The End and Beginning, Danean Hughes [classic reads .txt] 📗

Is it bad to have these thoughts—is it so wrong? To not want your life at times? It’s horrible, I know. I’m not okay. I know I won’t ever really be okay. I don’t think anyone ever is. I am not okay. I am not okay. I am NOT okay. I want to die I think—bang my head against concrete and slide it across. These thoughts are wrong. I know. Maybe some day I will feel like the bees knees—just not now; not today. And no, I probably have no reason true reason to feel this way. I have always had family and “friends”, I have had my ups and downs, but I seem to find the downside to everything.
I believe it all "smells like teen spirit". Is this teen angst? Maybe, but I don’t really care at this moment if it is. If I want to be angry, let me. If I want to be sad, let me. Don’t ask me if I’m okay. Clearly, I’m not. Don’t smile and say it will be okay. DANDY. SWELL. Kick me when I’m down. Envy my ups. Don’t do things just to make me happy. Do what you will. Just don't help. Just go with it. I'm better off with the three people I want to be here: me, myself, and I.

Some would say that I just read the suicide letter of my best friend. Just like Destry to carry out this so oddly. The note has been etched into my ceiling for about a month now it seems—twenty-three days, thirteen hours, and twenty-two minutes, roughly. The entire town had searched for him. Well, many at first then some—most, had started to give up hope. They all, one by one, had begun to think he was dead. Police supposedly found his body. Destry had always joked about drowning himself in the river behind his house. The funeral was soon after. That was not him. The person in the coffin laid before everyone, his chin wasn’t set just so. His nose was a bit too plump. His mom mourned. His dad was stiff. I didn’t cry…because that was not Destry.
And then the real search began—a restless, frantic, everyday search that kick-started after school at three until the early hour of five in the morning. Everything that mattered before; didn’t matter now. That was not Destry. My Dad told me in his “it’s going to be fine even if I’m not really sure it will be” tone that it was time to take a break for a bit. It was time to piece myself together. The therapist asks me questions and I count the hairs on his knuckles. The words “settle down”, “dry your eyes”, “rest a while”, makes my breath catch in my throat and tears sting my eyes because how could anyone possibly not care? It hasn’t even been a week yet since Destry’s “death”—disappearance. They all just act as if everything is back to normal. They act as if nothing ever happened—everything is perfectly fine.
And now, lying face up on my bed. With tired eyes, I stare continuously up at that note. I so dearly want to grasp that note—stupid note; but my body begins to soften and mend perfectly with my mattress, which fogs my brain and lowers my lids, and I fall asleep.
Apparently I’ve only slept six hours in the past week—an hour a day--which is perfectly fine in my mind. Mr. Therapy doesn't think so and neither does Doctor, but what do I care. Dad wakes me up at eleven fifty-two in the afternoon. Pills are shoved down my throat. Lovely pills that calm, but I know they are really meant to cloud and fuzz my memory of Destry. They aren't very effective. I push aside Dad's invitation for breakfast together and after a brief morning routine, I rush out of my “home”—actually cage, and sit in my car with the key in the ignition. I haven’t driven since the disappearance because Destry was sort of a hippie about things—hated cars. So why drive when Destry wouldn’t be found there? Starting the car is a burden within itself. I avoid looking in the rearview mirror because I know a person unknown would stare back at me: faded green bloodshot eyes, dark Sicilian bags, pale skin, and frizzed dark-brown but near black hair. The nip of the freezing winter weather moves me enough to let the car heat up. Mix-tapes were Destry’s forte so I push play on the player from whatever point the tape had stopped at last.
And within seconds his voice fills the car. My hear skips two beats at a time and I grip the wheel until my knuckles whiten.
"CASSIE!"
He yells.
"CASSIE STOP!"
He yells with tears in his cry.

I am not okay. I am not okay. I am NOT okay.

I try to grasp the wheel she has let go of as the sounds of Nirvana blasts around us. She sits numb as if in another world, as if something has taken over her. We plummet into the river--car and all.
I want so desperately to free us from the cage of the car, but my limbs grow weak and I can't hold my breath any longer. I let the water flow in me.

When I open my eyes, Cassie smiles, towering above me with a smile that could put the sun to shame. The next thing I notice is the missing rhythm inside me. I guess you never notice your heartbeat until it's gone. You never notice the air you breathe until you have it no more. I sit for a minute, far too light-headed and I'm...drenched? I stand to my feet and immediately wish I hadn't. I cough and spew water, my eyes and throat burn with such a heat, I fall to my knees. Cassie kneels with me, smoothing my hair with care.
"It happens every now and then." She says solemnly.
The burning calms and I finally look around with bewildered eyes.
"Limbo...?" I whisper.
"Isn't it wonderful." I can hear the smile in her voice. We're suspended in mid-air above the river behind my house. The ambulance, police officers, and fire-fighters scatter the land. I see us, Cassie and I. We're layed out on stretchers while the medics try to revive us.
I sit in a mixture of awe and distress and spite.
"Why would you do this?" I ask while not meeting her gaze.
"It felt right...cloudy and fuzzy..." She murmurs, reminancing our deaths.
And then I get the feeling that someone who is struck by lightening might sense. I clench my chest and electricity engulfs me, shooting through my bones, my veins, ignites my heart, and pours out my mouth. The thing that once kept me suspended in air--death--leaves me and I find myself falling. In the spur of the moment I reach out and grab Cassie's hand.
"Cassie!"
I yell.
"Cassie!" She snatches her hand free.
"I'm not going back..." She hisses.
A sharp inhale of air brings my eyes open. My mom sits asleep at the edge of my hospital bed. My dad sleeps gruffly in a chair in the corner of the room.
"Cassie...where's Cassie..." I whisper weakly and my mom shoots up wide awake. There was crying and kissies and love galore.
The funeral was soon after.
Her mom cried. I cried.
And then I saw her out the corner of my eye--barely noticeable through all the mist and fog or the graveyard. She doesn't wave or speak but merely stares with tears streaming down her face.

Editing: me:)
Publication Date: 12-29-2012

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