Victim Options

[Señorita Semi-Au...]

This was submitted a few days ago as a short, fictional essay for my English class. It's riddled with grammar errors, but I'm a bit proud of it.

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Victim

I’m a moron; a ridiculous, pathetic moron. I’m sitting on a seventies style, threadbare sofa that’s wedged in the corner of this depressing, yellow lit room. I’m used to its coffee stained carpet and cigarette stench. There isn’t a lot around this room besides crumpled papers, empty dishes, and take out boxes. Untouched paintings sulk in the corner like punished children. I could never afford interior decorations until after the gratuitous settlement. By then I didn’t need interior decorations, nothing could make my world beautiful again.

It was one of those commercials that play in between day time television. The tagline was, “You’re not alone. Call the Care Line.” Somewhere between Judge Judy and Days of Our Lives I had wanted to desperately believe this repetitive commercial. So I scribbled the number on the back of an old legal notepad.

I’m staring at the number. The phone weighs down my left hand, a half burnt cigarette in the right. I dial the number. What the hell, I have time to spare. I am transferred twice and suffer through ten minutes of country music before the other line is answered.

“Care line. This is Carla,” she yawns into the phone. What does she expect me to say? Is there some sort of suicide hotline etiquette I should follow?

“Hi,” I mumble.

Next door Mrs. 301B is screaming at Mr. 301B. She’s a real bitch when she’s drunk. She’s always drunk.

“How are you?” Carla says with the same monotone, tired voice.

“I…” How am I? I am staring at a bottle of pain killers, wishing the worst. “I don’t want to live anymore.”

“Why?”

“Where should I start?” I cover my face; it’s either in shame or denial. My skin is tender to the touch. “How can I live like this? I’m ashamed that I haven’t had the courage to yank the plug sooner.” She’s quiet on the other side, waiting for me to continue or painting her nails. “I quit therapy, told my nurse to stop dropping by. It isn’t worth it.”

“Are you addicted?” she asks, bored.

“No,” I pause. I am actually, but I’m not treated for it. I call it self-medication and it’s none of her business. “Wreck. Burned, every last inch.”

“Yet you survived.” We share a silent moment. I think that’s a pretty funny thing to say to a stranger on the brink of suicide.

“My ten year old twin nieces didn’t. Fraternal twins…” Harriet had a sweet voice, brown stringy hair, and soft eyes. Julia’s voice was brash, her hair never faded to brown from blonde, and she loved to talk. “Neither did their mother.” My little sister, Paula. My little sister whose husband beat her for six years before I forced her to leave. My little sister who balanced two jobs for her kids and still found time for them.

“Who was the driver?”

“A kid hopped up on caffeine pills, had a heart attack. He was revived.” This is said with a straight face because I can’t contort it to express any rage. His name was Todd Baker. Todd wanted to ace his finals. Todd needed to cram or he’d never be a doctor.

“You need help.” No shit.

“I called you,” I retort.

She ignores me, “is there anyone who can help you? A friend? A family member? A co-worker?” At each one of these I sharply exhale a ‘No’. “You think that killing yourself will make any difference?” she finally asks.

“A difference to me.”

“That’s all that matters?” Carla sighs.

“That’s all.” I kill the cigarette on the coffee table next to another black burn.

“Is there anything you did before the wreck? Something you loved to do?” Carla’s voice is sounding more concerned by the minute.

“Paint… I was a painter.” I glance to the covered canvases in the corner; the worn easel sags against the wall. Eons ago, I had been dubbed the next Dali by a few well read art magazines.

“Do you want to paint again?”

“Of course not,” I choke down a sob, but there are no tears. My tear ducts are permanently welded closed; the tissue was simply not there. I can’t cry. One cannot imagine how badly it hurts to be unable to cry. “I just… I want to die.”

“If you wanted to die, you wouldn’t be calling out for help,” she says sympathetically. “Force yourself to paint. Paint what you see. Paint what you feel.”


White space. Empty. Nothing.

I stare at the stretched canvas. The pain approaches in ebbing waves. Gentle knots of guilt and sorrow tie and untie in my stomach as time passes. I can choke it down now, but it won’t be long until I violently consume myself into oblivion. Suddenly one year seems like forever.

My brush finds a scandalous red. It rapes the canvas with shocking strokes. Normally a painter plans out her work beforehand. She’ll sit for days or be inspired by some handsome pedestrian. The layers of paint and thought are carefully planned. My brush dips back into the wet palette. I am absorbed.

I spent many lonely months in the hospital recovering. My parents, Mr. and Mrs. Davis, couldn’t have children when they were young. Once they reached their fifties it was decided they would adopt two baby girls. They were wonderful parents who didn’t survive old age to see my twentieth birthday. My mom outlived my dad by one year.

Upon my home arrival I was confronted with a plethora of photographs and mirrors. I threw them out with the Tuesday morning garbage. My home was gutted by a faceless stranger. A year avoiding mirrors can be damaging to the human ego. My only mirror is the Chinese delivery boy’s grimace.

Somewhere rain drips from the roof to my apartment. I still haven’t isolated the leak. I don’t care about it right now. I’ve never painted with such passion.

The end results are horrifying. I painted how I imagined my face looked. Globs of melted flesh piled over my eyes. Red scars devoured my head. Hair grew sporadically on one side. My lip had been split in half leaving a mighty gash across my mouth. Morbid thoughts resurface in my head as my brush slows. I stare into Its eyes, disgusted by the undisguised figure before me.

Paint thinner is applied, dissolving the monster before I throw the easel and its work across the room.

Care Line Carla’s presence still burdens me as I crumple to the floor, completely helpless. How can one move on with such visible scars? I wail, I sound more like a dying animal than a grieving human being. My forehead is pressed against the cold floor. The only thing that keeps me hanging on the edge is this slice of sanity that I reason with. It’s a fight within me.

I reach out for the phone, next to the pain killers. I can still survive, even if it’s for a little while longer.