Kismet (2 page)

Hearing murmurs coming from a corner of the room, I begin to stir. My eyelids are heavy, more than likely from all the drugs. All I ever do is sleep so I couldn’t possibly be tired. In fact, I should be rested, but I’m not, for my sleep is never really restful. One horrifically painful memory, playing over and over again while I sleep, isn’t exactly my idea of a good night’s rest.

The more awake I become, the more my curiosity grows, and the faster my heart begins to beat. The anxiety is slowly creeping in again. I do my best to control it, but instead I find myself taking quick shallow breaths. The feeling is all too familiar. I know myself well enough to know that I need to calm down. I’d done it before. In fact, at one point of my life, I’d been a professional at controlling my anxiety, and I know all the strategies to get myself under control. But those strategies I learned so long ago don’t do much for me anymore. In fact, they’re useless… powerless. Just a weak David pitched against an all-too-strong Goliath. The gaping hole in my chest is just too much to overcome.

They were the only things in my life that made sense, and their love for me was the only thing that kept me going. Without it, I wouldn’t know how to go on living. Like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, Michael had put me back together and Zoe had made me whole again, igniting something deep within me that I thought had been lost forever. I feel a tear prick my eyes. If I had known that morning would be the last time I’d hug her, I would have never let go.

Eventually, despite the urge to know what’s going on around me, I stop trying to open my eyes. Lying awake, with my eyes still closed, will have to suffice. I’ve completely lost track of time. No one can talk to me about what happened because straight away I start losing it, and they have to drug me again. The two people who loved me unconditionally, are gone. It’s bad enough that I have to relive it every day and night in my dreams, I don’t need someone talking to me about it in my consciousness.

It’s unbearable to hear about them, and the way they were taken from me. The words cut through my heart, slicing through all my hopes and dreams, and leaving cut up pieces behind. I can’t deal. I
won’t
deal. So instead, I scream to get them to stop.

Truth is, I already know what happened, all too well in fact. It’s something that I will never forget, no matter how badly I want to. I just don’t want them, or anyone for that matter, talking to me. I don’t want to think about it. To know that I finally got what was coming to me was punishment enough.

Pushing my unpleasant thoughts aside, I refocus my attention on the murmuring I heard earlier. I zone in on the familiar voices and I hear the strain in my mother’s. “She needs to say good-bye.”

I know what she’s talking about, but I don’t want to say good-bye. In fact, I refuse to say good-bye. I won’t. Ever. Saying good-bye means it’s real, and I just can’t face it.

Not yet.

Probably not ever.

How does someone truly cope with the death of his or her whole world? I’ll tell you how. They don’t. That’s how.

The thought of saying good-bye becomes so real. The weight on my chest unbearable, I shift on the bed, trying to find some sort of relief, even though I know that it’ll never come. My heart pounds uncontrollably and I feel each beat reverberate through my chest, causing my whole body to shake. I take a deep breath through my nose to try and shut it all off, to make the pain and the panic stop, but focusing on my breathing does nothing but heighten my anxiety. The pressure in my chest builds with each painful inhale.

Listening to my mom discuss what’s right for me, I decide then and there what is the best way for me to deal with my unbearable pain.

It’s simple really. I haven’t spoken a word since the day my world came crashing down, and I honestly don’t see the point. Words are meant to convey emotions, and I need to be emotionless. I need to choke back my grief, and live the life I deserve to live—one void of hope and emotion. It’s a familiar feeling, and it’s easy. I’m not going to say anything to anybody, ever. I’ve done it before and, as messed up as it sounds, it helped with the pain back then so it certainly can’t hurt now.

Everyone needs to just give up on me already. The sooner they realize it, the better. I’m lost. I’m gone. Shattered to bits, never to be put back together again. The only solace I can find is that somewhere deep within my own mind, I can be alone and I can remember… even if only for a moment.

My mother’s shaking voice breaks my thoughts. “I want to take her home, she doesn’t need to be here,” she says franticly. “The only thing they’re doing here is drugging her, and I can do that at home.”

“Can you, Mom?” My mood lightens momentarily at the sound of his voice. Tommy,
my
Tommy. My brother in shining armor. “Can you do that?” He’s obviously frustrated, and even in my foggy state I sense that they are arguing. Tommy was always trying to look out for my best interests. He was there with me through everything, even when he didn’t have to be. My heart swells knowing that, years later, he’s still up to bat for me, and he’s still the one who understands me most.

“Can you listen to her screams? She’s not the same person anymore, Mom. She needs help. Professional help. More help than we could ever possibly give her.”

“I
can
help her,” my mother pleads. She’s trying to convince Tommy that she’s right, only she isn’t. Tommy and I both know that. I wish everyone would just understand that there is no helping me. My own anguish engulfs me so that I’m lost. Numb to it all. Indifferent to the suffering of my remaining family. Helplessly searching, I find myself empty, even though I should be fighting to hold on to what’s left.

“No, Mom, you can’t,” Tommy bites back.

“You know, we’re all hurting, Tommy. With the state of the farm, and then
this
. Your father can’t even stand to be in here. He’s got to sit in a waiting room by himself.”

A choking sound permeates through the room and I know that Mom is trying to keep herself from crying. “We all lost them, she needs to be home with her family so she can get better. So we can
all
start to heal.”

I hear the clicking of heels fading and assume that Mom has left. She never allows us to see her cry, preferring to be strong for us, but she can only feign strength for so long. I find myself wishing she’d just cry, let herself break down every now and then. It might make her feel better. On second thought, it probably won’t. After all, my screams don’t do anything for me—besides get the drugs back into my bloodstream.

Drugs = nothingness.

Just the way I like it.

I sigh and shift on the uncomfortable bed. Mom’s right, they’d all lost them, but they didn’t love them like I did. They were my reason for living. I needed them. They were the one thing that made sense in my life.

My family could never understand the pain I was feeling. The constant pressure in my chest. The lump in my throat. The wrenching pain in my stomach, like I’m being ripped apart from the inside out. The ache in my heart. The agony. The anxiety every time I wake up because I know I’m alone, and the anxiety when I’m going to sleep, because I know the nightmare—or memory—will eventually find its way into my conscious. And the guilt. Guilt because I lived and they didn’t.

No, they’d never feel it like I do.

Dejected.

Bitter.

Brokenhearted.

Tears pool behind my eyelids. I want to open them, to see Tommy, but they feel so heavy. Eventually, I win the battle and toss my head to the side, attempting to find him. My eyes land on the body in the chair next to my bed. His legs are sprawled out in front of him, his head resting on the back as he gazes blankly at the ceiling. I know without a doubt that he’s counting tiles. It’s what we do when we are uncomfortable. That simple mundane act comforts and provides peace for us when we most need it. This would definitely be classed as a time when we need it.

We’d done it for hours every time I’d been to the doctors growing up, and there were a lot of them. Tommy had insisted that he go with us to all my appointments, which was a good thing because I think I would have fallen apart without him by my side. He and I would lie in the hallway, holding hands and stare at the ceiling while we waited for my turn. Counting our time away, as we referred to it back then. My parents didn’t understand why we did it, and we never explained. But without fail, any time I had a place to be, Tommy was there with me, counting tiles. For us, it was the awake version of counting sheep. Something to pass the time while we waited for miracles.

My eyes focus and I see Tommy clearly for the first time since the accident. He’s not the version of my brother that I remembered. I do a double take because he doesn’t even look like my Tommy. He was the cheerful one, always smiling and laughing. His exuberance was infectious. Everyone loves Tommy because he’s always happy.

But the vibrancy is gone. The high-on-life attitude replaced with a man who looks gaunt and tired.

I lie there with my eyes open for what feels like hours before he finally notices that I am awake. When his eyes meet mine, he leans forward. “Hey, Katie,” he whispers.

I lift my hand up to him in response, a halfhearted wave of sorts. It feels strange to move, my body almost feels detached… numb and tingly in fact. My mind is such a fog from the countless doses of medication that I couldn’t have formed sentences even if I wanted to. He grabs my hand but I immediately pull it away from him. I don’t deserve to be touched, or loved.

“Katie, I know you’re hurting but you’ve got to start dealing with things. It’s been two weeks already. I’ve watched you go through this before, and you can’t go back there, Katie…”

Realizing that two weeks have already passed makes my breath hitch. All of a sudden, I can’t breathe again. The air feels thick and stale. The antiseptic smell makes my stomach churn, and my mouth waters as bile rises in my throat. I turn my head away, breaking Tommy’s gaze as I bite back the nausea. I don’t need him staring into my soul and making me feel guilty for grieving. My whole world is gone, and it’s my fault. How am I even supposed to begin “dealing with things.”

“Katie, please, you’ve got to start talking to someone…
anyone
. Don’t go back there, please, Katie. You need help, more help than the drugs can give you.” He pauses and clears his throat. “You know, the doctors aren’t going to let you stay here forever. You’re going to have to leave sooner or later, and I’d like you to be ready for it.”

I can hear the strain in his voice as he begins to choke on his own words, “I can only keep Mom off your back for so long.”

I feel terrible for inflicting more pain on my brother, whom I love dearly, but I don’t see the need for communication, the need to convey thoughts and feelings to other people. Being alone with these familiar feelings—the anxiety, the guilt, the sadness—reminds me of that little girl I once was. The one who had withdrawn before.

I have no thoughts.

I have no feelings.

I am nothing but a broken person.

A shell of the woman I had worked so hard to become.

I shake my head as a single tear streams down my cheek. I know I’m letting my past control me, but I can’t find it within me to fight anymore. My whole world, my reason for fighting, is gone. The devil inside of me was slowly taking control again. I’m no longer of worth. There is no reason for me to keep on keeping on.

Tommy stands up so fast his chair skids backwards across the floor, creating an unbearable screeching sound. I flinch.

“You’re a coward, Katie.”

The harshness in his voice cuts me to the core, shattering me somewhere deep within. And deep down I know he’s right. “Michael, Zoe, the baby… they’re all dead, but they would want you to keep living. But you’re not. You’re nothing but a ghost. You might as well spit in their faces, because you’re throwing away your second chance at life.”

He thinks he knows, but he doesn’t. No one does. This is all my fault. They’re dead because of me. I’m here to serve my punishment. This is the universe’s way of making things right. Payback for my past and the mistakes I made. For him to think that I deserve a second chance at life is ludicrous. I didn’t ask for it. I don’t want it. Tommy just needs to understand that there is no saving me. I’m not worth the trouble. I want to be alone with nothing but my own despair.

So, in order to get what I want, I turn my head towards him, the hurt visible on my face. We make eye contact as I start to open my mouth and I can tell that, for a split second, he’s hopeful.

And then I begin to scream, growing louder with each release of sound.

His face falls and he immediately turns to leave. I watch helplessly, feeling sad for my brother as he walks away, brushing past the nurses who are rushing in to sedate me. My screams grow to sound foreign, so much so that I don’t even recognize the noise as the nurses scramble with needles and medication. It doesn’t take them long this time—they’re getting more efficient.

Within seconds, the numbness spreads through my body and the tortured sounds coming from my mouth stop. My eyes fall shut. I hear nothing but the sounds of my own breathing as I drift off, away from the hurt.