Date: Fri, 4 Jan 2008 14:43:17 -0500
From: ronyx <ronyx@woh.rr.com>
Subject: Brittle as a Bird  Chapter 5

The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities to anyone are purely
coincidental. The story is intended for a mature audience. It may contain
profanity and references to gay sex. If this offends you, please leave
and find something more suitable to read. The author maintains all rights
to the story. Do not copy or use without written permission. Write Ron at
ronyx@woh.rr.com with your comments.



Brittle as a Bird        Chapter 5



God. The water is warm. My wet clothes are pulling me down. My body wants
to struggle, but I can't raise my arms. I close my eyes, and I'm
drifting. I am so warm.

I can't explain the feeling of complete euphoria. It is like I had been
preparing myself for this all my life. It's funny how we will lie at
night and think of how we will die. Will it be from natural causes at
101? Will it be cancer at 67? Will it be an automobile accident at 38, or
a heart attack at 50?

Perhaps it will be something really weird. I read in the newspaper about
a farmer who died at 62 from a farming accident. His coat sleeve got
caught in the fan belt of a tractor and caused him to die of
strangulation. And then there was the jogger who was exercising in the
morning and got hit by a driver. She was only 32.

I often wondered if those people woke up in the morning and had a
premonition that they would die on that particular day. Did they know
something was going to happen? Did the driver who lost control of his car
and ran head-on into a bridge abutment have any clue that just seconds
before the accident that it would happen? Did God say to him at the last
minute, "Psst. Your time is up."

I didn`t know an hour ago that I was going to make this fateful
decision. I had no idea earlier that I wouldn't be around to see the sun
come up tomorrow. I had sealed my own fate. No cancer, no automobile
accident, and no tractor.

I'm holding my mouth shut tightly, but my instinct is to take a breath
of air. But I know I can't. I can't open my mouth. There is no air! But
I can't hold it, I have to take a gasp. Then water.

Numbers. Suddenly, I remember numbers. Fucking numbers. Eighteen becomes
important. I wanted to see eighteen. That was my day of liberation, even
though my dad intended to put me out of the house. Just four months away.
And now.

Six. June 6. The day I was to graduate. Even though school didn't mean
much to me, it was a day I was looking forward to. It showed that Joey
Carpenter, miserable fuck that I am, did accomplish something. And now.

And the funniest number- thirty five. My old man is 35. I wanted to
accomplish something by the time I was his age. I wanted to prove to
myself that I could be something better than that miserable fuck. And
now.

I don't want to die! This wasn't the way it was supposed to end!

It's too late.

The water is engulfing my lungs. I can't breath. 18. 6. 35. 18. 6. 35.
Fucking numbers.
18.^Å6.^Å.35.^Å^Å^Å18.^Å^Å^Å^Å^Å^Å.6.^Å^Å^Å^Å^Å^Å^Å^Å^Å^Å^Å.35.

****************

"Doctor," someone screamed. "I think we're losing him."

There is movement all around me. I can sense people poking and prodding
my body. Someone raised an eyelid, and for a moment I can see light and a
misty figure above. Someone else is putting something in my mouth, and I
can feel a tightening in my chest. .

Where the fuck am I? Why is my body motionless? It feels like my mind is
one place and my body is somewhere else.

People are still moving all around me. And that bright light in my eyes.
I try to shout and tell them to turn out the light, but my mouth won't
open. And why are they shouting and looking so worried?

God! I'm dying! I survived the water, and now I'm dying in an emergency
room at the hospital. God is cruel. He kept me alive just long enough to
experience this.

"Stand back!"

Damn. What the fuck was that? It felt like a bolt of lightning surged
through my body.

"Stand back!"

Fuck! It happened again. What is going on?

"He's coming back!"

*******************

"Good morning, Young Man." The elderly nurse was looking down into my
face with a grandmotherly smile. "How are you feeling today?"

I turn my head away. It's been about four hours since I regained
consciousness. Since then I've been repeatedly poked, prodded and
undergone extensive questioning.

"Why did you jump"

"Why were you trying to kill yourself?"

"Why would someone your age want to die?"

Questions. Fucking questions.

One good thing about being in a hospital bed, no one really expects you
to talk. And I don't. I turn my head whenever someone comes in and they
start their endless, stupid questioning.

"Why did you want to kill yourself?" Read my fucking records, Dumb
Shit. I'm seventeen years old, I'm gay, I was abused by an uncle, my
mother and father hate me, I lived in a garage and I don't even have
that now. I have absolutely no future ahead of me. Why the fuck do you
think I wanted to die?

Wanted to die. How ironic is that? I wanted to die. Past tense. It was
something I'd never really considered before, and I doubt I'll ever
consider it again. But for just that one fucking minute, I made a hasty
decision that would affect me forever. Forever. I guess if I had
succeeded, there wouldn't have been a future- only a past.

You think of some strange shit when you're alone after going through
something like I just went through. For some reason, I tried to imagine
just how my obituary would have read.

Joseph Aaron Carpenter, age 17. Town whore, cock sucker and outcast of
Southwestern High School. Joey will be remembered for being sexually
abused by an uncle at the age of 11, and then being physically and
mentally abused by an alcoholic father until the day he took a flying
leap off the Washington Street Bridge. He will be remembered by fucking
nobody. Due to lack of interest, a memorial service has been cancelled.

I guess that just about sums it up, doesn't it? However, I still don't
understand my last minute remorse. Why didn't I want to die? I know I
didn't have a lot to live for, but then I didn't want to see it end.

I want my obituary to say that I accomplished something- anything. It
doesn't matter if I was a prominent brain surgeon or a plumber who got
up every day and did what he had to do. As long as I was successful at
something. I want it to state that someone loved me, and that someone
will always keep me in their heart. I read somewhere that if one person
holds you in their thoughts after you die, then you will always be alive.
That is what I want.

I remember the guy who came to speak to our psychology class last year.
He was forty-two years old, and he said he had tried to kill himself when
he was in college. He said that his life was reeling out of control. His
grades were failing, and he was going through a break-up with a
girlfriend. He said he took a gun and tried to blow his brains out. I
thought I was going to vomit when he held up a large picture that showed
the bathroom with blood splattered walls.

I kept looking at the scars on the side of his face. Fuck. Even the
plastic surgery couldn't completely hide the hole he had in his jaw. He
joked that after seven facial operations, the doctors had restored his
good looks. We laughed nervously; but looking at his appearance, it
really wasn't funny.

In spite of everything he'd been through, he admitted he was glad he had
failed. Tears appeared in his eyes when he spoke of his life. After his
hospitalization, he went back to school and graduated from law school. He
became an attorney; and after four years, was an assistant prosecutor. He
then met his wife, and they had three beautiful children. He even passed
their pictures around for us to look at. He broke down when he said if he
had died that day, then he would have missed out on the wonderful life he
was now living. I think everyone in the room was moved by his story. I
know I was.

I guess I felt like him. I was glad I hadn't succeeded. I didn't have
fucking much to live for, but I guess I was curious. Someday, my personal
hell had to end. It had to. The odds are in my favor, right? Even the
worst storm ends, doesn't it?

It wasn't until days later that I learned that an off-duty police
officer was driving across the bridge on his way home from a double
shift. After seeing me jump, he pulled his car over, removed his shoes
and followed me into the water. I resisted at first, but soon passed out
as he dragged my limp body to the shore. Unable to find a pulse, he
performed CPR on me until the paramedics arrived.

Once in the emergency room, I again went into cardiac arrest. The doctors
said that I did die briefly and they had to give me electric shocks. That
explained the feelings that I encountered.

Looking back, I am glad he was there. I hope I feel that way tomorrow.

*************

Mrs. Fulton was sitting patiently in the chair, waiting for me to say
something. We'd been at a standoff for over fifteen minutes. Again, the
ever present question, "Why did you do it." Everyone else had given up
asking, knowing I wasn't going to answer; but not Mrs. Fulton. She was
determined she was going to get the answer out of me, one way or another.

"Fine then." She arose from the chair and straightened her dress.
"When we met I told you we could do it the hard way- or my way. I guess
you chose the hard way."

I had my eyes shut tightly and my head turned to the side. I could hear
her walking towards the door. "When you are released from the hospital,
you'll be sent to a juvenile facility and remain incarcerated until you
are eighteen. You have violated my trust in you."

Her words were harsh and cold. It was true. She had spared me, and I had
let her down. I had let everyone down. And most of all, I had let myself
down. Tears started streaming down my face as I heard the door open.

"Because I had nothing to live for!" I screamed at the top of my lungs.
"Are you happy? I had nothing to live for." I buried my head in my
hands and wailed. I couldn't control my emotions. Six years of hurt came
flowing to the top, and I was overcome with an immense pain. I began
shaking, and I screamed out like a wounded animal.

I felt the side of the bed sink, as Mrs. Fulton sat down and pulled me
into her. "Shhh," she said comfortingly. "It will be alright."

"No it won't!" I wailed once again. I looked at her and saw tears in
her eyes. "No, it won't." I said emphatically. "Nothing has ever been
alright for me." I began to cry again. She held me tightly, occasionally
whispering something encouraging in my ear.

She reached for the nurse's buzzer, and a minute later the elderly nurse
and a man, I presumed was a doctor, entered. Mrs. Fulton walked over and
spoke quietly to the doctor. He left and returned a few minutes later and
gave me a shot in my right arm. Seconds later, I was fast asleep.

*************

"Hey, Mother Fucker!" Ticker came barging in my room carrying a bunch
of flowers and what appeared to be a few weeds. "Here," he said,
thrusting them into my hands. "I picked them for you."

"You dumb shit," I laughed. "Half of these aren't even flowers."

"What do I know," he grinned. "I stole them from the neighbor down the
street."

I had forgotten just how much the large, red head before me meant to me.
His grin was infectious. I hadn't laughed in days, and suddenly I
couldn't stop smiling.

"You look good today," he said.

"I always look good," I replied, rubbing the side of my face.

"Whatever," he said sarcastically. He stood and continued to look down
at me and grinned.

"What?" I asked.

"You are now officially mine, Mother Fucker." He continued to look down
and smile.

"What in the hell are you talking about?"

"Mrs. Fulton gave you to me," he laughed. "You're my bitch now."

"Fuck you," I laughed. "What are you talking about?"

Ticker explained how Mrs. Fulton had called him and his Dad into her
office and explained the situation. She either had to find me a home in
which to stay; or I would be put in a juvenile facility until I was
eighteen, which was still about four months away. After hearing my
options, Mr. Wendelmeirer agreed to let me stay at their home, at least
temporarily.

"I can't do that," I said excitedly. "You're family is too large to
take me in."

"My Dad really don't mind," Ticker assured me. "He just says it's
another mouth to feed."

"You eat enough for three people," I laughed.

"What can I say," he stated, as he comically rubbed his enormous belly,
"I'm a growing boy."

"I think you forgot that at some point you're supposed to stop
growing." Ticker walked over and pulled my head under his arm and
started giving me a noogie. "Stop it, Fucker," I screamed.

Suddenly, the door opened and a nurse walked in with my medication.
"I'm afraid visiting hours are over." I looked at the clock and it was
after nine. I had lost all concept of time lying in the hospital. Days
and nights became confusing, especially when the doctors kept giving me
sedatives and sleeping pills. I found out later that I was on suicide
watch, and that was the reason for the constant intrusions.

I awoke the next morning with my mind still foggy from the pills I'd
been given. For someone who liked to stay high, I didn't like the
feeling of the drugs they were giving me. Weed makes you feel euphoric.
The sedatives they had me on zonked me out. I was having trouble
remembering things, and I couldn't keep track of the time of day. At
lunch I wanted dinner, and at dinner I was expecting breakfast.

I also didn't feel a damn thing. When I'd try to remember the events of
the past few days, I was totally unaffected by the impact they had on me.
The near drowning seemed like a movie on the television that happened to
someone else. I even for a while tried to remember what it was like to be
beaten by my father, but I gave it up after I realized that I couldn't
comprehend it. It again seemed like something that happened to someone
else, not me.

I dozed off for a while, maybe sometime in the afternoon. I don't really
recall. I was awakened by someone entering my room and walking over to my
bed. I didn't even open my eyes because I was sure that it was only a
nurse coming in to take my blood pressure or temperature. I could sense
that someone was looking at me, so I opened my eyes.

"What are you doing here?" I asked surprisingly.

"I saw Ticker downstairs and he told me you were here," replied Star.
She had a worried look on her face as she stared down at me.

"You came here to see me?" We had formed a semi-friendship, but I
didn't think it was close enough that she'd visit me in the hospital.
Besides, I wasn't sure if I wanted anyone other than Ticker visiting me.

"No," she responded. "I came to visit someone else. When I saw Ticker
downstairs, he told me what room you were in. So I thought I'd drop by
and see how you are."

"I'm alright," I said nonchalantly. "I wish I could get out of here
though."

"When can you leave?"

"When they think I won't hurt myself again." I looked up and saw a sad
expression on Star's face.

"So it is true then?" She asked. "They said on the news you had tried
to commit suicide."

"Fuck," I moaned. "I was on the news?"

Star suddenly became nervous. "Maybe I should go. I don't think I
should be telling you all of this. It's obvious you don't know."

"Don't know what?" I shouted angrily. "That I'm the biggest fuck-up
in the city? I can't even die right." .

"I'd better go get a nurse." Star hurried from the room and returned
with a nurse. A minute later I was sound asleep- again.

The next few days were emotional. I was interviewed by two psychologists.
They wouldn't be happy until I was a babbling idiot. What is it about
them? They feel they have to strip you naked and then leave you looking
in a mirror at the ugly image on the other side.

Then there were the daily therapy sessions where I was forced to sit in a
circle with other people who had tried to commit suicide. Do you know
what it is like to sit for two hours in a shell and refuse to talk? After
a while it became a showdown as to who would break first. Dr. Conrad was
convinced she could get me to strip away the façade I had built around me
and expose myself to a bunch of people I really didn't give a shit
about. Why the fuck would I want to tell a roomful of uncaring people my
problems?

"They ain't going to let you out of here until you talk," said Ticker
after the third day of my protest.

"You've got to be kidding me?" I shouted. "Bunch of fucking morons."

"They may be fucking morons," he admonished, "but they make the rules,
and you have to abide by them."

"You mean I have to tell a bunch of fucking strangers I was molested by
my uncle and that my life has been fucked up ever since?"

"If you want to get out of here, then yes," he advised me. "Besides,"
Ticker grinned. "I've got some excellent weed. You'll love it."

"Fucker," I laughed. "You should be a psychologist." He held his
fingers to his lips and pretended to be taking a hit off a joint. We both
laughed at his antics.

So the next day, I went into the therapy session and told them one of the
most fucked up stories I could make up. I told them how a group of boys
had dragged me into a forest when I was nine years old and repeatedly
raped me. Then they tormented me for several years, threatening to
castrate me if I didn't do everything they wanted me to do. I told them
how I had lived with the humiliation all my life, unable to speak to
anyone. Finally, out of desperation, I decided to kill myself in order to
end the torment. When I was done, there wasn't a dry eye in the room.
Even Dr. Conrad had to wipe a tear or two away.

Naturally, Dr. Conrad wanted the names of the boys involved. However, I
told her that it had happened several years ago and I never learned their
names. I told her I never saw them again after I entered high school.
Nevertheless, their behavior left emotional scars that had been hard to
deal with. She bought it- hook, line and sinker. She was convinced that
the rape and subsequent attacks had been the major factors leading up to
my suicide attempt.

"You didn't!" Ticker was holding his stomach and laughing
uproariously. "Raped at nine by a bunch of horny boys!" He started
howling with laughter again.

"Well, it worked." I grinned broadly. "I get out of this fucking
place. Are you sure your dad doesn't mind me staying with you?"

"Would you stop worrying," he assured me. "I've told you, he doesn't
care. Besides, when I told him you'd help me with my homework, he seemed
pleased."

"Help you with your homework?"

"Well, actually, do it for me." Ticker stood and grinned at me. "No
one gets anything for free."

"Fucker," I said with a smile.

"But you love me," he responded with a grin. "I'll be back at two.
The doctor said he'd release you then. Dad's coming with me. He has a
bunch of papers he has to sign."

"I still don't like this," I said worriedly. I knew Ticker said his
family didn't mind, but they knew that a troubled kid was going to be
staying with them. My attempted suicide had been in the news, so I knew
it would be something we all would have to deal with.

After eating lunch, I grew extremely restless. It was a beautiful
Saturday, and I just wanted to leave. If I could break away for a while,
I wanted to go to Sullivan Lake and spend some quiet time. The doctors
could feed me sedatives all day, but one hour at the lake would be all
the therapy I needed.

I walked out of my room and wandered around. Except to attend the therapy
sessions, I'd really never seen much of the hospital. The nurses glanced
at me when I walked by, but no one made an attempt to stop me.

As I wandered down one long corridor, I saw Star approaching. She smiled
as she got closer. "Did they release you?"

"Not yet," I replied. "This afternoon. I have to wait until Ticker's
dad gets here."

She grabbed my hand. "Then come with me."

We went to the elevator and she hit the button to the fourth floor. When
the door closed, she stood back and looked sheepishly at me.

"Where are we going?"

"I want you to meet a friend of mine," she informed me. "I've been
coming by every day to visit him."

"Who is it?"

"A friend," she replied. The doors opened and once again she took my
hand and led me down an empty corridor. When we came to room 810, she
stopped.

"Now when we go in," she warned, "don't be alarmed. He doesn't like
visitors, so he might seem a little irritable."

"Then why are you taking me in?" I asked.

"I think you two will like each other." She looked at me with a sense
of expectation. I don't know if this was something she'd planned, or if
it was just spontaneous when she saw me in the hall. I was beginning to
feel anxious about going in.

"Come on." As if she read my mind, she grabbed my hand and led me into
a dark room. As we approached the bed, I recognized the figure asleep in
the bed. He slowly opened his eyes. They immediately filled with anger.

"What are you doing here?"

"Allen?"

***************

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