2016/02/26 Friday
I didn't want to get out of bed today. I didn't want to talk to anybody today. I didn't want to have to deal with anything or anyone today, much less Mr Bowie and my unfinished chemistry homework. My eyes were swollen and my throat felt raw but when Gerard asked me whether I wanted to ditch my tutoring lesson, I told him that I was fine and the show must go on.
Because, in all honesty, the show just had to go on. Whether Pete was dying or not – I wasn't. And even though I couldn't lie and say that it wouldn't hurt when he died eventually, I had to keep fighting like I still had a reason to stay alive even if I didn't.
That's just the sort of shit people had to do and it felt sort of unfair that I would have to do it again after losing my legs, my parents and –soon – my Best Friend for Life. It was like life hated me for some reason. What kind of a shitty person did I have to be in my past life to have to deal with all this shit, huh? I could only imagine how Gerard was feeling, on the brink of losing his brother.
Today was just going to be a bad day and there was nothing I could do about it except keep my head up high and hope to god I'd see Pete again during group later. Tutoring went on for ages and I think, at one point or another, Mr Bowie noticed the dampened mood and told me that I should go wash my face.
When I came back, I was expecting to be shouted at or scolded for not paying attention. Maybe I'd get double homework and, while that punishment seemed fair enough, I wouldn't do that either. But, when my focus set on the table, it was completely empty.
Mr Bowie had packed up my things and set the bag with files in it on the other side of the room. He stayed seated though, waiting for me to come to table and I did. I approached it hesitantly, completely alien to the entire situation.
But when I got close enough, Mr Bowie grabbed my hand and enveloped it in the warmth you wouldn't expect from an old man. He just looked at me for a long time but he didn't let go of my hand and then he opened his mouth and said, I'm going to ask you a question and I want you to answer me completely honestly, okay?
I nodded, afraid that I might have to lie. I wasn't sure what he was going to ask but I was almost convinced it had something to with drugs or alcohol, the way most people asked. But instead, Mr Bowie looked at me with his old, wise and uneven eyes. And he said. Are you okay?
I hate that question. I hate it because I don't know what it means. What is okay? What does it mean? Does okay mean that you're considering suicide but you'll be alive for the next day or two because you're afraid? Or does it mean that you're not considering suicide at all? Does it mean you've been crying yourself to sleep but you wouldn't dare hurt yourself? Or does it mean that you don't cry at all?
What was okay? What does it mean? Am I okay at all? Have I ever been okay? Has there ever a reason not to be? But then I realized that the question probably wasn't logical which meant that he didn't want a logical answer. It was rhetorical question so he wanted a rhetorical answer. I stared at him for a long time and then steeled myself.
Yeah. I'm fine. I said. I wasn't sure whether it was true or not. I wasn't sure whether I really was or not. Or whether I really wanted to be. I wondered whether I should ask Pete this. Whether he would answer my honestly or whether he would lie. And whether it would make a difference at all.
You better not be lying to me. Mr Bowie said. I can read you like a book. I wondered whether, in this metaphor, I was like The Boy in Striped Pajamas. Just completely worn out and covered in dirty finger prints with pages that are torn and frayed. Or whether I was like my chemistry text book: untouched.
Yeah. I'm okay. I said. And again, I wondered whether I meant what I was saying. Or whether he understood what I meant. But then, before I could think further, I decided that I didn't care. Because people were stupid. Especially tutors who asked stupid questions to boys in wheelchairs.
Mr Bowie went home then, and left me only to try and redo yesterday's chemistry homework which I could understand better already. But I still spent forever waiting for Frank to take me to group therapy so that I could know that was going on with Pete.
Like always, we waited outside in the snow for ten minutes before the elevator opened and we got inside to take a ride to Dr Nestor's office. Group, which I'd been looking forward to all day, sucked ass. The entire session was going to be spent talking and pretending to care about each other's feelings when all I could really think about was Pete.
Pete wasn't there, though. And even though I wasn't mad directly at him – I wouldn't mind it all that much if I could punch him in the face. It was something that I wanted to do, really. We went around the circle again and it was boring because I knew what everybody was going to say and how they were going to say it.
I'm Ryan and I'm here because my best friend drowned in a swimming pool. Ryan would look straight ahead and try not to make eye contact with the person directly across from him, except that he would anyway and would end up staring directly at them creepily.
I'm Hayley and I'm here because my brother committed suicide. Hayley would cross her arms when she stood up and then she'd look at her shoes and back up at The Lady at the Head of The Invisible Table while biting her lip. And, once it came to me, I'd make a stupid joke that no one would laugh at.
"I'm Mikey and why are any of us here at all? What is our purpose in life? Is there a god?" The lady at the head of the invisible table just rolled her eyes at me. And no one else thought it was funny. But I was sure that if Pete was there, he's be smirking at me.
I didn't say anything throughout the session until the lady at the head of the invisible table called on me and asked me whether I had a particular opinion on Ryan's problems. I said that I didn't have an opinion because I didn't care and, in their shocked silence, I made the split decision to leave.
I went as far as I could, accidently knocking into the railings that kept me from wheeling right off the balcony. Nobody had made a move to catch me or stop me at all so, for at least ten minutes, I simply stared off the balcony and at the ground and I wished so badly that I could stand there and just flick myself over the railings, off the balcony and on to the cold snow.
And then I realized that I could – with a bit more effort though. I used all the upper body strength I had (not very much) and lifted my bodyweight out of the chair. I could last like that for a while and I even looked down at my Useless Logs of Fat™ - they hung sloppily and the bottom of my shoes faced upwards. It made me angry and sad and annoyed all at once.
What would I ever do? What could I ever do? I knew that things would change drastically for the characters in The Boy in Striped Pajamas if Bruno was in a wheelchair. In fact, there wouldn't even be a book at all because Bruno wouldn't have been able to do any of the things he did in the book. Would Harry Potter be able to defeat Voldemort if he was in a wheelchair? No. People in wheelchairs couldn't do anything useful at all. We are about as useless as my Logs of Fat™.
In fact, I think that in the couple of seconds before I made the decision, I thought it through quite clearly. It might've looked like it was brash and rushed into but I'd thought it through. I'd realized that I'd never be able to do anything worth note at all in my life. What could I possibly do? I know that I'll never be able to do those sort of things. I'd never do something worth writing a novel about, in fact you'd probably have to pay people to read a book about me.
And this is what I thought for the entirety of the 20 seconds that I could hold my body wait high enough for me to see the snow down there. I wondered whether it would cushion my fall and - I know that it sounds stupid because I've always thought it was – I said out to myself out loud only one way to find out. Could the snow cushion my fall?
It didn't – by the way.
And that's the reason why I was lying on the snow while my wheelchair stared at me from the second floor. I didn't fall. It didn't slip. I jumped. And it wasn't because I wanted to die – not really. I don't think I would've minded dying but that wasn't why I did it.
Maybe it was because I was missing Pete or maybe it was because I wanted to know whether the snow would catch me. But I don't think I really had a reason at all. I jumped for the feeling and the experience, I think. But I can't be sure. Because I can't tell you what I was feeling or what I was thinking because I can't remember and I don't whether I really want to.
Regardless, I didn't feel any pain anywhere and for a long time I thought that I was simply fine. I'd landed on my stomach and I couldn't roll myself over or do much but prop my head on my arms and scream for someone to help me. Except that I didn't do that. I just laughed to myself dryly and humourlessly – I sounded like Pete, except for the part where it was actually funny what had just happened and I was genuinely laughing.
I just waved my arms about and pretended that I had the ability to make snow angels. I probably would be making snow angels if I could move my legs but I hadn't done it since I was child so I just lay on my stomach, with the snow pressed to my body and making me wetter and wetter by the minute.
Eventually, though I heard gasps of horror or maybe they were gasps of disgust and then I was carried into someone's car and driven to a hospital. There was a lot of blood on my pants and when I could see the snow, there was a whole load of it that was red. I laughed again, silently to myself this time, because I realized that all the blood that had ever touched the snow had been mine.
And this is how I ended up with a broken foot from jumping off the second floor. It was bandaged up and put in a cast (which was ridiculously stupid because I was in a wheelchair and a Useless Foot wouldn't be much of a problem if I couldn't walk, courtesy of The Useless Logs of Fat™.) I didn't tell Pete because I didn't want him to tell me that I wasn't okay. He just really needed to listen to me, because I'd be telling him the truth. I'd mean it. Trust me. I'm okay.
Regardless, I hoped that I'd see him again next Friday.
Mikey.
Because I didn't post on Sunday. Cries.
Comment and like because I say so.
My favourite thing right now is me. But I guess @frerardapocalypse and @undead_holly are okay too.
Undying affections from yours truly,
Brendon