Down In Me

This is ground control to Major Smith. Major Smith, can you hear me, Major Smith?

“Yes, yes I’m reading you loud and clear. Over.”

“No, no. That’s not how the story goes. You can’t hear them and they can’t hear you.”

“Oh. Oh right. But, I need them to hear me. I need to tell them about all this, you know? Everything I’ve discovered. It’s important.”

“No, it’s okay, really. You can stay with us up here. You don’t need them anymore.”

“No, you don’t understand. I’m on a crucially vital mission. The fate of my planet and my entire race rests squarely on my shoulders. I have to report my findings at once.”

“The fate of your entire race? You do realise we can read your thoughts, yes?”

“Oh, yeah. I forgot about that. Okay, maybe the whole fate of the planet doesn’t rest entirely on my shoulders, but it is very important that I report back nonetheless.”

“Yes. Yes I can see you actually believe that to be the case.”

“I do.”

“Very well. We’ll give you one chance to report back. Take a look out the window.”

“Oh my god… It’s full of stars!”

“Christ. She fancies herself some sort of Dave Bowman.”

“You’re not going to turn me into a weird star baby, are you? I don’t think I’d look good in that.”

“No, no, of course not. Anyway, come along dear. We have much greater things in store for you. For now, I’ll show you to your living quarters.”

“But wait, what about my report?”

“That was it. We gave you a chance and all you said was that it was full of stars. Not our problem.”

“Oh. Okay then. So ummm, do you boys have a queen or something up here?”

“Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m a kind and generous ruler, you know… okay, princess, I’ll settle for princess but nothing less… duchesses are so frumpy…”

So I’m in the post office this morning and I didn’t get there as early as I should have as I normally would’ve and when I finally get there, there’s a queue, right, a queue right out the door and doubling in on itself. Yeah, fuck. I join (at the back of course) and I’m looking round, you know, checking out the place assessing the situation in an all too business-like manner. Seems to be moving forward steadily but my god there’s a lot of fucking people here too many fucking people. Big packages, little packages, the lot the fucking lot. There’s at least one crying snot-nosed kid for every three people, too, crybitch moaning wailing. All sorts but then I catch sight of this guy yeah, towards the front of the queue right? His whole body’s tattooed including his face, yes his face, like an intricate ink web, but from a distance it just makes him look like he’s really, really dirty covered in dirt. And the funny thing is, he’s wearing a baseball cap and these worker type boots right… but they’re pink fucking pastel PINK. Yes, I can hear you collectively echoing, “What the fuck?” but I have no fucking idea, none. Anyway, this woman, right, she’s arguing with her kid and I’m just shifting shifty gaze around, trying not to let it—god forbid—land on anyone, specially not the ancient white-haired ladies jabbering away as they’re bound to try and include me. And I don’t give a shit, man. I don’t want to know about your fucking dietary habits, I’m just here, casually casual minding my business tending my own, yeah? Turn my attention to something else quick, you get me? Oh look there, rows upon steamy rows of an item every post office needs: romance novels. With crap titles like Hearts Aflame! And I’m noticing an alarming trend, though, a lot of these are about Texas. What the fuck indeed, like A Heart Bigger Than Texas and Secret Wedding Vows in Texas? What’s so special about fucking Texas? Surely as far as romantic locations go… oh forget it, it’s not even worth the pixels it’ll render on. And the shit pictures on the paperback covers, sweetjesus, I’m going to be sick somebody please advance this queue so I can stand next to the more interesting part with the children’s colouring books for fuckssake. And now I start to notice, manically right, totally manic—underneath all this I’m feeling like… well, like I just don’t belong here. I mean, really, what AM I doing here? What the why the fuck am I here again? Oh. Yes. Of course. Post. Letters. Right. My heart starts beating faster and faster now and I’m at that uncomfortable point in the queue where you’ve turned the corner and you’re facing the people behind you, right? And it’s still all the way out the fucking door and the lady in front of me keeps shifting back on her feet and standing way too damn close to me and the people at the back of the queue, yes I feel like they’re looking at me. They’re looking at me, yes they sure as fuck are. They’re thinking ‘I wish I was at that place in the queue’ probably. But I just feel they’re judging me, my dress, my letters, my hair, my body all of me and I start to freak out a little—just a little, just ever so slightly a touch, but my palms are sweaty and it’s all I can do to appear coolcalmchill all those cold words but instead I’m hot!hot!hot! with the burning gaze of all these sweaty staring impatient strangers. What do they want, what do the want from me? Breathe, I think, just breathe it’ll be over soon and we have to do this. Yes obligatorily right we have to do this near-insignificant task that’s so beneath us, right? Yeah it’s just a fucking post office, what are you mental? You’re fucking mad and it’s just people people people like you. And then I start to cackle maniacally to myself, all in my head, right, because this is obviously all in my head down in me in my fucking little head, right?

And then, just then… an eerie automated voice beckons, “Please proceed to window number three.”

Oh, thank fuck.

She’s young, thin and pale with long, disheveled and dirty black hair, and bags under her large black eyes as though she hasn’t slept in weeks. Mascara runs down her cheeks as she sits slumped over a kitchen table with a phone receiver pressed to her ear. On an ashtray nearby rests a lit cigarette, slowly consuming itself. A small silver handgun lies next to it. Her voice is coarse and shaky.

“Look, I’m in an extremely bad financial situation. I didn’t know my insurance wouldn’t cover all of this. Can’t you please arrange for me to make some sort of payments?”

She gets up and paces back and forth a few times across the kitchen floor. The voice on the other end of the line is frustrated and patronizing.

“I’m sorry but there’s nothing else that I can do. You will have to deal with the collection agency. I’m sure they will be able to help you.”

She slouches back in to the chair with a heavy sigh.

“But I thought my insurance covered everything.”

“It covers most things, but you have to remember that you have a deductible.”

She tosses the receiver across the kitchen floor. It hits the wall and shatters. She can’t see past her mounting problems. She can’t think or breathe she’s so tired.

She takes a drag before stubbing the cigarette out. Picks up the handgun from the kitchen table and holds it to her temple. False start. Carefully lays the gun down and paces a few more times. The pacing doesn’t help clarify her thoughts. Her mind is blank, her body numb.

Sits back down holding the gun to her temple again. Calmly and willfully this time, she pulls the trigger. With a jerk, lead rushes through, pulverizing her skull, penetrating her brain. Vacant eyes wide as her ragdoll body goes limp.

Her head is gone. All forgotten. Her torments splashed in blood all over the kitchen floor. Life reset.

Night. An empty street. A woman lies on the cold, wet pavement cradling a dead body.

“Noooooooo! No, come on you gotta breathe. BREATHE! Please fuck please. No. No. No. No. Nooo! This can’t be happening. This isn’t happening. Please please please don’t leave me. Please. SOMEBODY HELP ME! (There’s no one around.) PLEASE! FOR FUCK’S SAKE!

You can’t fucking do this to me. (Slamming the dead body against the floor.) WHY!!!! Why are you fucking doing this to me you fucking AAAASSSSSHOLEEEEE!!!! (Punching him on the chest.) COME ON!

Come on. (Trying to pick up the dead body.) COME ON! You’re not dying. You’re not FUCKING dying. GET UP!!! (Dragging the dead body across the floor.) Get the fuck up now. PLEEEEEEEEASEEE! (Collapsing in sobs.) You motherfucker whyyyyyyyy! This isn’t fucking happening… please! Why? Why? Why? (Crying hysterically. Then calming down and gasping for breath.) No, you’re not dying. This can be fixed. We can fix this. Hear that? I think the ambulance is on it’s way. You’re going to be fiii…. (Sobs.) Why? (Wails.) WHYYYYYYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Whispering in the dead man’s ear.) Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me. (Laying down on the floor. Nuzzling her face in his neck.) Please don’t leave me.

Please don’t leave. (Kissing dead skin.) Please please please please please please….(Pressing her ear to his chest.) Where’s your heartbeat gone? (Speaking softly and sweetly.) Huh? Where’s your heart? (Taking hold of his wrist.) Come on. Beat for me. Beat. Beat…. please. (Clutching his shirt.) PPPPPLLLLEEEEEEEEEEEAAAASSSSSSSEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!”

Up until then he had been the nice teacher, the cool one. Now he was surreptitiously giving me the old Baker Act.

“Let me see your wrist. Were you trying to kill yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’m going to get you some help, OK? It’s going to be OK.” He lied.

It wasn’t OK. Who’s idea of help is this? Stripping you of everything. Dehumanizing you by taking the shoe laces from your Converse All-Stars. Forcing you into someone else’s orange jump suit. Orange being code for “danger to self and others”. No under garments of any kind. Have they not noticed that these jump suits are made of a highly abrasive material that rubs you into an orange frenzy of shamefulness?

Locking you up in the small white room with the other fucked up little orphans. Fucking system. Is this what you think I am? You think I’m seriously fucked up like these spazzes? Not me. I’m clever. You’ll see.

“Why are u here?” The note read. Its orange-clad writer was skinny and pale with light brown hair cascading over his blue eyes. He seemed half way to normal.

“I hate myself and want to die. You?”

“yeah me too I was gang raped”

“By who???”

“Some older guys. bunch of assholes. I want to kill them but im stuck here.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It OK they have jello”

Shit. My plight is nothing in comparison. I really am sorry for what happened to you and I think you’re really cute otherwise. Maybe, in another time, at another school…

We ate our jello and watched TV. They took him away for “tests”. He came back zombified. The spaz across the hall in solitary had a spastic fit and was promptly subdued, too. Its how they keep things manageable. Valuable lesson that.

At night we slept on opposite sides of the brightly-lit hallway on thin plastic mats. Staring at the sickly happy Disney scene of frolicking forest animals painted on the wall. And the watchful eyes, watching. TV mostly, but watching us, too. I say slept but it was more like suspended animation for the night. Doze on and off to the repetition: maybe this isn’t really happening… isn’t really happening… isn’t really happening…

“You have five minutes.”

I tried the door. She locked me in the large empty bathroom by myself. Privacy at last. Five minutes to figure out how to commit the unthinkable with a bar of soap. A shower stall with no door. A small, rough towel. Fuck this.

“I don’t want to kill myself anymore. I miss my mom and I just want to be with her and tell her how sorry I am for scaring her like this. Really. I was just sad because my boyfriend, the captain of the football team, broke up with me and I didn’t get into the cheerleading squad this year. But I’m OK now. I just want to go to school and see my friends again.”

There was no mommy, no boyfriend, definitely no fucking cheerleading. It was absurdly easy. The key to freedom was in my head the whole time. All you have to do is lie and pretend. Another valuable lesson ingested.