The Bucket List

TO LIVE

The pure, unfiltered rush that came from skydiving was intoxicating. Wind filled my lungs, weaponizing itself inside my body. The sky and gravity pushed against me with all its force, my grin etched into my skin. The feeling was insurmountable, my entire body tingling from exhilaration. Then, just as I thought I was surely too close to the ground, my body jolted upright, my shoulders almost popping out of place from the effort.
    The vastness of California was spread below me, each square its own dot on my personal map. I watched as the streets grew from a murky blur into an intricate network of hills and suburban neighborhoods. My head whirled around as I tried to find my own home with no luck. The instructor clinging to my back yelled at me as we prepared to leave the bird's domain and enter our own sad, feet filled world. I tried to let my aggravation fly off me into the troposphere. I lifted my legs, allowing them to break into a run as the ground hit my feet with a thud.
    Ignoring the entire rest of my evening, including the drive home, was easy. I let my mind drift back to that feeling, that weightlessness.
    I wasn't some adrenaline junkie with an addiction to satiate, I was practically researching. It's not easy to admit you want to die, but it is easy to make it your own personal monopoly board. The freedom of getting to choose the one unfaltering thing in these transient times, it's impeccable. And for me at least, that autonomy was more intoxicating than adrenaline.
    "He's coming back," a soft, quiet voice said from behind me. I turned around, searching for the woman to no avail. Bright lights shone, blurring my vision.
    "James Addison," the voice called again, sounding nearer. "James, are you with us?"
    I chewed up a witty remark, unable to speak or scream. My reality was mist, dripping away to reveal the repetitive interior of an ambulance. The smell of grass faded into medicine and sterilizers as my mind returned to the real world. I tried to open my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. The sound of distant beeping and nurses chattering away filled my senses, consuming me.
    "Do you know your name?" the female voice asked again, my vision too blurred to make out anything except her scrubs and hair.
    "James Addison," I muttered breathily before crashing.

    When I woke, there was a needle in my arm. I sat up, groaning as I clutched my stomach. My mind grasped at my memories, searching for an answer. The present was still wrapped by a veil of fog when a doctor came in.
    His glasses perched precariously on his excessively long nose, his dark eyes studying me with an impassive expression. "Hello, son," he said, grabbing his clipboard and pen. "Do you know why you're here?"
    I scratched my head. "Uh, yeah, I tried to overdose."
    Now was the time for realization to really kick in. There were no flowers or chocolates on my bedside table, and of course, nobody sitting around my bed with their fists clenched. My dad was probably at home with a drink in his meaty fingers, leaning back in his rocking chair neglecting everything– including his sons. I doubted if he even knew, or if by the third attempt he had learned to relieve the pressure of feigned distress by not answering the hospital's calls. My brother likely didn't even know.
    The doctor nodded, marking something on his clipboard. "Very good, now can you rate your physical pain on a scale from one to ten; ten being the highest."
    "Like a... two, maybe," I responded monotone, my mind drifting back to the dream of me skydiving. It was like God himself had given me the answer to all my problems. overdose? No need. The One American Plaza in San Diego could eat thirty of me. Better yet, there was no percentage of me failing. No more charcoal in this body.
    The doctor asked me a few more questions before telling me I was at Children's Primary Care Medical, or something. I nodded absently, my mind a thousand–technically 42–miles away as I daydreamed about death.
    Doctor Pinocchio eventually left, seeming satisfied even with my unwillingness to release information. I laid back on my cardboard bed, comfortable as one can be in a hospital. That was until a girl knocked on my door. Hesitantly, I stood up, dragging my IV pole to the door as I swung it open.
    "You're new?" the girl asked immediately. The first thing I noticed was her hair; long and bright pink. I was studying it, an "Uh" building in my throat when she spoke again. "I just haven't seen you here before."
    "No, yeah, uh I've never been to this hospital before," I said, regaining my composure like a doof on his first date. However, I couldn't be hard on myself. Even with her eyebags and strange hair, the girl was undeniably beautiful. Her face was sharp, but her eyes were big and soft and mesmerizing. A mellow, remarkable jade green filled the insides of her eyes, a dark outer ring giving the jade room to shine.
    "You've been to others though? Like, for the same reason?"
    "Uh," I muttered, dragging my gaze away from hers. "Yeah, I'm here because of an overdose"
    Her eyebrows furrowed as she stared at me. "If it was intentional they might keep you here until there's an opening in a psychiatric facility–that's happened before."
    I stepped backwards, groaning as the truth of her words sunk into me. Not again, please God, I prayed, my head pointed at the sky. I had been in and out of mental hospitals since age ten, then in and out of rehab. Twelve times admitted total.
    "Thanks, see you around," I muttered, attempting to close my door. The girl stuck her hand in just before it hit the latch, of course. Who really needs peace and comfort in their lives anyways?
    "What's your name?"
    "James," I sighed.
    "Well hi there, James," she mimicked my sigh, "I'm Alexa and it's time for arts and crafts, so grab your pole."
    I closed my door, dragging myself and my IV pole to the bed and throwing myself onto it with a groan. There was no way I'd allow myself to go back to the mental hospital. Most of it wasn't that horrible– the snacks were pretty good, but it's the screams that mess you up. Watching the kids punch the walls, seeing them get injected with what we called "booty-juice", staying up listening to shrieks in the hallways.
    I put on my pajama pants (yes under my gown, it's a statement), and sauntered out of my room, hoping to find a moment of silence before complete overstimulation. Unfortunately, pink-haired Alexa had other plans for me.
    "So, why'd you do it?" she asked, exactly 4.5 milliseconds after I opened my door. My eye twitched in response.
    "You mean besides the major depression, insomnia, and anxiety? Gee, I don't quite know," I mumbled sarcastically.
    "What was that?" she asked sweetly, placing her hands behind her back.
    Louder this time, I started, "I said, you mean–"
    She waved her hand. "Yeah, I heard you, I just wanted you to feel like an idiot." Grinning, she swung open the arts and craft door, my dignity clinging to the door sweep.
    The inside was no less than an introverts wet dream. Twelve kids, some small, some older, sat at a long, oval table. Their hands fidgeted incessantly with various colored paper and glitter. I sat down at the end, my leg jumping up and down ceaselessly. The walls were solid white, which brought me back to my tiny room in my dads house, and I shuddered at the intrusive memory. There was a TV in the far corner, but it was playing some old cartoon none of the kids looked interested in. We all wore matching wrist bands, except a few had hot pink and orange.
    "Everyone," pink-haired Alexa called out from behind me. "This is James, he's going to be staying with us for a little while."
    The kids all volunteered a "Hi, James" before resuming their crafts. Pink-haired Alexa sat down beside me, her hands instantly darting out to grab the origami squares on the table. Her hands folded them expertly, making a yellow crane before I could even blink.
    "So," I started, unsure of myself, "What are you here for?"
    "Acute leukemia," she answered nonchalantly, like it was a what-do-you-want-for-dinner question.
    "Oh." was all I could muster. "That really sucks."
    Pink-haired Alexa gave me a small smile and a nod, her eyes not meeting mine. "Yup, I got diagnosed when I was nine. Surprised I lived this long, but obviously," she lifted her hands, gesturing around us. "No much longer to go.
    I nodded, my brain running over a million textbook, sympathetic replies. Instead, I decided to be real with her. Real smart. "Me either. I mean, not in the same sense but, I'm leaving soon."
    Her head whipped around, her gaze meeting mine unexpectedly. I'm pretty sure her eyes were even twitching. "You're going to kill yourself? Even after failing this time?"
    Nodding, I opened my mouth to attempt at an explanation before she cut me off.
    "Do you understand how lucky you are?" she asked, her voice raising as other kids turned their heads to watch the spectacle. "None of us get to live, and you can. You're going to throw that all away? What, because your life sucks right now? There is so much you haven't lived, so get a hold of yourself!"
    I winced at her words as nurses came to calm her down. Nurses rushed over, and I notices they were exceedingly nice to Alexa in comparison to me. They separated us, gladly allowing me to return back to my room. I walked down the hallway, dragging my pole along as her words marinated in my head. What did she know? She didn't know anything about me or my life.
    As much as my pride was wounded, her words filled my brain until I couldn't breathe. So what if I have so much to live? I never wanted it, never wanted any of this. If she knew the things I had been through, she would never have said that.
    What about the things she went through? The little voice in my head said as it reminded me what empathy was. She had probably lived her entire life looking over her shoulder, waiting on that final moment. Constant unfulfillment and a search for more–the same as me.
    In a blur, I pulled my notebook from my little bag holding my belongings. I didn't know yet what would happen when I uncapped my pen. Poetry flew from my hand faster than my mind could comprehend.
My mind ached with more ferocity than my wrist as I sat down my pencil, rubbing my temples. Poetry, albeit a less utilized hobby of mine, always seemed to calm me down. I stared at the paper, my mind running one thought at a time finally. As I flipped the page, a single line of Alexa's outburst stuck out to me.
    "There is so much you haven't lived."
    It stuck out because it was true. I hadn't yet gone skydiving, nor had I planted that garden I always wanted. My hand moved on its own, jotting down numbers to the end of the paper. Thirty five lines, thirty five goals. A bucket list, filled with everything I wanted to do before I finally died. Tomorrow, I could show Alexa with a sense of accomplishment, letting her know that I will fully employ all the advantages of breathing. Excitement coursed through my skin like lightning as I thought of random, some silly, some not, goals for my list. My bucket list.