I press my hands against my face and feel the blood pumping through me, feeling them shaking. I'm shaking.
Shaking.
I rip my hands off my face and plant them on the dresser. I hate the smell in here. Antiseptic, like they washed everything with bleach.
Antiseptic. Burning my lungs, my nose, breathing it in, all day every day. Has any choice I've ever made really been my own? I feel like I never knew any of the consequences.
It feels like bugs. It feels like bugs, rooting around in the back of my skull, squeezing through the gaps in my hair follicles, pushing all the awful things into the light, into sight, shoving them in my face.
Every fucked up thing I've ever done. Who was I? Who am I? I should be in a hospital. I shouldn't be allowed to be on my own.
Is it scary that I see the point of killing myself again? Is it scary that I see why I tried? Is it scary that I think I could do it right, this time, if I did it? Is it?
My entire body is vibrating. My teeth shattering, my fingers twitching, shivers dashing up and down my spine. I'm freezing cold and sweating.
A blood-chilling excitement fills the bleach-smelling hotel room. It brushes past my skin and calls me, it reminds me of all the reasons I should've died all those years ago. All the reasons I should die, now.
I should be happy, shouldn't I? Meeting my family again, it would be a dream, for anyone, everyone, anyone in my position. I should be happy.
But I'm not. I'm terrified. I'm so scared, so scared that I keep forgetting how to breathe, so scared that their faces flash across the backs of my eyelids and all I can think is,
They hate me. They hate me. I left them. They have every right to hate me, I left them with that monster. I left them with her. And then, when she was gone, I was too scared to bring them home to me. I left them to be raised by strangers. I left them and I stayed gone.
Where would I be if I had stayed? Where would we be?
Cathy still would've gotten cancer. I would've been 19 or so. Legally, I would've been their guardian. If I was even still alive by that time. What would I have done if I had forced myself to stay? What would I have done to cope?
I can't help but believe, simultaneously, that I did what I needed to do, and I did something so selfish, I should be locked away. My brain is split in half.
Oh, Mikey... Tell us all how you really feel...
I press my hands against my forehead, pressing the butts of my palms into my eye sockets. The pressure forces my headache to the front of my face.
What do I do? What do I do?
What would Paul want me to do? I want him to be here. I don't want to be alone. He's halfway across the country.
So is everyone I've ever known. Except Rachel. No, I couldn't. I can't call her. That can't be the first thing I do with her phone number. Rachel.
It can't be Rachel.
Is there anyone else?
My fingers ache. They twitch and I know, implicitly, who they're trying to remind me of. But he was so long ago. And so far away. The last memory I have is foggy, but I remember the feeling of rejection, regret, guilt. The feeling of being hated for something entirely my own fault.
And I remember having to resist the urge to pick up a ringing cellphone.
Ringing.
Ringing.
Ringing.
Ringing.
Click.
"Hello?"