Forgetters, Leavers, and Complainers

Plan Part A

I contemplated killing myself. I really did. I thought, that will be my revenge. When I'm no longer here. Perhaps a deeper part of myself was also searching for relief from the pain that haunted me day and night, but I blamed my desire on revenge. However, I realized that if I died, they might be relieved--they wouldn't have to take care of the sick friend any longer.

No, they needed to feel my pain.

I'm taking a break from college right now. I am--was--in my third year of school, majoring in poetry. Perhaps that's where I got my sense of poetic justice. In October, just a month ago, I stopped going to classes because I was so exhausted I could hardly get out of bed. I took my medications, ate, and slept. Sometimes I was in pain so deep that sleep was the only relief. 

I'm not going to tell you what's wrong with me. I don't need your pity, and my revenge list is already long enough. All you need to know is I have a chronic illness. I was diagnosed at the age of seven--old enough to know something was wrong, but not old enough to understand. Then again, I'm 21 now and I still don't understand. Because of my illness, I often struggle with intense fatigue, body aches and pains, decreased energy, bodily weakness, and sometimes depression. 

So this break from college. I'm living at home now with my mom and my baby sister, Emma. They are the only ones who haven't left or forgot about my pain, and though they don't complain, I can see how hard it is for them in the dark bags under my mother's eyes and in Emma's tearful hugs every time I leave the house. I can hear her thoughts. What if he doesn't come back this time?

They are not on the list, but my best friend Corey is. He qualifies as a classic forgetter. Growing up, we were best friends; it was always Ryan and Corey or Corey and Ryan. There are countless embarrassing stories of the two of us as children--racing on our bikes, playing t-ball together, dressing up for Halloween. Then, in my senior year of high school, I had to drop out for a year. I spent that year being home schooled by my mom and spending an inordinate amount of time in doctor's office. This wasn't the first time I was incapacitated by my illness, but for Corey and I, it came at the worst time. Corey fell in love with a girl named Eva and I fell in love with painkillers. He forgot me. 

Now I'm living at home again and he stops by once in a while to try to cheer me up. He and Eva are engaged and living together on his meager salary as a landscaper. They're happy. I'm not angry that they're happy--I swear, I'm not. I'm hurt that he forgot me and moved on with his life. When I first dropped out of high school, he visited everyday after school at first. Then once or twice a week. Then a few times a month. Finally, by Christmas, he'd stopped coming by at all. He called occasionally. Sent a text or two. But I was gone, I was old news.

I can't smile when he shows up now. Unlike him, I can't forget.

Now I'm sitting on my bed in my old room. It doesn't feel like home. Wait, that's not quite right. It feels like home, but the home of a different me. It takes me back to senior year of high school. The poor, sick boy left at home. I can still hear their whispers. Did you know he can't even stand up sometimes? His mom has to teach him now. I heard he goes to the doctor's twice a week. 

They weren't my friends, but Corey was. Now he's going to be forgotten, just like he forgot me.

I have nothing against Eva, and I'm sorry she's going to be hurt in this, but maybe she'll be better off without someone like him.

I know Corey better than he thinks I do. I know his secrets. I was a good friend; I never would have told anyone, but now I want to inflict as much pain on him as he did on me. Call it poetic justice.

During my senior year, I only went to one or two parties. I didn't drink anything and I usually came home by 10:00 P.M. They were bitter affairs, where I sat in a corner and hoped someone would come talk to me because I was faint and couldn't stand up to walk over to Corey. Corey, of course, thought I was just being antisocial and left me to my own misery. Corey, unlike me, was drinking. Eva was out of town on some charity trip to build homes in a devastated nation--she was always good like that, better than either Corey or I. Corey wasn't just drinking, he was drunk. His eyes were bleary and he staggered around the room, speaking too loudly while swallowing gulps of burning liquid.

With my absence, Corey had befriended two of the biggest idiots in our small hometown--Jared and Pete, responsible for shooting up a poor stray cat and wreaking havoc on a neighbor's petunias. They were as drunk as him and feeling divinely inspired.

Eva, as I mentioned before, was a goody two shoes. She was compassionate and spent her weekends and evenings volunteering to serve the less fortunate. Her brainchild was a shelter for abused women that she had started with the help of a teacher at our school. Many people, including Corey, had belittled the idea, but she went through with it and started it during our sophomore year. It landed her a front page news article. 

Jared and Pete's genius idea was to break into it and scare the women in the shelter. It was a bad idea to begin with, but it got so much worse.

"Ryan, you wanna come?" 

I remember the swell of pride I felt when Corey invited me to join them. I agreed but I wanted nothing to do with breaking and entering. I followed them to the center and waited in my car outside. As they drunkenly careened toward the center, their raucous laughter a sure warning to any women caught inside,  Corey carried a bottle of whiskey and Jared had a lit cigarette in his mouth. I didn't consider the potential consequences, and neither did they. They broke one window in the back and climbed through. 

Then something happened, and it went up in flames. I can only assume that the cigarette and the whiskey somehow collided. Next thing I knew, they were evacuating the building and we all stood in shock for a moment as the entire center erupted in flames.

I was smart enough to know better than to get caught. I started to drive home, fingers shaking on the wheel, and left an anonymous call to the police. Luckily, the women heard the boys laughing and were awake enough to get out in time, but the center was destroyed. They never caught the perpetrators and I kept Corey's story secret. Until now, that is.

Since Corey forgot me, I will make Eva forget him. That women's shelter was her baby, and knowing her fiance was the source of its destruction will destroy their relationship. I hope Eva recovers--either way, Corey won't. He loves her, the fool.

The story you just read has been written out on a single sheet of lined paper and sealed in an unmarked envelope with only Eva's name on it. I will deliver it to her place of work, a homeless charity, and leave it on her desk. She hasn't seen me in years and I doubt she would recognize me now. I have grown a scraggly beard to cover my pale face and sallow cheeks. Even if she did, I don't care if Corey finds out I'm behind his demise. He can do nothing more to me.

~~~

Two weeks have passed since I delivered the letter. Eva left Corey in their little apartment. She threw the engagement ring out the window while I watched from a parked car across the sheet. After she left, I watched as he curled up in a ball on the kitchen floor. Weeping.

Revenge plan A, completed. The forgetter has been punished.