Knifed by a Nightmare (Short Story – Nonfiction)

Tears. Dripping, falling, running. Lightish blue, yet also translucently clear. Streaming, soaking, dissolving. All that’s left. Three hours ago. That’s when I got the call. Three hours ago. That’s when I knew nothing could ever be the same. I gave her hand a squeeze, ran my hand over her hair, and pulled her close. There was nothing I could do to make her feel better. So I sat there, and thought about how none of this could truly be real.

The slightly smudged screen on my phone lit up just as I was sitting down to work. New Text Message, it read. Sliding my finger across it and punching in whatever random 4-digit code I was using at the time, I opened her message.

Call grandma., it read. A few more texts were exchanged before I gave a coworker a call and asked her to come sit at the desk for me for ten minutes. Then I went out back, scrolled through my contact list, and clicked call for “Grandma – Florida.” Six rings in, I was about to hang up, when I heard a click. A raspy voice on the other end of the line attempted to clear its throat. Then I heard a distant Hello? coming from what sounded like the opposite end of the room from the receiver.

“Hello? Grandma? Are you there?”

“Hello sweetheart,” she whispered. Her voice wasn’t as strong and filled with life as it typically had been. She usually could tell who I was just from the sound of my voice, but this time I questioned that. We talked for six minutes before I heard someone on her end in the background ask her who was on the phone – to which she responded “your daughter.” My Aunt Bea picked up the phone quite confused, as she had just been on her cell with her actual daughter. We spoke. She handed the phone back to my grandmother and told her who I was. I promised her I’d come visit her soon. And then it was time for her nap. We hung up.

I sent my coworker home and thanked her for her help. I held it together until she left. Translucent drops rolled down my face, magnifying my freckles as they made a run for my chin. I wiped them away, only actually smearing them around my pale skin. She wasn’t herself. She didn’t sound like herself. The woman who had been the embodiment of life my entire existence sounded like she didn’t even know what life was anymore. Tears.

The eggs were runny and the french toast was a solid brick, but I was at a table with four friends who were making me laugh and distracting me enough to get my mind off of everything from the night before. I was going to call her again after breakfast.

I reached into my pocket to check my phone and found three missed calls from my father, two from my brother, and a voicemail. I raised it to my ear and listened to a very hollowed and empty voice tell me to call him back as soon as I could. Instead, I clicked on my brother’s name. He told me she was gone.

I hung up and called my dad back.

“Hi honey. You get my voicemail?” My dad’s voice always sounded harsh – strong, maybe. Compassion wasn’t his best quality, but he definitely tried.

“I spoke to Mike,” the statement barely made it out as a whisper.

“I’m so sorry. I wanted to be the one to tell you.” Silence.

“How is she?”

“Not good. She hasn’t spoken since she found out. She’s pretty numb.”

“I’m coming home.” I put my hand down against the windowsill at the dining hall. I needed something to hold me up. I needed some way to hold everything in and just finish this phone call.

“Don’t. It’s not a good idea. I don’t want you driving and upset. I’ll come pick you up tomorrow if you want, but stay there today, okay?”

“Okay. Give her a hug for me?”

“Okay sweetie. Talk to you later. Love you.”

Tears. Deep breath. More tears.

I took another deep breath and walked back to the table where my friends were. One of them knew about the call from last night. One of them knew how hurt I was. One of them could tell something was wrong. I stayed fairly composed until I saw his face. Until I saw that he cared. And that I could open up – that I could break down in front of him. And so I did.

I took a deep breath. “My grandma died this morning.” I got patted on the back and there were a few loose hands grasping at my arm telling me they were sorry. I’m sorry too, emotionless hand. I’m sorry too.

I got into my car and cried. Tears. Gasping breaths and tears. I drove two hours home, blasting music to try and keep my mind off of it. But then I thought about her smile. And her strong love of perfumes. I remembered her incessant need to tell everyone everything and her love and compassion for family. All friends were family to her. Everyone was family.

I walked in the door and saw my dad in the kitchen.

“I thought…” he started.

“Where is she?” I interrupted.

He pointed behind him towards the living room. I dropped my bags on a chair that was in desperate need of cleaning and rushed into the adjacent room. My mom could barely look up at me. She couldn’t feel anything.

“What are you doing here?” she managed to mumble as I slid in next to her on the couch.

“I’m here for you. Always here for you, mom. I’m so sorry. I’m so so sorry.” I brushed her hair out of her face and held her next to me. We rocked back and forth like that for awhile. I slid a few light jokes her way to make her laugh. But mostly we cried. Tears. Streaming, rushing, running, soaking the clothes we couldn’t bother to change. She was gone. And we were numb.

Gone

they're gone
every last one of them

all because I said
"leave me alone"

but now it's lonely
and the birds are chirping

mocking me
because at least they have friends

they left me behind
without knowing why

as if they thrive on my sadness
and wanted me to contemplate those heights

the silence creeps over my skin
stabbing into my veins

I wait for everything to stop
I wait for the buzzing to go numb

I waited
in the loud silence

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Friend

I
At one point or another, it becomes apparent what is truly needed

II

The people are singing

The friends must be together

III

When one prevents the occurrence

of another

the truest is known

IV

Between one or two

I’d choose one

as they often prove

to be more worthy than two

V

Through the fog

and the pain

the loss

and the gain

they will take part

VI

Whether

musical

artistic

or analytic

that friend will always

understand

VII

Years will pass

times will change

altered scenery will resound

through new visionary glares

but all will live on

despite the length

of time apart

VIII

Flipping through the pages

as images bring

memories

for all to see

birthdays

holidays

celebrations

reunions are born

IX

Skating

through parks

Sliding

on lawns

Whispering

at parties

Screaming

at night

They will do it with you

X

Overheard

Listening in

Eavesdropping

all for one reason

They ask who’s

to blame

when you show up

streaming

so they can

go hunting

XI

Gone for

long

or around

forever

words

continue

to flow

despite

knowing

it all

XII

In the dark

through the light

images shine

into our eyes

colors vibrate

brightful blasts

blinding beauty

of the one who sits

beside me

flashing messages

tasteful melodies

reverberate between us

XIII

As the seasons change

and the people move away

that friend will stick to you

making snow angels

in the fresh green grass

until the sun sets

or the moon shines

the snow falls

and the rain subsides

collecting

or building

sand castles

out of snow

It's Not An Excuse – Short Story

One pill destroys the pain. Just one to pop, and then it’s gone. It’s true what they say: it can all go away with the pop of a pill.

Everyone asked me to describe the torture. They asked me to describe it on a scale of one to ten. They told me they couldn’t help me unless I told them what I was feeling. So I told them I was feeling pain. What would a one mean? A tack in the sole of my foot? What about a ten? An anvil landing on my ribs? Yeah, definitely a ten.

It’s impossible to describe the pain that resonated throughout my silicone organs, so gentle and incapable of fighting the outside world.

How would they know if I was telling the truth anyway? If I told them my rating of my torture, that is. How can someone rate their pain anyway? Is it possible? Is it accurate? My rating could mean something entirely different than theirs. So what does a rating truly matter?

My perception is different than yours. That’s a fact. There are millions of sides of the topic, but no matter which point of view you take, this fact is true.

My experiences are mine and you can only merely observe what I go through – but even observations don’t give you the privilege to judge my adventures. You can’t claim I’m a goody-two-shows, a risk-taker, a neurotic mess, or a mentally deranged person just from a mere observation.

The five year monster that I’ve been fighting for a large portion of my life has come back to haunt me – but a mere pop of a pill seems to destroy the monster from within.

They suggested it awhile ago, but the side-effects were simply too obvious to the masked eye. I couldn’t do that to myself: not with Prom right around the corner. The last thing I wanted was for my face to resemble that of a blow fish; I decided to endure the pain.

Five years isn’t very long when comparing to a lifespan of one-hundred-ten, but a lot can happen within that small chunk of time. It all seems like a dream to me though. I guess it was, being as how I was asleep for the majority of it, but that doesn’t change the fact that it was real. The pain was real. The memories were real. And the monster survived.

My mother remembers it vividly. She wasn’t asleep at the time. She has memories of my structure and my pain; she witnessed everything she could except for the physical characteristics she couldn’t have felt had she wanted to – a want that would clearly classify a person crazy. I would never wish my pain or experiences on any other soul – not even for an understanding. Not even for a moment of time in the spectrum of life. Many people often claim that they wish they knew what I was going through, but not one of them could have truly ever meant such a statement. The truth behind an assertion as strong as this would be far more than they could ever bargain for.

I know there are far worse things in life. I know there’s hunger and animal abuse and oppression and poverty and genocide, but all of these can’t mask the pain I feel within. It can’t mask the tearing and shredding that my intestines are experiencing. Children in third world countries are dying from world hunger and poverty, but I’m dying because my system wants to believe it should.

Bacteria is meant to be rejected by the immune system, right? But food isn’t supposed to be considered a bacteria, so why does my system reject it? Why does it reject the nutrients and refuse my body its right to work properly?

My speech may seem vague and utterly metaphorical for a topic of such drastic measures, but that is due to the experiences I have encountered and the complete fact that none of them are truthfully explainable. I could spend days upon days explaining each horrific and horrendous day that I’ve encountered with my disease, but even after all of my descriptions, you’d still ask the most basic question: “How do you get nutrients?”

They don’t seem to understand. They don’t seem to realize that I don’t get nutrients. I don’t get food. I don’t ingest anything and I can’t digest anything. Depression ensues and all I can manage to do is fade away into oblivion and sleep my days and nights away while having medication after medication shoved down my throat.

Six years ago I had never experienced real pain. I had broken bones, sprained limbs, fallen down stairs, hit my head, dented walls, and kicked metal, but I had never experienced pain before the monster came to the surface within me just five years ago.

I couldn’t walk without stumbling; I couldn’t sit up straight without falling over; I couldn’t watch television without falling asleep; I couldn’t live my life without being a ghost that was hanging on by a thread.

Doctors claim that no one has ever died from this disease, but I don’t believe them. Another month or two and I wouldn’t be here writing this bland story about the knife that cut up my insides and left me to heal in a way no human being can without some form of aid – aid that “they” weren’t able to provide me with. Another month of two of being forced to starve and losing all forms of mass on my bones would have caused me to whither away into nothing more than a barely-breathing corpse ready for her coffin.

I have pictures to prove it, but even those cause doubts amongst the listeners. No one believes that I went through such pain at an age as young as twelve – even when many people experience pain even younger. They told me I was using it as an excuse. They told people that I was making it up. My “friends” disappointed me and walked away from me when I could have used a shoulder for support.

My body was bones. My stomach was a deflated whoopee cushion that had millions of punctured holes in it and would require help to be reflated. My intestines were shredded, and my life was no different than death.

My doctors eventually realized what was wrong, and they began helping me. The single pop of a microscopic pill and I had started to feel better. I was in remission. I was being healed. But this was five years ago.

Five years ago, I survived. Five years ago, I was able to live to tell the tale. Five years ago, I pushed the monster under my bed and gave it a good kicking until it was welded into the filthy carpeting. But that was five years ago.

It’s now 2011 and I’m now seventeen years old and the monster has returned. My intestines are deteriorating, sleep overwhelms me, and I strongly disagree when people tell me that no one has died from this disease.

I have Crohn’s Disease. It is incurable, I will have it for life, and my doctors are limited in what they can do for me. I have Crohn’s Disease: it’s not an excuse or a story for a passing grade. It’s my life and often my death. I have Crohn’s Disease, and that’s why I can’t rank my pain. I have Crohn’s Disease, and no one knows how I feel, because everyone perceives pain differently. I have Crohn’s Disease, and the only thing that can help me is the magical, microscopic pill that inflates my face.