I wonder why all the ways I've tried to kill myself haven't worked. I mean, I've tried hanging. I used to have a noose tied to my closet pole. I'd go in there and slip the thing over my head and let my weight go. But every time I started to lose consciousness, I'd just stand up.
I tried to take pills. One afternoon, I took twenty Advil, but that just made me sleepy. And all the times I tried to cut my wrists, I could never cut deep enough. That's the thing—your body tries to keep you alive no matter what you do. I've got to think of a way to kill myself that I can't turn back from.
In Mrs. Parker's science class, I sit in the back with Sean and Moira. He's really funny and she's really beautiful, so we spent all of last quarter trying to make her laugh until she started going out with a guy in high school and I started failing this class. Now we just sit here.
Today I stare at the black lab table and use my house key to scrape things into it. I scrape a big Ace of Spades into the black surface and wait to go home.
I sit in the back of Miss Guppie's French class and wait for the office to call me in. I'm sure they will. They have to. I think about what will happen when I get home. Where the matches are, and where the gas can is, and how I'll blow into a million pieces like in the movies. I wait for them to call me in, but nothing happens.
Mrs. Clagg's drama class is usually fun. We do theater sports, which is like improvisational comedy, and staged readings, but today we read silently from this play called Arsenic and Old Lace. I think it's just about the saddest thing I've ever read, even though I haven't really been paying attention.
Fifteen minutes into the class, the hall monitor comes to the door with a note for Mrs. Clagg. She reads it and says, “Brent, you're to go directly to the office.”
I say, “Okay.” I stand up and walk out of the room, but I can hardly feel my legs, they're so numb.
It takes me a second to realize that the hall monitor is Chris, one of my friends from elementary school. We used to play soccer together, and I can't figure out why I didn't recognize him before. We walk down the hall and he asks me what I did this time.
I say, “Lit some matches in gym.”
“That was you? Oh, you're in deep shit, dude.”
“I know,” I say, and I walk into the office.
Mrs. Robins is the vice principal for the eighth grade and I go sit in a chair outside her office. Adam is already there, waiting.
Pretty soon, she opens the door and calls him in and I sit waiting and my stomach gets tighter and tighter, like something is eating me from the inside.
Finally Adam opens the door and kind of half smiles at me as he walks out. Mrs. Robins is still sitting behind her desk and she calls out for me to come in. She's wearing a red dress that I can't stop staring at.
She says, “Do you know why you're here?”
I say, “I don't know. I'm not sure.”
“Do you want to take a guess?”
“Um, the thing in gym?”
“Yes, the arson in second-period gym on Friday. Do you know anything about that?”
“No. I don't know anything about that.”
“Did you see what happened?”
“No, I didn't see what happened.”
“Do you know who did it?”
“No, I don't know who did it.”
“Brent, if you know anything or if you were somehow involved, it would be much better for you to say so now. It would be much better. So, do you know anything?”
“No. I don't know anything.”
She stares at me for a few seconds. “Okay, you can go.” I get up and walk out of the office.
She knows that I did it.
When seventh period is finally over, I run to my locker and put all my books inside. I won't need them anymore. I grab my lock-picking set and a spare Ace of Spades that I have lying around.
At the end of the hallway, I can see Stephen talking to Megan, the girl we both have a crush on. I walk up to them and say hi. She smiles at me and I try to smile back. He looks a little suspicious.
I don't really want to say anything, I don't want to tell them what I'm going to do. I hand him the Ace of Spades and say, “Good-bye,” and I walk away. I hope they'll be happy together.
I see my friend Jake at his locker and give him the lock-picking set. “Use them wisely,” I say, and head toward the bus.
Laura walks with me down D hall. She says, “Hey, I heard you set that fire in gym class.”
“Yeah.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I'm going to set myself on fire.” She stops at her locker, and I keep walking.
On the bus ride home, I sit by myself. I lean my head against the cold glass window and try not to think about all the stupid things I've done, all the bad things I've done, and all the pain I've caused everyone.
My brother is playing basketball outside the house when I get home. He's shooting free throws.
I rebound the ball for him and throw it back. I don't want to take any shots. I tell him the whole story, about what I did and what they're going to do to me. I don't tell him what I'm going to do to myself.
When I'm done talking, he says, “That sucks,” and I go inside the house. I don't have to write a note anymore. Craig knows everything.
I walk out to the shed to get the gas can. I bring it inside to the bathroom at the top of the stairs because that's the room with the most locks. I go back downstairs and get the matches from the kitchen.
I take off all my clothes and put on the pair of red boxers with glow-in-the-dark lips that my mom bought for me at the mall last weekend. I bring my bathrobe into the shower and I pour the gasoline all over it. The gas can is only about a quarter full, but it seems like enough.
I step into the bathtub and I put the bathrobe over my shoulders. It's wet and heavy, but there's something kind of comforting about the smell, like going on a long car trip. I hold the box of matches out in front of me in my left hand.
I take out a strike-anywhere match and hold it against the box.
Should I do it?
Yes. Do it.
I strike the match, but it doesn't light. Try again.
I light the match. Nothing happens. I bring it closer to my wrist and then it goes up, all over me, eating through me everywhere. I can't breathe. I'm screaming, “Craig! Craig!”
I fall down. I'm going to die. I'm going to find out what death is like. I'm going to know. But nothing's happening.
This hurts too much. I need to stop it. I need to get up. I stand. I don't know how I stand, but I do, and I turn on the shower. I'm breathing water and smoke. I unlock the door and open it. My hand is all black. I walk out. There's Craig with Rusty, our dog, next to him. They have the same expression on their faces.
Craig yells something and runs downstairs. I think he's calling 911. I'm following him. He hands me the phone and runs off. There's a woman on the phone asking me questions. I try to tell her what's happened, but my voice sounds choked and brittle. There's something wrong with my voice.
The woman on the phone says the fire trucks and ambulances are on their way. Somehow she knows my address. Craig is gone now, gone to get Mom, and Rusty is hiding somewhere. Smoke is coming from the bathroom upstairs and I can see that the whole room has turned black. I look down and see my flesh is charred and flaking and the glow-in-the-dark boxer shorts are burnt into my skin.
The woman on the phone says everything is going to be all right, and I believe her. She has a nice voice. She keeps asking me if I'm still on fire and I say, “I don't think so.”
I'm walking around the kitchen, waiting for the ambulance to come. I can see my reflection in the microwave. Where's my hair? Where did my hair go? Is that my face?
We used to put marshmallows in the microwave. We used to watch them get bigger and bigger and then shrink down.
“Oh God, just tell them to get here, just tell them to get here, okay?”
She says, “It's okay. They're coming. They're almost there
.”
“I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry.”
“It's okay, that's okay.”
I can hear the sirens in the distance now.
I say, “I want to lie down. I'm going to lie down.” It hurts to talk. I think there's something wrong in my throat.
“You can't lie down.”
“But I have to.”
“Okay, you can lie down.”
The men are here. The firemen are here. They're putting me on a plastic sheet. They say I'm going to be okay. One of them puts something over my face. That feels good. That feels so good. The cold air feels so good going into my lungs.
What are they talking about? What are they saying? They're giving me a shot. They say it's going to make the pain go away. Make the pain go away.
I'm looking at the faces of all the men who are gathered around me. Their eyes are so blue and so clear.
I turn my head and see Craig in the front hall. He's yelling and punching the walls. He's angry.
And my mom is here, and she's smiling and saying she loves me, and her eyes, which are green like my eyes, are the most beautiful things I've ever seen.
I'm being lifted. They're rolling me through the front door, down the path, and into the ambulance.
I wonder if anybody in the neighborhood is watching. I don't want them to know.
I can feel that we're going to the ball field down the road, where I play soccer, and I hear something about a helicopter—that should be fun. I'm so tired. I keep trying to close my eyes and sleep, but this woman with red hair is yelling at me to stay awake.
I'm outside now, and people are running. It's windy and the mask over my face smells like plastic and I'm so tired.
And now we're flying, but I can't see anything because I'm lying down and that woman is still yelling at me to stay awake, and I wonder where my mom went, is she here? I don't think she's here.
I was in a helicopter once in Hawaii, we flew over volcanoes and along these big cliffs and saw waterfalls. It was beautiful.
We must be over Washington, but I can't see the monuments or the White House or anything. This is probably the only time I'll get to fly over the city like this unless I get to be president someday, but I don't think I'm going to be president.
That woman is still yelling. Please stop yelling. I don't want to stay awake, I want to sleep. Why won't she let me sleep?
I wonder if I'm going to the hospital near where my dad works. I could get a ride home with him later, oh, but he's in Arkansas or something. I wonder where he is.
I try to say something, ask the woman with red hair if my mom is here, but I can't move my mouth, and my throat is dry from all the cold air they're making me breathe. I'm so cold. I wish I had a blanket or a sweater. I guess I do have a blanket, but I'm still so cold. Maybe when we get to the hospital, they'll give me another blanket or a pair of sweatpants. My body hurts, everything everywhere hurts. I close my eyes.
Something's different, I'm outside again. It's windy. No, it's not. I'm in an elevator, I can tell because of the doors and the lights. Who is that woman talking to me? How does she know my name? She looks like that other woman on that TV show I saw.
And now there are even more lights and lots of people wearing masks. They're putting me on a metal table. And it's so cold, it's so cold. And everybody's talking, but nobody's talking to me. Somebody just said my urine is red. I don't want red urine. I want to cry and I want to sleep.
I want to go back.
February 5, 1991
Children's National Medical Center
Washington, D.C.
There's a balloon and a room.
There's a balloon and something funny with breathing.
Why is there so much noise and so much trouble breathing? Why is it always night?
Stop tearing. They are tearing at me. Tearing away my skin. Please stop. Please.
Boys like in algebra. Trouble with the boys. We're standing in the parking garage. Let's go down into the garage. Let's burn. Let's set fires. Let's set me on fire. I don't want to be on fire. I want to be home. Woman with the black curly hair here to save me. Woman with the black curly hair carries me away. Save me.
I think the woman brought me waffles, the woman that takes care of me. She brings me waffles and says I'll be okay and I don't have to worry about anything. Except I don't remember eating them. I think there's something in my mouth and I can't open my eyes.
Stop. It's not time to do this now. Stop trying to unwrap me. Everything hurts. Please don't do this now. I wish I could talk and say something so she'd understand me.
There's something plastic in my mouth keeping me from saying anything.
I can't talk. They give me a big marker so I can write. I'm supposed to write what I want to say. But the marker is too hard to hold and I forget what most of the letters look like.
I try to write. I try to write what I'm thinking, but to write, you have to remember the beginning of the word and the ending of the word you're writing so that you can write down the whole word at the same time.
There's a camera in the balloon. I know because every time the balloon moves, there is a sound like a hidden camera and that means that they're watching me, but I don't know who they are yet.
Now they want me to talk to them with this board? They point at the letters and I blink when I want them to stop. And I spell out the words, but it's hard to remember what I'm trying to say. I want to say, I want to go home. I want to go home. They tell me that home is fine and I'll be home soon. But I want to be home now.
I feel like there's a rod in my side.
If they unplug me, I'll die. If they unplug me, I'll die. I could die. Maybe I should ask them to unplug me. But I don't want to die anymore.
Mom and Dad are always here. And I think I saw Grandma and Grandpa and Nanny and Grandpa and Uncle Tom or somebody that looked like Uncle Tom, but I haven't seen Craig. Where is Craig?
Mom says there's a girl next door who's hurt like me. She says the girl is my age and she got hurt the same day as me. The girl's name is Maggie.
The Hispanic boy comes and lifts my arms. He has brown hair, brown eyes, and he's very nice. Everyone is nice.
Sometimes they come into my room and pull out the tubes and I can't breathe, and they pour salt water down my throat and I still can't breathe. Then they suck the salt water out and put the tubes back in my mouth and I can breathe again.
Mom says that they're going to do surgery on my hands and that I'm lucky to have such a good doctor. He'll use my skin to fix my hands up, the skin from my stomach will be on my hands. They have to fix my hands because my hands are so important, but my back is what hurts. Can they fix my back too?
Doctors and nurses come to move me. Mom and Dad wave and all the beeping machines are following me down the hall and I can see different lights now. This must be surgery. I'll have new hands. Then maybe I can go home soon.
My throat hurts. I'm back in the room with the balloons and Mom and Dad and my new hands. Is everything okay, Mom? Is everything okay, Dad? I try to say it with my mouth, but I've still got the breathing tubes in, so I say it with my eyes. “Everything's okay, honey,” says my mom. She heard me.
There are lots of cards and pictures in my room, lots from people I don't know. Pictures of girls with teddy bears and pictures of Florida. Every day there are more cards and pictures. Mom and Dad like to show me all the pictures and tell me about how everybody cares about me.
Mom says Maggie is too sick to have surgery. Maggie and I are the same because we both got hurt the same day and we have the same problems, but I'm doing a little better. That's good. I'm winning.
More tearing.
The woman with black curly hair is Tina. She's a nurse. I've never met anyone who's so beautiful and kind. She likes me. I like her. I know by the way we smile at each other.
They get the message board so I can ask a question and I ask about basketball. It's easier now to remember what I'm trying to say, and they are better a
bout guessing what I want to know. They say they'll tape the All-Star Game for me so I can watch it. Someday soon, they'll take the tubes out and let me breathe on my own. Then I can have ice and juice and waffles.
Barbara with the red hair, different than Barbara with the blond hair and the other one they call Barb. Kerry, the young one. Lisa, the night nurse. Janice, like a model. Calvin, funny guy. Amy, Calvin's girlfriend. Reggie, tall guy.
Every day they give me morphine and something they call a Mickey, and then I fall asleep. I wake up when they're cleaning my legs. They always start at the legs. They clean each part three times. And it hurts so bad, but they keep cleaning and cleaning, all the way up my legs, and my arms, and my chest, but they don't touch my face, they say my face isn't bad. They turn me over and start cleaning my back. That hurts the worst. When they're done, they change the sheets and turn me over again.
Mom says they're going to take some of my skin and fly it to Boston to grow in a lab, like the Six Million Dollar Man, and then fly it back and put it on me. She's really happy about that because I don't have enough skin to cover my body. She says they want to cover my body with dead people skin and skin from pigs while I wait for the Boston skin. I don't want the dead people on me.
Mom says Maggie is going to get off the respirator soon. I want to get off the respirator. I'm going to try and get off the respirator.
They take the tubes out and I'm breathing on my own and I can tell Dad is really happy. He keeps telling me that if I can keep the tubes out, I can eat and drink and go home sooner. I try to eat waffles, but it's hard to swallow and it's hard to breathe. It's so hard to breathe. Dad says I have to keep my oxygen saturation up to ninety-eight or ninety-nine, and he shows me the machine that has that number on it. He says if I breathe deeply, then the numbers will stay up and they won't put the tubes back in. But it's so hard to breathe, I forgot how hard it was. I try to talk, but I can't say much, so I just keep trying to breathe deep so the number is high. The cold air feels good on my face, and Dad is reading, this is so much harder than I remember it. Maybe the tubes aren't so bad. Maybe they should put the tubes back in so I can breathe again.