spine aching terribly.

  My bedroom door was flung open and my dad burst in, his eyes wide. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  I waved my hand at him in a dismissive way, hoping I’d be able to talk. It still felt like the cord was squeezing my throat, even though it had apparently slipped free and was nowhere to be seen. When I spoke, my voice was hoarse, my throat on fire. “I’m fine. Just tried to reach something on the top shelf and put my f
oot on the bar.”

  “Jesus, Brooke.” He looked at me in utter relief that I was all right. If only he knew. And the lines in his forehead suggested that he wasn’t quite certain if he totally bought my line of bullshit. His eyes scanned the closet, me, my room, but apparently his examination was enough to convince him I’d been telling the truth. “You know we have a step stool, right?”

  I nodded. “I’ll remember that for next time.”

  He wet his lips and sighed. For a moment, I thought he might say that he knew damn well what I’d been trying to do and then tell me he was taking me back to Kingsdale immediately. But instead, he said, “It’s late. I’ll fix your closet tomorrow. You should get to bed.”

  After he left, I sat in my closet and cried from the very depths of my soul. I was alone in this, and no one could save me.

  Not even me.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I was exhausted when Duckie picked me up for school the next morning, and my throat still hurt like hell. I also had the worst headache of my entire life. It was going to be a long day, I could feel it. Made longer by my mom watching out the front window, as if to be certain I was going with Duckie, the way I was supposed to.

  I slid into the Beast and shut the door, fighting a yawn and losing. Duckie didn’t put the Beast in reverse or anything. He just sat there, so I looked at him, already knowing what was on his mind. He said, “Are you mad?”

  “No. I’m not mad.” Duckie was pretty intuitive. I was mad, but not for the reasons he might have thought. I was mad because I opened my eyes this morning. I was mad because I woke up in my bed, in my room, in my life. I was mad because I woke up at all. I wasn’t mad at Duckie, or anybody else—even my parents, really. I was mostly mad at myself and feeling lost and confused.

  “You don’t have to talk about what happened that night at the river, y’know. Or even what happened in the hospital. I was just curious. I didn’t mean to—”

  “Let’s just drop it.” I pulled my sunglasses out of my backpack and slid them over my eyes, dimming the morning light.