Headfirst Falling

by Melissa Guinn

  “Me too.”

  * * *

  I roll out of bed at eight o’clock, particularly irritable. My night consisted of an awful nightmare, a lot of tossing and turning, and very little sleep. I shuffle into the bathroom to brush my teeth and stop to stare at myself in the mirror. I look awful. An unsightly bruise stretches across the right side of my face. It’s worse beneath my eye, where the blood from broken vessels has pooled. The innermost areas are deep red and still fresh, while other parts have morphed into uncomfortable shades of blue and purple. The outermost edges are yellow and on the mend.

  Stewart’s face flashes through my head, and my skin crawls. I can almost feel his hot breath on my neck. I spin from the mirror quickly, not wanting to see my own cold, flat eyes. I hate him, and I hate myself right now.

  The kitchen’s empty. There’s a note from Taylor.

  Grocery shopping. I’ll be back with dinner before work tonight. Love, T.

  I crumple it and shoot for the nearby trash can. I miss, but I leave it on the floor. The newspaper sits neatly on the bar, unopened and unread, so I pick it up. It’s only more bad news, article after article of depressing stories. Four killed in an automobile accident, crime reports and a story of a missing child...all reminders of what an ugly world this is. I wish it would all go away.

  I crumple the first page and shoot for the trash can. Miss. I do the same with the next page, and the one after that. When the newspaper is gone there are crumpled balls of paper covering the kitchen floor and a wastebasket that’s still empty.

  My cell phone whistles with the arrival of a text message. It’s Taylor.

  Don’t forget to take your medication for pain this morning.

  I sigh and let it drop onto the bar. Then my eyes wander up the liquor cabinet. “I’ve got a better idea,” I say as I reach to take a bottle of whiskey from the top shelf. It’s my favorite, reserved for self-loathing, which I’ve certainly done my share of over the past year. Whiskey never disappoints. So even though I know I shouldn’t do it, I open the bottle and pour myself a glass.

  * * *

  Taylor’s voice floats into the living room from the kitchen, where she’s busy cleaning up my mess. She put up a fuss over it, but not a big one. “Did you take a pain pill this morning?”

  “Yes,” I lie.

  I hear the twist and pop of my medication bottle’s top. “That’s strange, because there aren’t any pills missing.”

  “You’re right. That is strange.”

  She exhales theatrically, making her frustration with me apparent. “You should be taking these.”

  I sulk. “I will. I just forgot this morning.” I return my attention to the television. Nothing good is on. Nothing good is ever on. I settle for a piece of reality crap.

  “Have you been drinking today?”

  I sit up on the couch to peek over the back of it. “No.”

  She’s holding the bottle of whiskey and glaring at me with flinty eyes. “Then what is this?”

  I gaze at her with a blank expression. “I don’t know where that came from.”

  She slams it to the granite countertop. “Goddamn it, Charlie!” The outburst startles me. “Have you lost your mind?” She paces across the length of our kitchen a couple of times before throwing her hands in the air. “I don’t have time for this. I’ve gotta go to work.”

  She disappears into her room. When she reemerges she’s dressed in her scrubs. She still looks pissed, so I decide I shouldn’t say anything. I watch her from the couch. She stops at our front door and turns on her heel to face me.

  She points at me with a stern expression. “You need to get your damn act together.” I remain indifferent until the door slams behind her, and then when I’m alone, I cry. Sobs rattle through my chest and make it hard to breathe, but I find it impossible to stop.

  * * *

  I’m pouring the last of the whiskey bottle into my glass when Taylor calls. It’s been hours since our fight, and I’m drunk. I let it go to voice mail. Our house phone rings next. Her voice fills the room when the answering machine beeps. “Charlie, are you home? I just wanted to apologize for being such a bitch. I’m just worried about you. Please take your medication. You need a good night’s rest. Call me if you need anything, okay?” She clicks off the line.

  Oh, I’ll take my medication. I stumble to the kitchen, where the transparent orange bottle waits. I pick it up and hold it to my face. Squinting, I stare at it as the image blurs and spins in front of me.

  All my problems started with a stupid bottle just like this. A stupid bottle with my father’s name printed across it. I pop off the top and turn it over, spilling all of the pills across the countertop. I sweep my hand through them and make a fist. I don’t know how many I grab, but I know it’s more than the one I’m allotted. But I don’t care. I put them on my tongue and send them down my throat with the rest of the whiskey that waits in my tumbler.

  Then I hurl the glass. It collides with the wall and shatters. And I like it. The way it sounds. And the way it looks on the ground. Broken to pieces. Broken. I’m out of control and reckless, and out of my own mind.

  I stumble to the living room and stare at my artwork on the walls. They suck. All of them. They’re sad, stupid pieces about the death of my brother. Pictures that I painted to make myself feel better. But do they? No. They don’t offer any comfort. They can’t change anything. They’re only a mix of paint and emotions. They can’t put air back into my brother’s lungs or piece him back together, can’t cure my father’s cancer, can’t give me a mother, can’t fix the internal, fucked-up mess I am. They can’t do anything...because they’re just pictures of my shitty life.

  My hands reach out from my sides, and I watch them as they latch on to one of the canvases and pull, ripping it from the wall. I throw it across the room and repeat the process for the rest. I don’t want to look at them anymore. I don’t want to look at any of this anymore. I’m getting out of here.

  I run to my car and slide behind the wheel, struggling to insert the key into the ignition. When the engine finally roars to life I stomp my foot on the gas, hard. I’m going to see Adam.

  * * *

  “Hey, brother.” I slur my words, standing at the foot of his grave. “It’s me, Charlie. Again.” I collapse on the ground and let my back fall against the headstone behind it. “I hit a new low today. Rock bottom of rock bottom, you could say.”

  I let my head fall into my hands. It spins out of control. “Why couldn’t it be me down there?” I speak to the ground he’s buried beneath. “You would be able to handle this. I can’t. I’m weak. I’ve always been weak. You were always the brave one, the strong one.

  “And I’m crazy. I’m having conversations with my dead brother.

  “I wish you would say something.” I bang my fist against the ground. “But you can’t because you’re dead, and you’re gone. You aren’t in the clouds, or in the sky, or in heaven. You’re in the dirt. You’re nothing.”

  Hot tears flow down my face. I’m angry. I grit my teeth and scream at the ground. “I wish I were nothing with you, because then I wouldn’t have to feel. I wish I didn’t have to feel anymore. I don’t want to do this anymore!” I snap with my words and completely lose it. I stand and surge forward, balling my hands into tight fists and crashing them into Adam’s headstone with all my strength over and over again.

  “I hate you!” I sob, falling to the ground and staring down at my bloody, disfigured hands. I don’t recognize them. “You said everything would be okay, and look at me! I’m not okay,” I shout. “I will never be okay without you.”

  My stomach heaves, and I vomit all over myself. Then I close my eyes. I want to go to sleep.

  “Charlie!” My heavy head sways in search of the voice. Footsteps pound toward me. “Charlie!”

  Hands
hook under my shoulders and yank me to my feet. The sudden movement spins my head, and my stomach sinks. I vomit again. All over a pair of blue Nike shoes. I look up and squint my eyes in a haze.

  “Adam?”

  The hands gently shake my shoulders. “No, it’s Devin.” He brings my hands into his own and studies them. “Damn it, Charlie. What did you do to yourself?”

  I fall forward, collapsing against his chest, and sob. “I don’t know.”

  He embraces me. Then I’m lifted and my feet leave the ground. We’re walking. “We’ve got to get you to the hospital.” He drops me into the passenger’s seat and buckles me in.

  “I’m going to throw up,” I mumble, my words barely audible.

  “Throw up then.”

  “I’m in your car and I’m going to throw up,” I repeat.

  “It’s okay, Charlie, throw up.”

  And I do, spectacularly. All over myself and all over his expensive leather seats.

  He talks into his cell phone, and I don’t bother to listen to the words. I let my head fall back against the headrest, and I close my eyes, falling headfirst into a black, spinning room.

  * * *

  My eyes flutter open just in time to see a familiar glowing red sign. Emergency Room. “Taylor?”

  Her worried face appears above mine, and she blinks her blue eyes. “I’m here, Charlie.”

  “I threw up,” I say.

  She shakes her head sadly. “You did a lot more than that. Are you in any pain?”

  I close my eyes to escape the objects and faces that spin above me. “I don’t feel anything.”

  Her voice reaches my ears. “Charlie, can you hear me? Why did you do this?”

  I open my eyes and look up at her. “Because I’m weak.”

  * * *

  “I’m never drinking whiskey again,” I announce as Taylor wheels me from the hospital for the second time this week.

  Devin laughs behind me.

  “It’s not funny,” Taylor snaps. I can hear the scowl in her voice. I feel awful. Absolutely, completely awful—physically and mentally.

  I cover my face with my hands. “Could you just push me off a cliff?”

  She sighs. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “You’re checking me into a mental hospital, aren’t you?”

  She laughs. “Shut up.”

  I stare down at the bright purple cast encasing my right arm. It starts just after the tips of my fingers and ends above my elbow. “Did I pick this color? It’s hideous.”

  “I picked it. Purple’s your favorite color.”

  I snort. “Yeah, when I was seven.”

  Devin helps Taylor get me into her car. “I’m sorry I threw up in your car,” I tell him for what’s probably the fortieth time tonight.

  He laughs. “It’s no big deal. Really.”

  They close the door and speak outside of the car for a few moments. Talking about the little problem they’ve got on their hands...which happens to be me. Devin bends and kisses her. Then smiles before he turns and heads for his car across the lot. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—he must really, really love her to put up with such a whacked-out best friend.

  When she gets into the car, she shifts in her seat to face me. Her expression is serious. “Charlie, I want you to promise me to never, never do that again.”

  I drop my eyes in shame. “I promise.”

  She presses her fingertips to her temples. “Good, because you almost gave me a heart attack. Seeing them wheel someone you love through those doors is a nightmare.” She starts the car, and we move forward. I stare down at my left hand, which is just as immobile as my right, for the time being. Underneath the layers of gauze and self-adhering wrap three of my knuckles are in stitches. I really did a number on myself. One night spent in the emergency room, and a broken distal radius, and I think I learned my lesson. Taylor is absolutely right...I need to get my act together.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I stare down at the swirling piece of rhinestone artwork Taylor super-glued across my arm. “Thanks for bedazzling my cast.”

  She laughs. “Thanks for letting me.” I grin sheepishly. She stands and starts putting away the mess of crafts that cover the coffee table. “Have you talked to your dad yet?”

  I shake my head. I don’t know why I haven’t told him. I begged Taylor not to call him at the hospital. I feel guilty for behaving the way I did, ashamed even. What’s he going to think when he hears about it? And how do I even start that conversation? Hey, Dad...I swallowed a handful of pain pills with half a bottle of whiskey. Then I spent the night yelling at Adam’s grave before getting into a fistfight with his headstone. He’s going to be disappointed. And he’s going to blame himself. That’s the worst part.

  “You need to talk to him.”

  “I will,” I say quickly. “I’ll talk to him first thing tomorrow. I promise.”

  She purses her lips, like she wants to say something else, but chooses not to.

  “Will you take me to see Jackson?” I ask after a few minutes.

  She frowns. “Are you sure you’re feeling up to that?”

  “Yeah.” It’s time to let him in.

  “Well, why don’t we go after dinner? You should really eat.”

  I’m disappointed but agree. We eat in the dining room, and even though I’m not hungry, I force some food down to appease her. I want to crawl into my bed and hide from my problems. Stewart, my dad, Jackson, Adam—I don’t want to face any of them. But I know I have to. Because if I don’t I’ll be stuck. I need to take a step forward, and I’m starting with Jackson.

  Something inside me snapped last night. Now I’m broken, and pieces I can never get back are gone. I can only hope Jackson will accept me, demons and all. And if he doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do. But it’s still a step forward. No more running.

  By the time we make it downtown I’m completely apprehensive. I point out his building. “It’s right there.” Melvin is standing outside.

  She pulls over to the curb and stops. Then she squints at something in the distance. “Isn’t that Jackson right there?”

  I follow her line of sight. He’s stepping out of a yellow cab. My heart skips a few beats. I grab for the door handle and shove it open. I take a few big steps toward him then call out his name. “Jackson!”

  He spins around. “Charlie?” His eyes widen as he takes in the sight of me. “What in the world—” His words cease as my face distorts into one of disgust. Mary Jane is crawling out of the cab behind him, carrying a bouquet of roses.

  A devious smile forms on her lips when she sees me.

  He frowns and steps away from her. “What happened to you?”

  I close the distance between us. “What the hell is she doing with you?” I seethe, glaring at Mary Jane over his shoulder.

  He glances back at her and shakes his head. “This isn’t what it looks like. Let me explain.” He reaches out for me, but I pace backward, avoiding his touch.

  I stare at the roses in her hand and they fuel my fire. “What the fuck, Jackson?”

  He looks from me to her to the flowers like he’s confused.

  Mary Jane speaks behind him. “Let me clarify things by saying that this is exactly what it looks like.”

  I rip the flowers from her grip with my good hand and turn on Jackson. I slap them across his face as hard as I can manage, sending red petals flying. They swirl around us in a cloud before spinning to the ground.

  He takes a stunned step back.

  I advance and bring my hand down again, hitting him over the head with the bouquet. Tears build in my eyes and distort my vision. “You. Are. An. Asshole.” I hit him with each word, sending him backward. “I hate you.”

  I l
ift my hand to hit him again, and he finally reacts, reaching with lightning speed to stop my wrist in midair. “Charlie. Stop.” His voice is calm, but his eyes are lost, confused by my actions, like he doesn’t know what to do next.

  He reaches out for me.

  “Don’t touch me,” I snap, and he freezes. The first tear falls over my cheek, and then the rest pour down relentlessly. I shove the bare stems into his chest and grit my teeth. “I never want to see you again, Jackson.”

  I push past him and barrel to Taylor’s waiting car. She stares at me wide-eyed. “Charlie?”

  “Get me out of here,” I say.

  “He’s coming—”

  “Please!” I shout. She stomps on the gas and I cover my face with my casted arm so I don’t have to see him as we pull away, leaving him behind in the rearview.

  * * *

  I awake a shaking, crying mess. I’ve had another nightmare. I pull in a few staggering breaths and manage to calm my sobs, but it does nothing for the hollowing of my chest.

  I toss and turn and study the unfamiliar room around me; it’s bare, and I feel entirely detached from it. It has no pictures or posters, and the walls are a safe, boring eggshell. I should start sleeping in my own room again.

  I stand, tiptoe down the hall and stop in front of my closed door. I lift my hand to grasp the polished doorknob, and a cold flush crawls up my flesh. Stewart’s beady black eyes flash before me, and the smell of his blood drenches my nostrils.

  I take a staggering step back and reach for Taylor’s door instead. I crack it open. “Taylor?”

  “Charlie?” Her voice is heavy and tired. “Are you okay?” She switches on the bedside table lamp. Devin yawns and stretches beside her.

  I rub my thumb across my ring nervously, unable to spin it.

  “Did your wrist wake you? I’ve got your pain pills right here, I—”

  “I had a bad dream,” I interrupt.