All the possibilities

All the possibilities

I look down at the small, smooth, white piece of paper.  The numbers, in their square-ish font, smile back at me.  6 30 33 44 3 9.  There they are.  Would they be my destiny?  Would they change my life forever?  If only I knew.

I wake up a week later, unexcited to crawl out of bed and start my day.  Me, I’m your typical 40 year-old-divorcee.  I do billing at a small doctor’s office in my small, boring town.  Easy, uninteresting work, shitty pay.  When people ask me what I do, I explain.  They nod and smile, their facial expression revealing a failed attempt at conjuring up question or comment in response to my job description.  It’s always quite awkward.

So, it is another torturous, pull-yourself-out-of-bed-and-get-your-ass to-work morning.  I stand up, stretch and yawn, and give my pot belly a pat.  On my way to the bathroom, I notice a white ball under my desk.  I stop and look down to further investigate, and then it hits me.  My lottery ticket from last week!  How the hell did I forget about that?

To be honest, it’s not too difficult to imagine how I forgot about it.  I buy at least two or three a week.  Sometimes scratch-offs, sometimes PowerBall, something Pick Three - just depends on my mood.  Some might say I’m wasting money; me, I see it as an investment in my future.  I will win one day!  I will win!

I lean down to pick up the lottery ticket off the floor.  I feel old age creeping up on me as my back aches during its first bend of the day.  I suppose I’ve had a good life overall, but the stress of the past few years, what with my infertility and subsequent divorce, have taken a toll on my body.  I just don’t feel as young and spry as I used to.

As I lift myself up, white ball in hand, I think of how AWESOME it would feel if I won.  Back problems no more; I could visit the chiropractor every day. Heck, I could hire my own person chiropractor… and masseuse!  I could buy that leather sofa I’d been coveting at Williams-Sonoma…I could get those golden earring I’d always dreamed of..I could buy all of Tiffany’s for Christ sake!  And then a yacht!  And a little house in Tuscany, where I’d sip wine and watch the sunset from my porch each evening.  Oh, all of the happiness I would encounter, all of the beautiful things that would surround me.  I would no longer be me; I saw myself as Glinda, the Witch of the North, from the Wizard of Oz; covered in a white, sparkly, puffy princess dress, donning a silver, diamond covered, gleaming crown, and an expression of pure bliss and merriment splattered across my wrinkle free, Botox-filled face.

I look over at the clock, realizing I overslept, and am due in at the office in less than an hour.  I rush to the bathroom, complete my cleansing ritual in record-breaking time, and am on my way to work.

 

Stupidly, I leave my round, wrinkled up paper dream on my desk in my bedroom.  Normally, this would irk me, and I’d be overcome with curiosity all day.  But, today I find an odd tranquility surrounding me; I feel light and free.  I know, I just know, that that white ball of waxy paper and cheap ink holds my destiny, and that folded in it lay everything I’ve ever dreamt of.

Nine hours later, I am driving home.  I stop for some fast food on the way.  As I bite into my dry, meatless hamburger, I delight in the fact that this will be my last fast food meal.  After collecting my winnings, I will be eating lobster and caviar every night.

As I drive to my house, I feel at peace.  I hum along calmly to the music on the radio, a confident grin across my face.  I pull into my driveway, and turn off the engine.  As I do this, I feel a wave of sadness fall over my insides.  Who am I kidding?  There is no way I won, impossible.  I am a sad sack of shit, my happiness relying on some implausible hope of winning the lottery.  I look in the rearview mirror, my eyes staring back at me, two dark circles of nothingness.  I am nothing, I will always be nothing.  A childless divorcee, chronic back pain sufferer, and one lonely son-of-a bitch. 

I turn the key to open the front door.  I throw my bag down, walking through the living room to my bedroom.  I turn on my laptop on my desk, and look at the crumpled up paper sitting beside it.  I stand there in silence as the computer processes away, revealing my messy desktop after much buzzing.  I click onto the lottery website, bookmarked of course, unable to resist temptation.  Once there, I click the pulldown menu, selecting the date I bought my ticket (after a great deal of calendar calculating, I was able to figure out the date).  I look at the six numbers staring me in the face, and my heart races.  I feel my body once again fill with hope, feel the thrill run up my spine, through my arms and legs, shaking me up.  I pick up my white crinkly destiny, and slowly unfold it, flattening it out.  I look at the paper, and feel the exhilaration of a minute past vacuumed out of my body.  

“Walmart”, with its huge capital W, is on the top of the paper; under that, a list items (tampons, Tylanol, and Ben and Jerries Ice Cream); prices to their right.  I look at the numbers on the computer screen as I squeeze the paper back into a ball.  I swallow the lump in my throat, throw the paper in the trash bin, and turn around toward my lonely, silent living room.  

Ethiopian Food

Ethiopian Food

“What the hell is this?”  I asked Brian, as the waiter brought over our food.   I looked at the red mush, the brown chunks next to it (which I assumed were some form of meat).  Brian responded, “I told you already, it’s called wat.  It’s a typical Ethiopian dish.  It’s just chicken and onion and spices.”  He gestured toward the plate in the middle of the table, on which lay a pile of pancake-like structures with holes in them, resembling squashed pumice stones. “You eat it with injera, this bread here,” he added. 

I picked up a piece of “injera” and dipped it in some gunk.  This was not my idea of fine-dining.  This was not my idea of fun.  This was not my idea of a good time.

 

The night went on, and Brian and I engaged in stilted conversation.  It was our third date, so you’d think we’d have a lot to talk about, all that “get to know you” stuff.  But the more Brian talked, the more I disliked him.  His pretentiousness (“Oh, this wat lacks fenugreek”), his over-confident air (“When you date me, you get to taste foods from all over the world”) and his annoying laughter at his own stupid jokes (“Then I told him, not that kind of cheek, he-e-e-e-e-e”). 

I looked across at Brian, and wondered why I was doing this to myself.  I had signed up for Match two weeks ago, on my little sister’s advice.  “Everyone’s doing it,” she whined over Skype.  She sat on her couch, hundreds of miles away, in her powder pink jumpsuit.  Its zip-up sweatshirt, covered in fur and silver sparkles, rested on top of her messy blond ponytail.  I looked at her, smiled, and said “OOOOOOOOkkkay, I’ll try it.”

When you’re 39 and single, people generally don’t bug you about your dating life.  At such a point, most people figure “She must be happy on her own” or “She must not want a family.”  Or, the most likely response, “She must be so devastated that she hasn’t found ‘the one,’ and that she’s all alone, a few short steps away from spinsterhood.”  But none of these were the case for me.

Josie was my boss, and she was my world.  I had worked as her assistant at Solister’s and Associates for the past nine years.  Josie was an up-and-coming attorney back then, and she was made a partner just under a year ago.  She considered her promotion “the best thing ever.”  It was also a huge promotion (ching ching!) for me.  But, I honestly didn’t care about that.  I was just happy that Josie was taking me along with her up the ladder, and that I wasn’t being left behind for whatever new low-level attorney they hired.

Back to “my world:” Josie was it.  Every morning, on my way to work, I felt both dread and longing – dread at the idea of sitting at a desk all day doing paperwork, and a longing to see Josie anew.  I yearned for the moment she would first acknowledge me; whether it be a wave hello, eye contact and a smile, or powerwalking toward my desk, file in hand and immediate instructions.  When she wasn’t directly addressing me, I indulged in just looking at her.  She was no supermodel:  about 15 pounds overweight, thin blond hair (perhaps a bit thinner than nine years ago, when she was just 35), and a not-so-keen fashion sense.  But I loved her all the same.  I looked at her little muffin top peeking out where her tight skirt pinched her hips, the faint wrinkles over her mouth that had started to form in recent years, and how her stockings ran over her paradoxically long and stumpy legs.  These moments of secret admiration were the most precious to me.    

Sadly, all of the energy I put toward Josie didn’t add up to much, other than a pathetic infatuation.  Josie was married with three kids (ages 10, 12, and 16).  I daydreamed about her having it out with her husband after she dramatically confessed to him that she was in love with her assistant; he would shout at her “How is it possible?!” and she would yell back, tears running down her face “I don’t know, I just don’t know.”  But this would never happen.  Josie loved being a wife and mother, loved providing for her family, loved loving them.

So my secret lesbian-self lived in my secret box, and there I would stay.  

Images of Josie flashed through my mind as Brian continued his monologue about Ethiopian spices.  My life, my falsehood, my sorrowful existence, they all didn’t seem as bad as sitting here across from Brian.  I got up, excused myself, saying I had to use the ladies room.  I picked up my purse and sweater, and very openly walked out the exit door of the restaurant, onto the empty sidewalk and the dark, cool night.  I saw Brian’s confused expression through the front window of the restaurant as I walked ahead, toward the metro station. 

I knew I would never have Josie, I knew I would always be alone in my closet, pitied by all.  But I would rather it be that way forever than have to face that nasty Ethiopian food again.  

Emptiness

Emptiness


7AM: Alarm goes off. Wake up, yawn. Sit up. Get out of bed. Brush teeth, shower, get dressed. Breakfast. Off I go.

12PM: Lunch. Chicken breast sandwich. Chit chat with co-workers. Drink coffee.

12:30: Back to work.

5:30PM: Home. Dinner. TV. Reading. A walk on the treadmill.

9PM: Brush teeth, shower, get in pajamas. Bed.

Howard reviews his day in his head as he climbs into bed. Just a normal day, just like any other day, just like every day of the past fifteen years. An overwhelming sadness comes over him as he turns the light off; he doesn’t know why, where it comes from, he has never felt it before. He feels the tears creeping down the sides of his face as he lays his head on the pillow. He tells himself “tomorrow is a new day.” But he knows that it is not, it is just another layer of his useless temporary eternity.

Five years

Five years

January 9, 2016. It had been five years. Five fucking years. Mark couldn’t believe it. He closed his planner, and stared at his computer screen. Numbers, numbers, numbers. Graphs, graphs, graphs. Every day, the same thing, his life one monotonous cycle. None of it mattered. He could bring home $500 or $5,000 a week, and nothing would change the past five years.

Meowy was a cat. Yes, a cat. A little black furball, with three white spots: one across his nose, one two-thirds down the top of his back, and one just above the tip of his tail. Those spots had always wowed him; they were just so random, so strange. He still never really knew why he named him Meowy – he just kind of said it, and it stuck.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: a 49 year old (well, then he was 44) dude with a cat. But, Meowy was Mark’s world; he woke up to him every morning, chatted with him after work, and fell asleep by his side each evening.

Mark had gotten Meowy the year he finished his MBA. He knew success awaited him (he had graduated #1 in his class), knew his keen business sense would get him far; sadly, though, he had no one to share his success with. So, one sunny Saturday afternoon, at the ripe age of 24, he went down to the local pet shelter.

A staff member at the pet shelter welcomed him with open arms. She gave him a tour of the place, explained how they cared for the animals, and how important pet adoption was, to “save the animals” and all. Mark half listened to what she was saying, while glaring around at the different dogs. Yes, you heard right, DOGS. Mark was so sure that with a cute little puppy he could score a hot babe to go along with his soon to be six-figure salary. His plan had been to grab a puppy, head right to the park at the end of his street, and show the little guy off. But out of the corner of his eye, on the other side of the room, a cage of kittens caught his attention. He walked over to it as the staff member continued to babble on about vaccinations and pet registration. “Sir” she said “sir, sir…” as she followed him over.

In the cage, he saw Meowy. He was wrestling with the other kittens in the box. Well, perhaps “wrestling” isn’t the best word; more like attacking. Mark noticed his three little white spots, and just knew that puppy love wasn’t in store for him. He told the staff member he had changed his mind about adopting a dog, and less than an hour later he left, a cardboard cat carrier carrying a noisy Meowy in his hand, and a smile across his face.

So, no, Meowy did not score Mark any babes. In fact, he likely scared many off; allergies, cat hair-covered apartment (pent house or not, no one likes to leave with fur-covered pants), and then those that were “weirded out” by a guy with a cat. But in Meowy, Mark found companionship, loyalty, love, and a 100% reliable snuggle buddy.

The years went on; Mark arrived at his six-figure salary, he climbed the company ladder, proved himself a successful business man. The women came and went; there were the one night stands, two engagements (both of which he broke off), a few other +1 year relationships, but nothing seemed to stick. The only thing consistent in his life was Meowy, there day in and day out, no matter what.

On January 7, 2011, Meowy wasn’t there at the door when Mark returned from work. “That’s strange,” thought Mark, as he hustled through his apartment calling out Meowy’s name, begging for him to come. Mark finally found Meowy, under the bed, a typical hiding spot. Meowy lay in a little ball, a darkness settled over him, an dreadful awareness of what was to come wrapped around his kitty essence.

Mark took Meowy to the vet the next morning: it was the big C. At age 20, this was anything but surprising, yet Mark could not help but feel that wind had been kicked out of him. He knew Meowy was mortal, that he would not be around forever, but he just didn’t think he could REALLY die. But yes, he could. Mark took Meowy home, his soft fur concealing his cancer-ridden insides. He was hoping to have a few more days with him, a few more feeding times, a few more nighttime snuggles.

The next morning, he realized that keeping Meowy alive was cruel; he couldn’t move, couldn’t eat, wasn’t drinking; he was already dead, apart from his short, silent breathes. So, Mark took Meowy to the vet, where he said his final goodbye. No tears were shed, nothing emotional like that. It was just goodbye, so long, see yah later. And that was that.

Now, Mark looked at his datebook, and remembered Meowy. His little buddy. His annoying fur-ball. He babe-repellent. He could not believe that five years had passed, but they most certainly had. Mark would be lying if he said that Meowy “made his life better” or “gave him meaning.” I mean, it was a cat for goodness sake. An annoying cat at that. But Meowy was always there, was something he could rely, something he could hold, feel, knew was real and true. His heart felt empty as he had these thoughts. He looked at his closed planner, looked up at the sun shining through the wall-sized window of his 21st floor office, and looked back at the computer screen, numbers filling his head.

A new never

A NEW NEVER

She lifts her head from the toilet. She sees a muck lying below her in the bowl; a yellow mush, little bubbles emanating from the gook, chunks, small little pieces of food that she remembers forcing down her throat, an odor that disgusts her. Why does she do this to herself? Why does she take charge of her destruction? Why does she cause herself such damage?

She lifts her head from the toilet, wipes her mouth with her sleeve, the tears from her eyes. She decides this will be the last time. Drool dribbles down her bottom lip, and she takes a tissue to wipe it away. This will be the last time. Her behavior is so ridiculous, so pointless, so unreasonable, so wasteful. She thinks and thinks, yet she cannot find any REASON for what she does. Her life, her actions, everything is based on REASON. Yet here, in this coveted release, in this rare episode, lies no reason. Yet she continues to punish herself in this manner, fully aware that there is no sense in her action, that she is knowingly punishing herself, inflicting harm on herself; why, she does not know. But it is certainly punishment.

She turns around, facing away from the toilet, toward the mirror. The toilet stares at her in the mirror’s reflection. She looks at her watery, bloodshot eyes, her red cheeks, her tired face. She places the toothbrush on the sink, and washes out her mouth. She cannot understand why she has done what she has done. She knows that she cannot turn back time, yet there is a strong desire to do so. She rests her hands on the sink, and takes a deep breath. “Never again” she thinks to herself. “Never again” she repeats silently in her head. But is this “never” truly a “never”? Is this the real thing? Will she follow through this time?

She looks up, back into the mirror. Her face, her look, her worn out appearance, it all disgusts her. She does not hate herself, but in this moment, an image of an enemy is reflecting back on her. She wants to punch the girl in the mirror, attack her, dismiss her. But her anger quickly dissipates, and she realizes that more than anything, she wants to fix her. She wants to make her better; she wants to be better. If only it were easier.

She knows that “better” is not something that just happens. It is a hilly road to travel, with an end in sight, but without knowledge as to where or how long it will take to get there. She is traveling that road, and has been for quite some time. She has reached the top of one of the hills, and has fallen down, despondently and furiously. But she is getting back up, ready to face another day, to rise, to stretch her arms out, and become the person she wants to be. “Never again,” she utters silently, as she glares back at her reflection once again.


She stares at herself, knowing that in her head “never” is the truest thing ever. Yet she wonders if she is strong enough to let the ease of never occur, blocking all of the hard work of the destruction that gets in its way. She rinses off her toothbrush again in the sink, opens the toothpaste next to the faucet, and prepares herself to be temporarily cleansed. “This will help” she thinks to herself. “This is step one to a new never.”

Long gone

Long gone

I jiggled my key so that it would enter the stubborn, rusted lock of the front door. The dirt surrounding the lock stuck to my fingers, covering them with a brown residue, reminiscent of the one enveloping me in sorrow. I walked through the door. The house was dim, quiet. I heard my footsteps move slowly under me as they made contact with the old, creaky wooden floor. I felt a sense of hope, but a greater sense that my hope only existed to shield me from the truth.

I entered the hallway to the bedroom, and saw her room. As always, she had her Hello Kittie nametag on the door - a remnant of her childhood, of the cute little girl we all once knew and loved. The Hello Kittie sign read “Hannah” in pink bubble letters, with the expressionless face of the peculiarly popular cat leaning against the big H.

I knocked on her bedroom door. Nothing. I knocked again. My heart raced, everything inside of me willing for a response; a grunt, a whimper, something. Anything. But all I heard was the short echo of my knocks, my rapid breathing, and the silent crawl of goose bumps rising across my arms; the physicality of fear was taking over me.

I turned the knob, and there she was. Face up on the bed. Her pin straight black hair smothered across her yellow-stained pillow, her forehead covered by her black bangs, clumped together with oil and dirt. Her arms were sprawled out across her uncovered mattress. She wore a white wifebeater over her thin frame, allowing the curls of her long, thick underarm hair to jut out from her, like roots of a tree, longing to plant themselves somewhere. She wore no pants, only a small, light pink thong, with faint stains on the outside. The left side of her underwear was slightly down. Perhaps she had rolled over during the night, shifting them. Or perhaps someone had been here, had tried to take them off. Maybe they had taken them off, and couldn’t be bothered to put them back on properly.

I walked over to Hannah and shook her. I shook her again. I yelled her name. Finally, an unexpected grunt. I felt my heart rate slow down, the goosebumps settle, and found myself catching my breath. Hannah rolled over and saw my face; something like a grin spread across her dry, skin-caked lips. “Hey you” she said. I looked on the night stand, where the spoon, needle, and empty bag, sprinkled with a white powder residue, lay. I then looked back at Hannah, flooded with memories; of the girl I used to love.

I remembered my first day of third grade. I was in a new school, after my dad’s job transfer. I was so nervous, so shy, so scared to meet all of the unfamiliar kids. Hannah came up to me during art, gluestick in hand, and asked if I wanted to share her box of crayons. I looked up at her and smiled nervously, thinking of how pretty she was, how I longed to look like her, to have her confidence. I didn’t even have to respond; she sat right next to me, sensing my desire for her to be close to me.

From then on, Hannah and I were best friends. Recess, snack time, arithmetic, spelling, we did it all together. First, third grade. Then, the trials and tribulations of middle school, where we cried each other to sleep over the phone, tormented by our changing bodies and emotions. Then, high school, where we gossiped nonstop, talking of our futures, lost our virginities, and had our first beers.

Now, at twenty-three, Hannah was no longer Hannah. I could blame her ex-boyfriend Jeff, who introduced her to the stuff. I could blame our middle school, for having a shitty drug education problem. I could blame the country of Columbia, for trafficking so much blow to the US. But really, the only person to blame was sprawled out incoherently right in front of me. I hated Hannah, hated myself for being so insensitive, so odious, and all of this had led me to hate life most of all.


She was alive. At least I could sleep tonight. I looked down at my flannel Garfield pajamas. When Hannah’s mom had called me, saying she hadn’t heard from her in five days, that she wasn’t answering the phone, I ran out of my house, unaware of how ridiculous I must have looked. I now felt like a fool, running over here to THIS. I turned around, leaving Hannah vulnerable, confused, oblivious to her own filth, lying on the bed. I walked out, promising myself that this time I would truly let go.

I have never been more frightened than when...

I have never been more frightened than when...

“It doesn’t look good” Dr. Mitchell said. At that moment, I had never felt more frightened in my life. Stage IV breast cancer…metastasis to multiple lymph nodes, and now it had spread to my lungs. I was going to die. I didn’t want to utter that cliché question “How long?” so instead, I just looked at Dr. Mitchell with my ridiculous, pleading puppy dog eyes. He said “A month or so…it spread so rapidly, is so aggressive…at this point, there isn’t much we can do.”

So that was that. Fear of death hit me, but only for a brief moment. I jumped right to the acceptance stage. I’m quick like that.

I went home, fed my pet gerbil, and called my mom. “Hey mom. Yup. Yup. Yup, I talked to him today. Yup, they’re doing fine. Yup, I’m feeling great.” This went on for about a half-hour. Then I hung up, sat down on the couch, and turned on the tv.

The next month went on like any other month. I went to work each morning (I’m a kindergarten teacher). The kids had known about my cancer, with the double mastectomy having taken place just six months earlier. I could have told them my time was short. I could have advised my principal that I would be “leaving” my position soon. I could have told my mom. My brother. My best friend. I figured I was better off just keeping it on the DL.

Since I had shaken off that intense fear so quickly, I thought my next move should be the opposite of fear (or as close to an opposite one can get): indulgence. This, meaning, margaritas, every kind and type of cake, and a lot of masturbation. So that’s how I lived the next five weeks. I was a bit shocked after four weeks, when I didn’t die the next day. But I suppose it isn’t an exact science.

Since I wasn’t dead after week four, I took a weekend to fly out to see my mother and brother. My dad had died of a heart attach a few years earlier, so there would be no last goodbyes to him. The weekend was pretty routine. Dinners out (more cake and margaritas!), bland conversation, a few laughs here and there. Then I headed back to the airport on Sunday night, ready for work the next day.

A few mornings later I started to feel sick. Then a bit sicker. Then sicker. Week seven I was out of commission, and I stopped leaving my apartment. All I felt was pain; I was coughing up blood, I could barely breath. I could have gone to the hospital, but instead chose to drink myself selfless. Cake was done with, since I couldn’t keep anything down. But, I am proud to say that I could still somehow manage to swallow vodka shots.


And then, 58 days (8 weeks and 2 days) after my most frightening moment, I died. Well, I’m assuming that is what is going to happen, as I’m writing these words to you with my last bit of strength. So soon, I will close my eyes, and will be gone. It was frightening for a moment, but now, now it’s just life. Or lack thereof.

If and when I raise children, I'll never...

If and when I raise children, I'll never...

Cassandra wrung out the soaked towel. Thin red liquid dribbled out of it, quickly at first, then slower with each additional squeeze. She was almost done cleaning up the mess. Her whole body felt numb. She knew she was alive, but there were moments when she had to stop and just look at her tinted red, blood-stained hands in order to confirm that she was still the same person; she was still existing.

Samantha had been eight months old. So little, so cute, so vulnerable, and just so perfect. And she had been hers. Cassandra had never imagined that she could love someone in that way. From the pain-filled moment she pushed her out of herself, to when she was placed in her arms, she knew that her love for Samantha was eternal; she felt it evolve, having blurry, drowsy visions of Samantha’s first word, first step, first day of school, first date, and then first day at university. All of that was gone now.

Cassandra left the towel in the sink, turned on the faucet, and picked up the bucket from the ground. She filled it with soap, then put it under the running faucet. She watched the water fall in the bucket, and felt herself fall. Her feet were planted on the ground of the dim basement, and as she crouched down, she felt her heart being pulled out of her, saw it leaving her body, dragging along with it the veins and arteries that allowed her to live. “My baby, my Samantha, my Samantha…” she cried, getting louder and louder until she was shouting. She was shouting so loud she felt herself running out of breath, her lungs unable to fill up quick enough to give her the air she needed to release her agony.

She stayed crouched on the basement floor, her face drenched with tears, as she suffocated on her sobs. Her Samantha, she would never hold her small, fragile body again, feel her warm breath. Squatting on the ground, balancing herself on her toes, she again reached her hands out, looking at their redness through the blur of her tears.

Cassandra had not known she could experience such rage, never knew the savagery of her hands. But she had done it. Samantha, her little angel, had been crawling about as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. She was crawling, picking things up, exploring, as infants do. Cassandra was in the kitchen, cutting vegetables for a stew she was preparing for dinner. She saw Samantha crawl into the kitchen, giggling and babbling along. Cassandra saw Samantha, saw the knife in her hand – she would never comprehend what happened next. Cassandra had never believed in neither God nor Satan, or any foolishness of that nature. But what else could have come over her other than the devil?

Cassandra came back to the reality of the basement and her cleaning task. She lifted herself into standing position, her knees feeling weak from holding her body weight. She stood up, and taking in a deep breath. She climbed up the basement stairs, leaving the bloody towel in the sink, ignorant of the faucet still running. She walked up to the kitchen, the floor still stained with blood, the cleaning not yet complete.

She walked over to the phone. She slowly dialed 9, then 1. Then she hung up. She walked over to the counter, and picked up the knife with which she had destroyed all that mattered to her just an hour ago. She pointed it toward her chest, holding it tight, feeling the strength building inside her. Then she lunged it into her it, feeling nothing but darkness as her she fell to the ground.

If you could change anything about yourself...

If you could change anything about yourself...

Lydia paused by the door of the bedroom for a moment, and then shut off the light as she walked out. Through the darkness, Marian could see her soft smile. She wore colorful scrubs, even though both Marian and her mother were fine with her wearing street clothes. Yet, as Lydia said, “old habits die hard.” She had worked in the pediatric intensive care unit for 10 years, and wearing scrubs was simply “part of her deal.” Marian didn’t particularly like the scrubs, as they made her feel like her home was a hospital. But, she wasn’t one to argue.

Marian was fifteen years old. The accident had happened five years ago, when she was just nine. She was riding her bike, her new Swanson two-wheeler. Her mother had gotten her a white basket for the front, with pink ribbons laced through it. In the basket were some N’Sync CDs, to share with her friend Ashley, to whose house she was going. Marian couldn’t wait to sing along to the peppy music with Ashley, and to show off her new bike. Ashley would be jealous, surely, but she was so good at hiding her jealousy behind her shy demeanour. Marian didn’t care; just the feel of her envy was satisfying enough.

Marian was so engrossed in thought, so excited to show off her new bike and dance along to N’Sync with Ashley, so overcome with 9-year old bliss, that she barely felt her feet moving. The endorphins produced by the new bike, the fun she was going to have, and the overall excitement of being a child on the move, freer than ever, made her feel like she was flying. She had unknowingly begun to pedal faster, then faster, then too fast. The turn onto Ashely's street came up almost out of nowhere, and Marian quickly moved the handlebars to the left. The turn was abrupt, and she felt the bike start to lose control, her hands clenching around the handlebars. She was not strong enough to hold on, and as she felt the bike begin to tip over, she was thrown from it. She was weightless in the air; as she flew, she innocently thought to herself “I fell off my bike. I wonder what everyone will think when they see how bruised I am!” In those moments she was thriving on her naivety, her feeling of indestructibility. She barely even felt herself hit the ground. Then, everything went black.

Being a quadriplegic is not just horrible. It’s not just terrible. It’s not just the worst thing ever. Well, yes, it is the worst thing ever. But more than that, it’s just not existing. Each morning Marian’s parents hurry out of the house for work; her mom to the local bank, her dad to the car dealership, and Marian stays with Lydia. Lydia gives her her daily sponge bath, brushes her teeth, and dresses her. Marian lies still, as it’s all she can do.

It was her mom’s decision to have her home-schooled. Each day Mrs. Sorcerile comes in for a few hours to give her lessons. Lydia then helps her with her homework. At first Ashley used to come over and visit, to tell Marian about the other kids at school. She’d fill her in on the gossip, excitedly relating the day’s events. These visits started to fade a few months after the accident, and now Marian hasn’t seen Ashley in two years.

Marian used to feel positive. She used to have hope, hope for a cure, hope for a miraculous recovery, hope to salvage her wasted life. As puberty has set in, and her emotions have begun to run wild, that hope has disappeared. She puts on a show for her parents, for Lydia, for Mrs. Sorcerile, but really all she wishes for is death. If only she had the courage to ask for help. Maybe Lydia would give her a hand? But Marian can’t let anyone know how weak she is; that she doesn’t possess the power to go on.

So each day is a meaningless hole. She feels nothing. No arms, no legs. So, she grabs onto her sadness, the only true feeling she will ever have. If she could change just one thing - well, it would be everything.