Chapter 6: Unintentionality of Life

Juliet Matthews. I wondered wether I should hang out with her once she got out of school. I really wanted to hangout with her yesterday. Today, however, I was feeling extremely stressed. It had been a while since I had had drugs, but that wasn’t the problem. Or was it. No, it wasn’t. Could it be? No.

I hadn’t slept at all. I looked my reflection in the mirror, and saw the dark bags that made it seem like my eyes had shriveled into their sockets. I looked like a stick painted white with brown ropes at the top. I stripped my black tank top and shorts off, and put on cargo shorts and a new white tank top. It took me a moment in my lack of sleep to realize I had forgotten to change my underwear. I stripped back down and started over.

Today was going to be a long day, I could tell. My head already ached, and I didn’t feel like talking to anyone. I felt like a raging fire, and I was afraid that I would attack anyone who tried to communicate with me. I was angry for no reason.

Why? What was the point of being so angry? It had no origin. At least, not one I knew of. It pained me to feel this way, but I couldn’t help it. It was just like when I felt sad. My sadness would last for weeks, but I couldn’t help but be sad. It didn’t really have a cause, but it was there, and I didn’t ever feel like talking. I rarely felt like eating or doing anything but staying in bed on these occasions. Those were the times when I would skip school, or not do homework because I had better things to do.

Better things like crying myself to sleep and eating my pain away. Or cutting. But I hadn’t done that in a long time.

I started chewing my nails. I was so tired, but I couldn’t sleep. I hadn’t slept since after I met Juliet, and even then I had trouble staying asleep. I ended up awake in bed for most of the day and night. Now it was morning again. Monday morning.

I tried to put on eyeliner, but after three attempts which all ended in me putting it on wrong, dropping the pencil, or accidentally jamming the tip into my eyelid, I gave up trying to re-sharpen it. I wiped it off one final time.

“Ugh.” I thought. “Stupid makeup remover not removing things.”

I looked out the window and saw the city. It was nicer to look at from the distance when everything looked sort of blue. It blended in with the sky and gave everything a blueish tint. I heard a strange gurgling noise and jumped.

What was that? Is someone here?

“Hello?”

It gurgled again. The tension snapped when I realized it was my stomach. God, I was an idiot.

I stupid, repulsive idiot. One that doesn’t even have a mother because she hated her too much. One that doesn’t have a father because he was never really a father, he was just there. He was just the man who raped my mother. I was a stupid, repulsive idiot that had no friends. One that was going to grow up and become a prostitute. I was a stupid, fucking, repulsive, nasty, tit-less dumb bitch. If the world was an imperfection, say, like a pimple, then I was a cyst. A stupid, repulsive cyst.

Suddenly I was extremely hungry. I waddled out to the kitchen with closed eyes and holding my stomach. Every few steps I made loud grunting noises.

“Dear God, girl. You’re like an ape!” Aunt Tracy laughed.

I realized how stupid I looked, but continued on. She looked on after me thoughtfully. Then, her head lit up and she scurried into the kitchen ahead of me.

“What do you want for breakfast?”

“Oh. Um, eggs.”

“Bacon?”

“Yes, please. And toast. I like toast.”

“Toast is alright.”

The breakfast was fine, but I was still hungry. After she left back to her room, I started digging through the refrigerator. Finally, I pulled out a chicken breast and began to devourer it. The cold meat slid down my throat and into my stomach. Though, it didn’t settle. Not at all.

I rushed to the bathroom, and leaned my head into the toilet. Everything from breakfast came back up. It ran out my nose thick and acid-like. I heard a knock on the door.

“Are you alright, dear? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing! I’m just a little sick!”

“Oh!” she came barging in. “You need some rest. Come on, off to bed. I’ll bring in a bucket and some medicine.”

She led me by my arm back to the room, and I sat down on the bed. I was certain something was in that chicken.

“Aunt Tracy, I’m fine. I think it was that chicken in the fridge. It’s old. I’m not sick.”

“What chicken, dear?”

“The chicken in the fridge.”

“Chicken? I don’t remember making any...”

She walked out of the room and her voice slowly died away. Hopefully, she’d bring back a bucket. I grabbed onto my stomach as it churned and swam. My head ached. Suddenly, I thought of the man who had unintentionally brought me here.

Stupid asshole. Stupid, stupid, stupid! He was a horrible man. I could imagine him. He was drunk as hell, of course. He always seemed to be. Stupid, stupid, stupid. My father was a horrible person. He had brought me here. He had done this to me. He had caused everything. Maybe. Just maybe, my mom would have wanted a child with another man, and I would have never came into being. Maybe he could have been a little nicer. Got a wife. Had kids with her. Maybe one of them would have been me. Maybe then my mother wouldn’t be dead. Maybe then my father wouldn’t be in jail. Maybe I’d live somewhere nice. Somewhere not with my aunt.

That’s not what happened. Unintentionally, he had gotten her pregnant with me. They were never married. I could just see him raping her. Stupid, stupid, stupid! Unintentionally, I had been the unlucky sperm. Not another one. Unintentional. That was all it was. No one ever meant to do anything. Yet they did, and it led to one thing after another. That was how life worked. You live. You make a mistake. You die. Unintentionally, my mothers rapist had gotten her pregnant. Alright, so he probably knew that she would get pregnant, but I doubted he knew she would kill herself. It was unintentional. Then he was stuck with me. They obviously knew each other, otherwise I would be stuck with someone else. He had raped a friend. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Unintentionally, I had been the fastest sperm. Unintentionally, she had handed me off to him, when all she really wanted was death. Cool, peaceful death. Then he had taken care of me, and killed my aunt. That was on purpose. What he did unintentionally was hand me over to Aunt Tracy. Now I was here. Utterly alone except for an old bag and a tiny girl. I’d never felt more alone, either.

Unintentional. It all started when he raped her. Or maybe when he met her. I bet when he met her, he didn’t intend for me to be here, but that was how life worked. One unintentional thing after another. The stupid fuck! I hated him.

I laid there for a couple minutes, and then I suddenly felt sick. I got up, and waddled to the bathroom. On my way, I saw my aunt in the living room watching the television. The old bag. I was right, no one cared about me. Not even enough to get me a puke bucket. Instead of stopping at the bathroom, I walked out to the kitchen.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. I started heaving and gasping for air. I knew what was happening, so I ran to the sink. More of breakfast made it’s way up my throat and into the disposal. It smelled foul, almost like urine. I searched all the cabinets until I found one with a large plastic ice cream bucket in it. This would work.

I passed her again on my way to my room. She didn’t even look up to see how I was doing. No one cared. It made me angry. If I was in a hostile mood when I woke up, I wondered what I was in now.

I stomped to my room, and slammed the door. She wouldn’t care. If she cared, it was that she cared for the sake of the door. The old bitch didn’t give a rats ass about me. I bet she hated me. I bet she couldn’t stand the way I dressed. I bet she just hated that she was stuck with me. I bet that she regretted still being alive. I know I did.

I started pounding my fists into my bed. I screamed into the pillow. I wanted to go home, but there wasn’t a home. There never really was. I couldn’t remember a time when I felt safe and secure. I couldn’t remember a time when I felt at home. Comforted. I longed for the feeling. It was something I’d dreamed about constantly. It was something I’d dreamed about in the past.

I was a fool then. I was a fool to think that I’d feel safe. There was no home for me. Not now. Not ever. I’d be dead by then. At least, I planned to be dead. Yet I was afraid. So I waited. I had lived enough of life, and I had made the mistake of not killing myself earlier. Now I just waited for it to happen.

I kicked the edge of the bed until my toes went numb. I hated this. No one cared. Not a single person ever even thought of Ida Cambell. Not unless they were talking about how ugly she was or how much she looked like a repulsive snake. I was disgusted by myself. And I grabbed a mirror. And I shattered it.

And I put it to my arm, and sliced it open. Nothing came out. Blood. I wanted blood. I didn’t deserve to have it in me. I sliced again. And again. And again. No blood. Then I set it against my arm to slice again, and blood began to form in the first wound in little bubbles, then they connected into a stream running down my arm. Then the second one began to bleed. Then the third. Then the fourth.

Whoops. I had done it too many times. My arm stung, and I loved it. I longed for things to be over. I was just a stupid snake destined to be a prostitute. I slapped the wounds. They stung and pulsed. I slapped them again.

Stupid fucking bitch.

Again.

I hate myself.

Again.

Why am I still here?

More blood began to come out of them every time I slapped them, and I realized that both my arm and my slapping hand were covered in blood. My whole arm was red now, and a single drop landed on the bed.

Fuck. That was a little too much. Tears streamed down my face from the pain, and my teeth gritted so tightly I was afraid they would get pushed back into my gums. I went over to the desk and started pulling out tissue after tissue from the small box in the upper right corner. They all went over my arm.

I sat down on my bed, and I cried. I had completely lost control for a second. My arm pulsed in pain, and I tried to wipe away the hot, salty tears. Who was I? Why did I ever have to be here? These were constant questions for me.

I was a monster. I was a mistake that never should have happened. My mom said that with her actions. With her death, there was a silent message. I was a mistake. I never should have happened. In fact, because I happened, she couldn’t bear it and killed herself. I never should have came into existence.

I removed the tissues and looked long at the cuts. I was lucky they weren’t deeper. They stung greatly, but I bit my lip and put more pressure on them.

It didn’t matter if I made more friends here or not. It didn’t matter that I had Juliet. Things sucked. They always did. I couldn’t remember the last time I was happy. This was depression. This was a whole you couldn’t pull yourself out of. Suddenly, I felt like all effort was useless. I laid my back down, and I was tired.

Sleep. Sleep would be nice. I closed my eyes, and tried to drift off. The room was pure silence. It smelt like dust. Probably because this old lady had never had a guest. Poor lady. She was truly poor. She had to deal with me. What was worse than that?

I laid there, and let the tears dry on my face. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t fall asleep, not even into a light sleep. Insomnia popped into my mind. What if I had- no, I couldn’t have insomnia. That was ridiculous. What caused insomnia? Jet jag? Stressful situations? Drug withdrawal? Anxiety? Schizophrenia? I didn’t have any of those. I was not halfway around the world. My life was always stressed. I did not have a drug problem- it was controlled. I didn’t have anxiety. I wasn’t hearing voices. I was just at a loss for sleep. I could sleep. I just had more important things going on.

Like crying. And dying. Slowly, one second at a time, I was dying. That was such a boring and depressing thought. I was dying. Yet I wanted death. Why was it so depressing? If I wanted death, and I was dying, wouldn’t that be a happy thought? It wasn’t. Nothing was. I was alone.

I looked down at the cuts. Was I really doing this again? Was I really this stupid to start this again? Yes. Yes I was. I was a fucking idiot. I was a horrible person. So I sat. And I waited. Death was so close, but now it seemed scary. As I was getting closer, the less I wanted it to happen.

I remembered a billboard for a company. DHS. It was a phone company. I remembered it, because it did sound like a good idea. Maybe I would try it. It’s not like I had to go into a crazy place. People didn’t have to think I was crazy. There was no therapist. There was a stranger. It was a nice thought.

Someone I’ve never met before could listen to my problems and then I’d get to listen to theirs. It was a beautiful thought. I smiled a little, but it quickly started to quiver as I began to sob again.

Maybe I would call. Maybe I wouldn’t. It wasn’t a bad idea. I knew that if I called I would be unintentionally starting something that happened in the future. That was the way life worked. Maybe it would be something good. Maybe it would be something bad. I prayed for it to be good; I wanted nothing more. The unintentionality of life was that you never knew what was around the corner. Anything could happen. I was ready to take the risk. It was about time I did something. I had always been known to act on impulse, so things were looking alright. Suddenly, things were looking just fine.