Adam - A Novella

10

Hurting others was like an addiction, and I was going through hella withdrawal. My mother and sister were out getting groceries, and my mind was going off the rails alone. I could do whatever I wanted for another couple hours, yet all I wanted to do was slam my fist into someone's skin, feel blood in my hands, feel muscles and bones press against my fingers and knuckles as I deliver the worst sting I hope they've ever felt. I never took any fighting classes, but I got a lot of practice against my father.

I couldn't stop thinking of him. Was it weird to miss feeling his fist destroy my nerves, hear his beer bottles break against the wall and my mother's anguished cries for him to stop? I guess I just miss the normalcy.

My skin hurt from the inside, and punching my pillows, walls, ceiling, everything I could was not working. It made my need for pain worse if anything. Sweat dripped down my forehead into my eyelashes, and I think I may have started tearing up. I got so desperate; I couldn't think straight anymore. I had ripped open my bedroom door, dashing for the kitchen. The knife block was full of dirty and dull steak knives that wouldn't satisfy my cravings. I pulled down the stack of boxes by the screen door in the living space, and one toppled a toolbox onto the ground. On the right track, I thought, sifting through it. I was raring to find something, anything. A small cardboard box, no more than an inch cubed, flew behind me while I dug through the pile of hammers, screwdrivers, and wrenches. I opened it, and a woodcarving blade set spilled onto my lap. Perfect.

My face blazed with heat as I saw my own blood spill onto the bathroom sink countertop. My nerves were completely damaged, and my tendons could see the light of day. It was stinging so much, so much pain, that I couldn't stop. I can't stop. I could grab grafted skin like playdough in handfuls. The miniature handsaw whirred in my hand, and it wasn't until I heard the front door open and slam that I processed what I had truly done.

"Adam! We're home!" I rushed to wrap a dark purple towel around my arms and legs, tying the end like a weak tourniquet, but it soaked quickly. I hadn't locked the bathroom door, so I had to throw myself onto it to keep it closed. "Adam, look what she bought me!" I could hear Mavia run into our door across the hall, and quickly go quiet as she realized I wasn't there. My breath hinged in my throat as she pushed open the door, and it bounced against my back. "Adam?" My mother slipped behind her as she called my name again, concerned.

"Adam, honey?" The emotional gratification of the pain was nothing compared to the fear in her voice as she realized I was unresponsive behind a bathroom door. I cried. I know it was weak, for both Cool and Regular versions of me. But I'd cried so much in recent months that it barely fazed me. I know my mother heard me, because she began whispering to my sister something, and she rushed into our room. "Adam, can you tell me what's wrong?" I wailed louder. Look at me, seventeen years old, and crying that my mother was rightfully concerned for me. I stood up quickly and slid down my hoodie and pant sleeves, which did nothing, because they started to soak up my chartreuse blood. I opened the door, and her eyes searching me for some sort of problem and finding one was the worst feeling.

I found myself kind of tired on the way to the hospital, but I wasn't sure if it was blood loss, the crying, or the punching. Or all of them. I barely had enough energy to get through triage, and when I got assigned my room, I passed out on the scratchy blue excuse for a blanket immediately. I could still hear the room as nurses came in and out for examination, then leaving with their findings. I could feel my mother's presence to my side the entire time. She advocated for my health yet quick release, not exposing me too much for what it was worth. Still, social work insisted on waking me up and asking intrusive questions.

"Okay, now the suicidality questionnaire. Are you ready?" She asked patiently, and I could only blink my annoyance at her. "In the last two weeks have you wished you were dead or could go to sleep and not wake up?" I remembered visibly the countless nights in middle school I'd take a few extra milligrams of melatonin in hopes my brain just slept my life away, or when I'd drink as much beer as my stomach could hold, so that if I didn't die in my sleep, it'd sure as hell feel like it, including when I got home from dropping Caleb off. It was a different hospital system as my attempt in February, so I confidently answered no.

"In the last two weeks, have you wanted someone to kill you or wished you had a life-threatening accident?" The last hospital didn't ask that, so I had to stop and think. I feel like everyone has to a degree, but I silently wondered, how many have avoided looking both ways in case a car didn't see them crossing the street? I said no.

"In the last two weeks, have you passively or seriously considered ending your own life?" I remembered to a couple hours ago if I should drive the saw into my neck, but the high from my leg alone told me I never wanted to stop feeling pain, and death would prevent that. I shook my head no.

"In the last two weeks, have you planned to end your own life?" She could have said two days and it would have been the same answer. I responded no anyways.

"In the last two weeks, have you attempted to end your own life?" My next no was truthful. Three nights ago, instead of cracking my skull in a canyon, I was busy getting hot and heavy with my childhood best friend.

"Okay." Was her only response, and she dismissed me to go back to sleep. My mother came back in with Mavia, now that I was properly stitched and grafted. They sat near me, and I was finally awake enough to talk. They didn't look like they had much to say though. Or, at least, much they could say.

It's been almost a month since I shot myself. It's been almost a month since my parents found out about me. Not once in the entire month did my mother bring it up. Until now, of course, because she was just like that.

"I love you no matter what, even if you're breaking god's will." I almost asked her why God's will was so important to her, and not the wellbeing of her children. She smiled in my direction, but I could have sworn she was looking at a ghost. I tried smiling back, but I didn't have any joy to share with her. "You're going to make it very difficult for us to go to church, now, though." I automatically groaned loudly at the thought of church, and to my delight, Mavia did as well. My mother didn't have much room to be offended or angry and sat back in her chair peeved.

"Are you okay?" Mavia asked, grabbing at the bandages wrapped around me. I swallowed away my painful grimace for her and smiled. "Yes, baby, I'm alright." I hugged her head and kissed her scalp, spare dark hairs that she got from our mother and dandruff getting in my mouth which I stealthily spit out. She stayed leaning on my bed, not convinced. She's a very smart kid. I stared at the countersink to my left and could see myself in the mirror. My strawberry blonde hair looked more copper blonde near the back where my blood had stained it, and my eyebags still existed but were lighter in color. My light blue scrubs were probably the epitome of fashion, I joked with myself. I was still a mess, but maybe less than I was before.