Schizo (14 page)

IT IS DARK AND
everyone is asleep by the time I get home.

I walk silently to my dad's office and then to the bathroom.

The knife I'm using was a wedding present given to my parents that has never actually been used—as far as I know. It's Japanese—large, almost like a butcher's knife. I had to take it from a fancy wooden box in the top drawer of the rolltop desk in my father's office.

I'm using the expensive knife because I know it will be sharp—much sharper than that dull-as-shit Ikea knife set we have in the kitchen.

I take the blade into the tub, wearing my sweat pants—because I totally don't want to be stark naked when they find me.

I sit cross-legged with my back pressed up against the mildewed tile.

The drops of water left over from whoever took a shower last are soaking into my pants, and the smell of soap and shampoo and whatever else is overpowering.

I breathe out long and slow.

The bathroom is small and cramped and bright and I would've preferred to light some candles or something, but I guess I have to make do with what I've got.

There aren't any pictures in here at all—only the mirror over the sink and a lot of toiletries and dried flowers and bath salts and my mother's pretty perfume bottles she never uses.

I decide to cut my right wrist first, holding the knife in my left, 'cause my right hand is much stronger. That way, once my right wrist is done, I'll still be able to use the hand to finish the job.

The voice is whispering softly, telling me that this is what I deserve. I have destroyed everything. This is all that is left.

“You are a parasite,”
it tells me.
“You aren't fit for survival. You are a burden on your family. You are a burden on humanity. You are sick, diseased. The world will be better off without you.”

It tells me what to do.

“Cut with the knife,”
it says.
“Start with the right one.”

And so I do as it says. I take the knife in my left hand and cut it into my right wrist. I try to do it fast, without even thinking about it. I draw the knife quickly and deeply straight across the veins. It stings like a motherfucker. That's what I can say. It stings and burns and it fucking hurts.

It hurts so much that I drop the knife. I'm struggling for breath like I've just jumped into the freezing cold ocean. A thousand needles cover me and the blood comes—deep purplish, crimson, black.

Somehow I do manage to grab the knife with my right hand, though, just like I'd planned. Gritting my teeth, I draw it quickly, albeit less deeply, across the other wrist.

This time I vomit. I flop onto my side and throw up into the shower drain. I choke and cough and wretch as the vomit forces itself up and out of my throat. I'm covered in blood and puke and I feel myself quickly passing out.

The only thing left to do now is call 911 to make sure the EMTs find me before my parents do—or, God forbid, Jane. To scar her like that would be worse than anything. I can't let that happen—no matter what.

So I swing my body back around to where I put my phone. Luckily, 911 is pretty easy to dial, even with both wrists sliced open—but I guess that's probably the point.

My twitching fingers find the numbers and I wait, fighting to stay conscious.

Click.

“Nine-one-one Emergency, how can I help you?”

My breathing comes fast and shallow, so I can barely get the words to come out of me.

“Th- . . . th- . . . there's been a . . . No, I . . . I killed myself.”

Pause.

“What? I'm sorry, sir, what? Can you repeat that?”

More breathing.

“I . . . I . . . I said I killed myself. 1717 Clement Street.”

“You killed yourself?”

I close my eyes.

“Th- . . . the back bathroom.”

“What? Hello, sir, are you there? Please stay on the line with me, sir.”

I feel tired suddenly—so deeply fucking tired.

The curtain falls.

There is only darkness.

IT TA
KE
S ME A
few moments to realize what's happened and where I am.

The room is bright and blinding. I'm being choked by something so I can't talk, but I need to. I need help right away. There is this giant plastic tube down my throat and my eyes are watering and I keep on gagging as I call out, “Ahhhhh! Ahhhhhh!”

And then a nurse is there standing in front of me, cocking her head to one side as my eyes go wide and I jerk my body back and forth, still gagging, and begging her to get this thing out of my throat.

“Aughhh! Aughhhh!”

She leaves then, if you can believe that. She leaves, and so I start flailing and making as much noise as I can to get them to pay attention to me and get this thing out of me.

I'm not sure how long that lasts, but finally two nurses come in—and one, this large drag-queen-looking guy, says to me, “Just hold on, sugah.” And he holds on to me while the other nurse pulls the tube out of my stomach and out of my throat and I gag and breathe and gasp for more and more breath.

“Well, you awake now, honey. Good. The doctor will be here shortly.”

And then the other nurse starts messing around with one of the IV drips I have going and shoots in what I imagine must be a bunch of morphine, 'cause I start to fade out again pretty quick after that.

“You sleep,” the nice drag-queeny one says. “The doctor will come.”

I nod my head—trying to say thank you, but my throat's burning too bad.

“Shhh, shhh, don't talk.”

My eyes close again.

And that's when . . . suddenly . . . I remember.

I failed.

Again.

WAKING A SECOND TIME,
I sit up all at once out of the deepest blackness. There is someone there, next to me, whispering in my ear.

“Get out. Get out of here.”

The brightness floods in and I blink my eyes and call out, “Who's there?”

The voice speaks from some hidden place inside me.

“Get out of here. Get the fuck out of here.”

My breath comes in gasps—my throat is dry and pained and raspy.

I grab at the needles all stuck in my arms and pull them free, along with the tape that held them fastened.

“Get out! Get out!”

There is a plastic curtain around my bed that I take hold of to try to hoist myself up, but it tears away from the metal frame and I find myself sprawled out on the cold, chemical-smelling linoleum, the curtain all tangled around me.

“Get out! Get out!”

I start to crawl, but something is stopping me—something at my waist. I reach down and feel what is there, burning and tugging at the place between my legs.

“Get out!”

“I will get out,” I say aloud. “I will get out.”

There is a piercing noise like an alarm going off loud in my ears.

“Help me!” I yell. “Help me! Get this out of me.”

But the voice has abandoned me suddenly.

“Hello? Hello? Help me. Hello?”

There is nothing but the alarm screaming. It screams like a siren.

I hold my palms up against my ears.

And then someone else is there, holding me under my arms.

“Jésus Cristo, kid.”

My head thrashes wildly.

I feel myself being lifted up.

“Hold him. Hold him.”

The burning between my legs intensifies.

“Get off of me!” I yell. “What the fuck!”

There is a great pressure on my chest and then something sharp cutting into my side.

“Get him down. Hold him.”

The alarm stops screaming at me then, but the pain in my side just keeps getting worse and fucking worse.

I'm having trouble breathing.

“Your ribs are broken,” says a voice, “from the CPR. Lie still.”

I do as I'm told.

I lie, blinking my eyes and trying to see.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “Someone was here. Someone was making me leave.”

And then there is a loud sobbing noise next to me, and I turn and finally recognize something: my mother.

She is hunched over, crying, her shoulders heaving, and at the same time shouting, “He needs his medication! Please! I told you! He needs his medication!”

She is very pale-looking, and her gray hair is knotted on top of her head.

“Goddamnit,” I say hoarsely. This is exactly what I didn't want.

I feel the almost weightlessness of my mom's frail hand on my shoulder.

“Hush, now, Mie. Hush, baby.” And then louder, to the nurses, or whoever else is there, “He needs his medication.”

“Please,” I whisper.

There is the prick of a needle in the crook of my arm and then a warmth flooding me.

“Am I peeing?” I ask.

And then it's all black again.

MY MOTHER IS THERE
and my father, too, both staring at me intently as my eyes try to focus.

“That's better now, isn't it?” my mom asks me—and I have to admit that it is.

I feel calm and clear for the first time.

I know fully where I am.

I mean, I'm in the hospital.

There are needles stuck in me connected to fluid drips and a catheter up in between my legs—which must've been what remained attached to me when I tried to run away. There are machines monitoring my heart rate and my blood pressure. There are thick bandages wrapped around both arms. Fuck, man, they've stitched me up and put me back together again. And they must've gotten me on the right meds now, too, because I'm not acting all psycho.

“Mom?”

She smiles. “Yes, yes. I'm here.”

I smile back, suddenly aware of how parched I am. My tongue is thick and swollen.

“W- . . . water? Is there water?”

My mom turns, and I can see that my dad is standing there behind her. My request triggers a chain reaction of people looking over their shoulders. My mom, my dad, the doctor, a male nurse. Actually, it stops at him. He goes off, returning a second later with a plastic cup in his hand.

“Here you go,” he says, his voice deep and startling.

He helps me to sit up and take the cup with my right hand. The wrists on both sides are still sore as fucking hell.

I gulp down the water.

“Th- . . . thank you,” I manage to say.

He bows his head, and then the doctor comes over and puts a callused hand on my forehead. He speaks very gently.

“You are still running a slight fever. But the worst of it should be over now.”

“Thank you,” I say again.

He nods, adjusting the stethoscope hanging around his neck. “My name is Dr. Fliederer, Miles. I was the doctor on call the night you . . .” He pauses. “Came in here.”

His eyes are so transparent and blue and kind, I can't help but look away.

“Oh,” I say dumbly.

“And now,” he continues, audibly tapping his foot on the linoleum, “well, I've been working with your parents on your continuing care plan.”

My dad steps forward at that moment. His skin is gray and ashen-looking.

“Hey, buddy,” he says, putting his hand up.

I smile. “Hey, Dad.”

My voice cracks. I can see his eyes are red and swollen from crying, and I think maybe I might cry then, too. I mean, he looks so helpless standing there, so awkward and unsure.

“We just want to do what's best for you,” he says, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

“That's right,” my mom says, walking up between my dad and the doctor, moving some hair back from my eyes. She leans forward and kisses my cheek. I try to smell the smell of her, but hospital disinfectant and plastic obscures everything else. “We just want what's best for you,” she repeats.

It's fucking cold in here, so I'm shivering. The shivering runs all the way through me. I don't know, maybe it's the fever. All I know is that I want to sleep again so badly it hurts.

My joints crack and I go on shivering.

“It . . . ,” I start. “I m-mean, it's s-so cold. Could we . . . Is there a heater?”

My parents both look at the doctor, who, again, looks at the nurse. “Could you bring Miles another couple blankets?” he asks him. And then to me: “I'm sorry, Miles. It's a hospital.”

I shiver. “Oh . . . okay.”

“What you need is some more rest,” he says.

I nod.

“Yes, good,” he continues on. “That's good. We just wanted to talk to you very briefly, your mother and father and I, about your aftercare plan. And I believe we've found the best possible solution for your situation.”

I manage to laugh a little. “A brain transplant?”

The doctor smiles, still looking very kind. “No, I'm afraid not. But we have gotten you on a new medication. It's called Clozaril and it's proven to be somewhat of a miracle drug with severe schizophrenic patients. So that's something to be hopeful about. And we are going to transfer you to our psych ward here at the hospital and keep you on a seventy-two-hour hold where you'll be seen by our specialist, Dr. Dubonis. Do you understand all that?”

My attention shifts over to my mom then, who has started crying, however silently. She holds my stare and smiles through her tears.

“A psych ward?” I ask, my teeth starting to chatter.

My mom's eyes remain fixed on mine. She nods slowly. “It's just for a few days.”

“Christ, fuck,” I say, the tears coming now. “I'm sorry. Please, can't I just come home?”

The doctor clears his throat again. “No, Miles. You need to get well. I'm afraid there's no choice.”

My mom puts a hand on my forehead as I start to cry. “Hush, now, hush.”

She has just the saddest, sweetest smile. My dad, too, really.

I lie back down on the bed and let my eyes start to close.

“E- . . . Eliza?” I say, half sleeping already. “Does Eliza know?”

The sound of the overhead fluorescent lighting is loud, crackling through the silence.

“Don't worry,” my dad finally whispers. “That's all behind you now.”

He puts a hand gently on my forehead and tells me again not to worry.

I turn, shivering, onto my side.

I pull the blanket up over my head.

I sleep, but do not dream.

I know now I will never dream again.

Because in my life, there are no dreams left.