The Bucket List

COURAGE

    The next morning was filled with pure bliss until I was called to the mess hall. Immediately when I walked in, blue-haired Alexa gave me a death stare that could have struck down God. I shivered, opting to sit next to a little girl instead of Alexa. The girl, roughly seven I think, told me about her illness and her life. She had brain cancer, and her life expectancy was two months. Her parents couldn't take care of her at home anymore because her paralysis got so bad, but she didn't want hospice.
    "My name's Jessy, but eveyone calls me Germy," she said, taking a large bite from a biscuit, each 'r' slurred. "It's because I'm a hippochonac."
    "Hypochondriac?" I offered. I had gotten diagnosed with hypochondria in the seventh grade, a few years after my mother passed from heart complications, so I knew how difficult it was to live with. Every symptom, no matter how small, seemed like life or death. I'd beg my father to take me to the hospital every other week, convinced I had some hidden illness. Whenever he finally did take me and I really was sick, that only fueled my fire.
    "So why does Alexa hate you so much?" Germy asked.
    "I'm a different type of sick than her," I said simply, giving Germy a pitiful glance. She looked at me like an unsolved math equation.
    "Well so am I," Germy shrugged. "You probably gave her bad vibes. She's weird like that."
    I stared at the biscuits laid in front of me with contempt. They took me back to Texas, a place I had no interest in revisiting, even in my memories. Slowly, the memory involuntarily unraveled. When my mom was sick, back in the early stages, she went into this weird biscuit phase. My father hated it, but he pretended to like biscuits just for her. Every single morning, without fail, she would make biscuits and gravy. The same biscuits I forced down with a swig of water now.
    After my mother passed when I was eight, my father turned to alcohol to numb the pain in his head. Due to my neglect, I fell in with the wrong crowd and started abusing drugs. My entire life fell apart after that. I got kicked out, I lived in shelters and on the streets. Nobody could make me quit, and I thought it was all just fine. After a few trips to rehab and some near death experiences, I had to quit. To this day it was the hardest thing I've ever done. However, before I could really bask in the joy of sobriety, I got depressed. That was when the second part of the struggle started. See, getting sober doesn't just involve quitting, it involves relearning how to live without being numb. I started exploring the various methods of self mutilation, and eventually, I figured out that if I die, I can stop feeling anything at all.
    I cleared my throat, my mind wandering too far into my memories for me to retain my sanity. The doctor came and saw me eventually, telling me I would be transferred to a psychiatric facility today with the permission of my father.
    After breakfast and morning outside time, I finally got to call my father, the expected conversation replaying a thousand times in my head as I dialed his number.
    "Hello? Dad?"
    "James?" he replied, his words slurred.
    "Can you tell them to discharge me today? I don't want to go back to the ward." Even as I asked I knew he would say yes. Me going back just meant he would have to get up and sign paperwork. He was simple to manipulate in that way– he just wanted whatever required the least effort for him.
    "Mhm," he muttered, probably as he hit a cigarette. The faint sounds of sports and a woman chittering filled my ears. Absently, I wondered if he was going to try and replace Mom again. He did that when he got bad.
    "Thanks, I gotta go."
    "Take care," he said, his voice distant. My father hadn't really been my father in seven years, but that was fine. For now, I had blue-haired Alexa to occupy the gaping hole of perpetual boredom. I sauntered back to my room for only moments to grab the bucket list. Then, as confidently as I could, I went to Alexa's room. I didn't mean to pry, but I couldn't help but see her birthday on her 'Get to know me!' board. We shared a birthday— November 10th. I knocked on her door slowly, placing a wide grin on my face for when it opened. Blue-haired Alexa stood there for a second, completely uninterested.
    "What the hell do you want?" she asked flippantly.
    "Okay, off to a bad start. I want to apologize."
    She crossed her arms, giving me a stare down. Even as she glared, I couldn't help but get completely transfixed by her eyes again. No matter what hair color she had, they seemed to always pop.
    "For being suicidal or for informing a group of kids that are foreordained to die that you've squandered your life?"
    "Those are some big words," I said, mouth agape. "Uh, but I think the second option. Can I come in?"
    "No."
    "Okay," I nodded, reaching into my pocket and pulling out the list. "Look, this is how I'm going to make it up to you, yeah? It's a bucket list– I wrote down 17 items, you write 16, we accomplish all of our goals before we both indubitably," I raised my eyebrows, proud of myself for remembering a word from school, "die."
    "Sounds lame," she said, closing the door.
    I stuck my hand in the same way she had yesterday. "What then, all you said yesterday about "throwing away our chance at life" or whatever, that was nothing?"
    There was visible smoke steaming from her ears. "You are some deranged, suicidal kid who thinks he knows everything the world has to offer! I know you. You think life is one perpetual phase, that it'll never get better. You spend your nights saying 'poor pitiful me' and then wonder why nothing changes!"
    Ouch? This girl really knew how to cut to the bone. Either way, she was wrong. Since that night in July, my life has only had one phase. Seven years of terrifying 'phase'. "You think you know everything, don't you?"
    "No," she sneered. "I know you because I was you."
    She slammed the door in my face, allowing me to, once again, replay our conversation a million times. I turned away in defeat before I looked down at the list in my hand. Kneeling on the ground, I slid it under her door, imploring her to complete it.
    If she did, we all jump for joy and my depression is cured. If she rolls it in a ball and throws it in the trash, I'm dead anyways.
    As I walked sadly back to my room, the door swung open.
    "You want to plant a garden?"
    Her tone, unlike every other time I had the pleasure of talking to her, seemed genuine. "Uh, yeah."
    She nodded like she was contemplating something, meanwhile I was basking in my win. "That's cool."
    WOOP WOOP, was the only thing going through my head. Alexa: 2, James: 1. I was catching up quickly.
    "So you'll do it?" I asked, my tone hopeful. It was strange, how much I balanced my hopes on that one moment. My life consistently lacked direction and purpose, and maybe Alexa had convinced me it needed that. She could honestly be a motivational speaker. She's so beautiful everyone would listen.
    "You seriously know how to kill every moment," she said, her eyebrows raised as she shut her door again.
    I gave her door a volatile hand gesture and went on my merry way back to my room to pack my things. After all, I was to be discharged very soon.

    I hadn't really known what to expect upon leaving the hospital. Well, somewhere in my head I knew my old friends would come find me, but that was a reality I didn't want to face. Spending four years of your life working up even the tiniest bit of courage to get sober is draining.
    If someone asked me what happened to me from ages twelve to fourteen, I wouldn't be able to tell them. Not just because I wouldn't want to, but also because it was difficult to remember. There were nights I spent on park benches and shelter homes, others in the trap, and some in a warm bed with strangers. Every single day was a fight to stay alive while also staying high. The only joy was being so completely trashed that you couldn't feel a thing. That was the rush I craved for four years. I have now been sober for seven months.
    That was all at risk the moment I left the hospital, walking down the familiar streets of Vista, hands in my pockets. By no means was I the type of kid to look like he was in a gang. Hell, that was how I got away with doing drugs for so long; I looked innocent. Vista wasn't the most popular drug place, but it was California, so there wasn't far you could stray from it.
    "Wei, it's JD," a familiar voice called out from the shadows of an alleyway. I turned my head to find the face of Mac staring back at me. My face split into a half forced grin.
    "What's up Mac? How have you been, man?"
    "I been good, you know, making money," Mac responded, running his hands through his hair incessantly. "Heard you was in the hospital again man."
    "Yeah, ODed on some..." I trailed off, not eager to talk about it. That familiar lump crawled itself into my throat, fighting (and winning) against oxygen as I tried to regain my breathing.
    "Whatever man, I got some right here if you want it. Me and the boys got the stuff back at the crib."
    I shook my head, trying to tell the voice in my head that it wasn't worth it. "Nah, nah I can't guys."
    The boys started pushing each other back and forth, calling me vulgar names and laughing. "JD became a prude man!" one of them joked.
    The pressure in my head started building, and I knew I couldn't stay in this situation. "Nah nah, saca barras."
    Immediate guilt washed over my body as I handed him the crumpled bills in my pocket, trying not to make eye contact as he handed me the baggy.
    "Thanks, man," I muttered, turning around as water filled my eyes. Why am I so useless, so worthless? Even as I opened the baggy, the adrenaline and guilt concoction made my body shake. Why am I doing this to myself?
    Yet I do it anyway.

    I threw my body upwards, sweating as I woke up. I scanned my surroundings– I was still in the hospital, or had I OD'd again? I reached into my pocket and pulled out my crumpled dollar bills, my entire body releasing the tension it was clinging to. Burying my head in my hands and groaning, I looked at the tattoo on my wrist.
Never again, it read. Never again. Never again, never again, never again, never again, never again, never again, never again.
    I can't do it again, won't survive again.
    My thoughts redirected themselves, thankfully, back to that tattoo shop five months ago. Once I had really, finally been sober for a little bit, it was my celebration. I would never go back to the person I had been– that angry, self sabotaging druggie who had no motivation. Shuddering, I reminded myself how horrible it had been. The withdrawals, the anger, the aggressive things I did that I couldn't imagine doing now.
    "James?" a man's voice called from behind the door before it opened. I looked up at Doctor Pinocchio and his absurd nose, halfway listening as he told me I was discharged.
    Could I leave and be okay? I guess I would have to.
    Grabbing my bag of arts and crafts papers and information, I closed my door behind me.
    "Uh, doc could you excuse me for a sec?" I asked, glancing at Alexa's door.
    He nodded, and immediately I was halfway down the hall, knocking voraciously on her door. "Alexa! It's your favorite person!"
    The door swung open suddenly, and without permission, I rushed inside. Her room was surprisingly neat, all of her personal belongings organized by color on her desk. She had a wide assortment of flowers and drawings of said flowers.
    "Get out of my room, you psycho," pink-haired Alexa said, creeping backwards with feigned (maybe) disgust.
    "Alexa," I said, looking at her eyes with intensity. "Finish the list. Meet me by the tree outside tomorrow, and we'll do it. We'll do it all, and we'll live. Really living, not just sitting here," I threw my arms up, gesturing around us, "surviving."
    Alexa seemed to be in shock. Her mouth was open, but for once she looked at a loss of words.
    "Alright," I said, straightening my back. "Bye." Closing the door behind me, I jumped in the hallway with excitement. She would do it, I knew. If she knew me so well, that would mean that I know her too. Alexa: 2, James: 2.