My Shattered Reality

Chapter 8 My Unwanted Past

It was now the beginning of November, and Dan left ages ago. I found a good apartment that was in between the bar and the land and it was even in walking distance from Sam’s Liquor, which had the greatest slushies, and walking distance from the bar.

It was single bedroom, single bathroom, kitchenette in the living room but the place had free Internet connection and Cable was an option for me. The place was kind of small but it was all right. Perfect for my lifestyle of practically not living here…or anywhere, for that matter. I just work and work and try to pretend I have a life that I don’t have. At least I don’t deny that fact that I have no life.

I sighed. I had pretty much next to nothing except my clothes, my unicorn and vampire puppy, a few posters and collectables, and honestly that’s about it. Well, that and this nice desk that Turk gave me, and Carla was getting rid of the old couch so I took it. I guess I would have to use some of my yard sale money to get some furniture. A nice bed, really. And a chest or drawers would probably be useful, one of those plastic ones because I already had a closet. And a toaster-oven. Carla was later going to bring her old microwave for me.

I sighed. At least my room was now on the third floor. Saved me from having to deal with so many stairs as I did back when I lived in the apartment with Elliot.

I unpacked my clothes into my walk in closet. How they managed to fit that into this small a place is beyond me, but I’m not complaining.

Soon I was back on track with my unpacking. With how little I had, that wouldn’t take long. I spread out my sleeping bag for the next few nights and I fell asleep only to enter my own private world of nightmares.

“Yes, Doctor Cox?”

“All right, you will be taking these,” he handed me a few extra charts. “And you will be telling Bobbo that I am taking an early lunch if he asks, got it?”

“Where will you really be?”

“A my son’s parent-teacher conference.”

“Trouble? Or just some open house thing?”

“Open house. I have no idea why Satan’s Spawn is making me go, because for crying out loud he’s only six. But I will not miss this, so if he asks…I am on lunch, got it? Or something believable.”

“No idea where you are, sir,” He nodded in satisfaction and I sighed as he walked away. “Bastard.”

“I heard that, Newbie,”

“I know.”

So I figured I might as well get started. I dealt with my rounds, my patients, and my paperwork. As usual, I skipped lunch, opting instead to finish my backlog of paperwork and soon was standing back in my apartment. It was a few days since I moved in and I had finally gotten a second hand bed. I am not sure what size it was, something like a small queen sized, I guess. And that weekend I was getting the most basic cable connection. Gilmore Girls once again!

I got into my sweats to sleep in and simply lay there, staring at the distant wall.

I just didn’t understand. I mean, those memories of my childhood had been buried for the last thirteen years or so…I think that was the last time I actually saw mom face to face. Ever since then, one phone call and one postcard a year, with the occasional cheap bottle of perfumed mailed for her birthday every two or three years or so. Come to think of it, I haven’t done either in years. Last time I called her was like...two years ago. And that was just to check and confirm that I was an accident - broken condom.

Maybe it was the thought of Frank. Of all of mom’s boyfriends, he was the worst, and he came closest to killing me, though I will be honest and say some others are not that far behind him in my ‘How Much They Hated Me’ scale.

I thought back on my past, so many memories coming in little snippets, pieces.

“Aw! The son-of-a-bitch is crying all ready!” SMACK. “Suck it up you little wimp!”

- - -

“Get down here now and make me something to eat!”

“I haven’t made anything, sir, I think we should order out-”

The young, dark haired boy suppressed a flinch as the man backhanded him.

“I said go, little worthless runt!”

- - -

WHAM.

“Why are you crying, huh? It’s only a few punches, you little bag o’ crap.” Kick. “No one cares about you, and no one ever will.”

- - -

Even though I had long since pretended to have never heard those harsh words, I still heard them all over, every single god damned time I failed at just about anything. I supposed one advantage of a past like that is that sometimes, when I was so desperate and at the end of my rope in college, I often only kept going just to prove them wrong.

I felt my chest tighten up and got up out of bed and started pacing. I wasn’t really doing anything, I guess, just pacing around and trying not to cry. I hadn’t cried in years, literally, and I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to start now, even in my own privacy. But I also knew that soon I was going to explode.

I guess in a way now I knew why Cox always went on that little rage every now and then. This was how he released a few months of raw emotion at a time.

But I was about to explode from over two and a half decades of suppressed emotion. I made it a point that when I felt any negative emotion, I simply pretend it doesn’t exist. Saves a lot of time, and energy. Besides, I grew up knowing no one actually cares about me, or my emotions. So I just hid it all. And as for my friends…well, I didn’t want to burden them with my problems, so I never did.

And I guess it’s starting to show. I really don’t get it. A little over three months ago, I was on top of the world, job going great, girl going great, normal contact with what was left of my family. And now…me and my job were falling apart, I had a grand total of one one-night-stand and now my mom was dating her abusive ex-boyfriend again.

Damnit.

I felt my chest tightening as I thought through all of this. Kitchen. Place was still unpacked. If I was going to pace I might as well do something productive, as well.

So I started. I pulled out my plates and cups and started sorting them into my cabinets before trying to figure out where to put my silverware. I switched on the light and I guess it went a little faster. The place came with a fridge so I just put a few of my drinks in it and a few imperishable food things in the little island counter.

But when I started to try and pack a set of old kitchen knives my mind went back to Frank, but soon my chest tightened again and I felt that any moment I was going to burst in emotional pain. Hm. The depression and anger raging inside the hidden depths of my mind were starting to turn into physical pain.

I looked down at one of the knives I was holding. Smooth blade, really small, black handle.

If my mind can turn emotional pain into physical, so could I. Besides, I was desperate to get rid of the pain. Cutting releases endorphins, and endorphins relieve pain. That something a bit basic learned in a high school level.

I am going to say I didn’t really know why I did it. I just flipped over the knife and pressed the blade against my forearm and pushed down.

And it’s a weird feeling. I am so used to other people’s blood that whenever anyone I know walks in to any room covered in blood we say absolutely nothing about, we’re completely used to it, don’t even question it. Hell, a few weeks Elliot came into the staff lounge covered in blood, close to soaking through, and seeing as she was still walking, all we told her to do was change, and she just grabbed a cup of coffee before she went.

But the sight of my own blood…well, it’s been a while, and I guess that the sight of it was a little foreign.

I pressed down a little harder and dragged it across my arm and watched a few more drops of blood trickle down before I suddenly pulled back the knife and stared down at my arm, looking at the damage I had done.

…I had done.

To myself.

I’ve seen a few suicidals and many of them had multiple self-induced injuries, but when I did it…to be honest the first thought was that know I know why they did that.

Then I felt terrible that I would think such a thing.

I threw the knife across the floor and collapsed against the wall, slowly sliding down and just staring at the cut. I wanted to sob my guts out but I still refused and I realized that now I wanted to cry just a little less than before.

I slowly crawled right over and grabbed the knife and stared at my blood on it, before pressing down again, extending the single cut to a little over an inch long.

Pain felt good. Oxymoron of all time, but it was true. It did. At least like this. It brought relief and helped me hold back my emotions. I realized that with each cut, I wanted to cry less and less.

Even though this was crazy, I think I found a new way to keep my sanity.

I noticed that it went over the scar from that knife incident with Frank, making a sort of cross. I am an atheist, but a cross was kind of comforting. I think it was because it was representative. It was faith, not in God, though. To me, it was faith in yourself, maybe, or friends, or the world. But not God. I don’t believe in him. But faith was good to a certain extent, though less in a church and more in something to keep you sane.

I think that the cross on my arm represented faith in my family, blood or not.

And I also think it represented what I lost.

The cut I made a few seconds ago was bleeding, so I twisted the knife again and traced that scar Frank made….well, right along side, so the original scar was untouched. I made another cut beneath the original one I made, the first one. Now it was like a 3D, bleeding, double cross.

It was everything I lost.

Faith in my friends. Faith in my brother. Faith in my parents. Faith in Doctor Cox. Faith in my job. Faith of someone seeing me dying, inside and out. Faith in myself.

And Faith that someone would care.

All that faith was something that I lost.

Scratch that.

I never lost faith. I never lost it because I never had it.

And I honestly didn’t think it would ever come back.

I set my six-year-old son to sleep and as his eyes fluttered closed I kissed his forehead.

And I didn’t feel like a total sissy doing that.

This is the only time I let my guard down. Around my son, I was open, unguarded,

Vulnerable.

I sighed and sat down on the end of his bed, looking down at his son’s face.

Jack looked so innocent and…well, content, which was a big feat with who his parents are. Hell, we had a ceremony for our divorce – he didn’t have a chance as being normal.

I blinked back a tear. I hated this part of the year. It was the day that my mom…died.

I blinked back my tears and looked down at my fingers laced together and felt my throat lumping up.

But I had to cook dinner tonight, so I put my proverbial mask, but I looked up to see Jordan.

“How long have you been standing there?” I asked her.

“Why are you crying? Or as close to crying as you’ll ever get?”

“Nothing.” I think I said that a little too quickly.

She shook her head and we walked out and as she started channel flipping, I started making some chicken stew thingy and soon it was boiling.

As we sat down on the couch to eat it, she looked at me. We were watching a rerun of my favorite show, but I wasn’t really watching.

“Perry? I know something’s wrong, and I want to know now.”

“My mom died tomorrow when I was seventeen.”

“Oh…I thought you said you hated her.”

“I do.”

“They why…?”

“Well, it’s because she died that I hate her.”

She frowned.

“How come you never talk about her? Your mom, I mean?”

“There’s nothing to say.”

She shook her head.

“What’s wrong?”

“I just miss my mom.”

“More than that.”

“She’s dead.”

Damnit. I haven’t talked about my mom for nearly two decades. And mentioning her was bringing back some terrible memories I’ve been trying to block for a while.

“Perry…I lost my mom, too.”

“I know.”

“I know what it feels like.”

“No, you don’t. Trust me, you don’t.”

“Death. We all know what it feels like.”

“No, you don’t!” I yelled. I slammed my empty bowl down and stood to face her and she stared. “You don’t know what it feels like!” I shouted. “You don’t know what it feels like to lose her at only seventeen! You don’t know what it’s like to walked into the bathroom and see her submerged in ice-cold water and the water soaked with her blood. You don’t know what it’s like to pulled out her arm only to see her wrists sliced up beyond relief. You don’t know what it’s like to put a finger on her neck and hear her say ‘thank you’ and FREEZE for three fucking minutes and then feel her pulse fade and WATCH HER DIE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO KNOW THAT YOU COULD HAVE SAVED YOUR MOTHER BUT YOU FROZE! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT IT’S LIKE TO KNOW IT’S YOUR FAULT SHE DIED!”

She stared at me, and I froze for three things.

For one, until now, only my sister Paige and our dad had knew why mom really died, her suicide. Everyone else, even the rest of the family, all our friends, everyone, was told that she took a bad fall, and her heart gave out.

Two, Jordan actually looked scared of me. I have insulted her, argued and fought, but I have never outright yelled her at while she was near helpless, and this was one of the first times I’ve seen her truly afraid of me.

And three, and possibly the worst, I heard a sob from a doorway, and saw my own son, staring at me in shock.

I visibly crumpled right before both their eyes and my own. I didn’t think right now was the best time for me to break down, so I grabbed my jacket that I had shed half an hour earlier from my job and ran out.

I ran and ran until I was out on the street and collapsed onto a bus stop bench.

Oh, god. What have I done?

I was more like my father than I thought.

Oh, god, no.

Never. My dad was always yelling, always drunk, and he was very violent. But still, it wasn’t the punch that hurt, it was the sting that he of all people would do that to his own family.

But it started with the yelling. I remember that much. He started yelling, first, and for a long time that was it. But after that he lost the decency to get drunk away and he brought it home. Not long after came the fists.

I was yelling already. What, next, drinking at home? I mean, okay I already did that that but ever enough to get drunk. The only time that happens is at parties, and Jack is usually away for that.

But it was happening.

I looked down at my shoes as an old lady walked by. I knew that right now anger and guilt were ravaging my eyes, and I didn’t want anyone to see it. I also didn’t want to look anyone in the eye, a habit of mine for when I was nervous. And under normal conditions I got over it a long time ago. But now, with my defenses down and me currently wanting to die, I guess it came back. When you’re nervous, don’t look up.

Damnit. I was screwed. I wasn’t going back home tonight, that was for sure.

I smiled as I lay my Izzy to bed in her cradle. Turk was cooking some pasta for us and I collapsed onto my maternity chair that we kept for its comfort.

“Hey, baby, want cheese sauce or tomato sauce?”

“Both.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. I just want to sleep!” I said, sounding a bit like a maniac. He smiled and shook his head fondly.

We sat down and we both dug in, both completely famished, and soon our plates were empty.

We watched TV for a little while and soon we were about to go to bed.

But we both paused as we heard a light, hesitant knock at our door.

Turk answered it, and I turned to see Perry standing there.

“Doctor Cox?”

“Hey, Gandhi…Carla…um…I need…can I…”

“Come in,” I said first. Something was eating away at him. He continued looking at the floor and walked in, nodding silently.

I frowned. He only got this way, walking around not looking at anyone, when he was feeling guilty or completely nervous, or both. And at the moment, he was. I knew him long enough to know when.

“Um…” he looked up at me. “Can I crash on the couch tonight? Please?”

I frowned and nodded slowly.

“Dinner?” I offered.

“Just had some.” He mumbled. Turk seemed a bit alarmed at the way Cox was acting. I wasn’t as much – I knew Perry.

“Turk, sweetie, go to bed. I’ll make sure he’s settled in.”

He nodded and gave me a look before walking into our room. I walked over to the linen closet and pull out two pillows and a few blankets and bring it back to Perry, who was actually off in his own little world, which trust me almost never happened with him.

“What’s wrong?” I asked as I set the things down on the coffee table.

“…Don’t really want to talk about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, why are you here instead of at home?”

“Same answer.”

“I have ways of finding things out.”

“I know. I just want to sleep and get to work tomorrow in one piece.”

“Well…just so you know…I can say I won’t let you sleep until you tell me.”

“Then I guess I’d better go.”

“You know I didn’t mean that, right?”

“Well…look, I really don’t want to fight, and at the moment I am fighting a few urges to grab one of your kitchen knives and stab myself or something so I would really just love to sleep for a little while.”

“You think I’ll just leave you off while you’re suicidal?”

He finally looked up at me, and into my eyes, and I have to stop myself from stepping back. Guilt and bad memories were floating through his eyes. And somehow, so was the emptiness.

I sighed and put the pillow out and took his jacket. He didn’t resist. I gently lay him down and slid the blanket over him and he gave me a silent thank you. I wondered if he was high or drunk or something…but he wasn’t. He was just dazed.

Emotional shock can become physical.

I almost was actually scared of him like this…or rather, scared for him. With everything swamping me right now, I wasn’t really sure if I was up for this.

But I sat down, anyway, and watched him for a few moments.

“Perry…what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

I sighed. I knew I wasn’t getting anything out of him today. Something happened, and whatever it was had erected a bunch of walls around his emotional fortress. So I patted his shoulder and simply sat there for a moment.

I got up to go and get a glass of water for him, but when I came back, his eyes were watery, and I froze, thankful he had yet to see me. Perry and I had gone through times with each other that we wouldn’t with anyone else, but the fact is I have never seen him cry, not even seen his eyes water.

“Perry?” I ask him. He stiffens, and his eyes dry up instantly.

“Yeah?” he said gruffly.

“Are you okay?”

“I just said I was fine.”

“Then why were you just crying?” I asked him.

“I wasn’t.” But we both knew that neither of us believed that.

“Perry…what’s wrong?” He finally sat up to face me and silently thanked me for the glass of water.

“Just…memories…my parents…”“Perry…” I said warningly.

“I just became a bit more like my father than I ever wanted to be.”

Okay, I knew that his father was abusive…to his family. I wanted…no, needed…to know right now.

“How?”

“Started yelling at Jordan…when she asked about my mom.”

Now there I was confused. His mom died when he was seventeen. What was his problem?

“What about her?”

“Not you too.”

“Perry, you brought it up.”

“…Damnit…”

“Just…tell me right now.”

“Guess I told her, already. How my mom really died.”

“How?”

But he was already lost in his own little world.

“Perry?”

“Could have saved her.”

“Did she choke? Was it a heart attack?”

“I wish.”

Uh…

“Then what?”

“Blood everywhere.”

Now it was getting a little more interesting.

“Perry. What. Happened?”

“She…I…one day…walked home, found her in the bathroom. In the bathtub, full with ice cold water mixed with her blood. I saw her wrists…fucked up beyond relief. I don’t even know how she managed to slice that far.”

My eyes widened but I nodded. His mom committed suicide?

“I…she…I was just staring at her, asking her why over and over again, my finger on her neck, feeling for a pulse. And you know what happened when she saw me? She smiled. And she said, ‘Thank you.’ I don’t even know why. All I know was that at those words I completely froze up. And right there, while I was just sitting there, watching, she just passed out. A few minutes later, the pulse started weakening. Soon it was gone all together. Her lips turned blue, and her skin…became ice cold, practically colder than the water…I could have saved her. It’s my fault she’s dead.”

I didn’t know what to say to that. What do you say to finding out your close friend’s mother committed suicide?

“Perry…it’s not your fault.” There, that’s got to work. Keep going with that, can’t go wrong, right? “I mean, she killed herself, not you. And by the sounds of it she would have died either way. And as for freezing up…well, with the situation, one could almost call you cold and heartless and cruel if you hadn’t because it would have meant you didn’t care enough to freeze.” It was a lame defense but under the circumstances it was all I got.

It was a little hard to come up with a good argument because he was slightly right. There was a slight chance she would have made it had he not frozen up. But personally, I don’t think that was his fault, but I also don’t really know how to explain it. Besides, he looked a bite more comforted by what I said.

“Get some sleep, Perry,” I said. “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

With that I went to bed.

“Doctor Cox,” Newbie said. “The patient files you wanted.” He handed it to me and stood there for a few moments waiting for me to make a choice, rubbing his arm as if it were itching. I wonder how I can use his new habit to my advantage…

“You get this…and this…and this…” I handed Newbie three charts, trying to at least pretend I was still grounded in this world. “Now get outta my sight.”

With that Newbie left, and I went into the staff lounge.

But I sat down on the couch and realized at in the chair sat Jordan.

“J-J-Jordan?”

“Perry…was everything you said true?”

I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I slowly nodded.

“Per…I’m so sorry. I really am.”

“So am I.”

“For what?”

“That…yelling. I didn’t mean to, I swear.”

“I know. We all get like that sometimes.”

“Jack must be afraid.”

“I convinced him it was a nightmare and that he never left the bed. He wants to know where his daddy is.”

“…oh…”

“And you’re not your father.”

One thing I hated about her is that she practically reads my mind.

“I hope not.”

“You are not.”

“…Thanks.”

“So…tell me what happened?”

“I told Carla already. I crashed at her place.”

She nodded.

“Then tell me what you told her.”

I told her exactly what happened.

“I walked into the bathroom and found her in a tub full of ice water and her blood. I pulled out her wrist and found them completely sliced up. I put my finger on her neck for a pulse, asking her why. She turned and said ‘thank you’. I still don’t even know why she was thanking me, I must have been part of the reason. Then I froze for a few minutes…and she died right in front of me.”

“I’m so sorry,” She said.

“So am I,” another voice said.

We both turned around, and I felt ready to strangle the one who stood in the doorway.

“How long have you been standing there, Newbie?”

“Not at all. I heard nothing. Just came in here for a few papers.” He walked over to the distant table and picked a few of them up, and started walking right back out.

“Oh…and Doctor Cox?”

“What?” I said dangerously.

“You said you don’t know why she thanked you. That was because she was helpless and alone, and you were there. She thought, or in her head knew, that no one cared, no one would notice, and that no one care that she was gone. When you asked her why…you proved her wrong. She could die in peace, knowing at least someone loved her, and that someone would care that she was gone, and that she would not be forgotten.”

I stared at him in shock. How the hell would he figure this out?”

“How would you know?” I asked him venomously. Damnit, how did he of all people know or think of something like that?!

“I just do. You don’t have to blame yourself. She was thanking you because you let her pass on in peace, the one and only thing in the world left that she wanted.”

He walked out and I stared in shock.

“She’s right, you know…well, he’s right,” Jordan said as well, slightly dazed. But I don’t really hear her. I am still thinking about everything Newbie just said. She was thanking me?

I’ll be honest and say that at the time I thought it was because she was thanking me for driving her to this.

But I would give just about anything to believe everything he said.

“God damn, Newbie…” I muttered. “Cruel bastard’s right.”

“He’s the cruel bastard?” Jordan asked. “Other way around, Perry.”

“What?”

“Do you not hear yourself while yelling at him? You yell at him berate him, insult him, degrade him, emotionally hurt him, treat him like a bitch and your bitch. You really think that he’s the cruel one? He’s the strong one for lasting through all that. I know I do the same thing, but at least people know I never mean a damn thing. You, however…either do, or give off the very strong and believable impression that you do.”

“You know what? For the last half hour or so I was trying to tell myself I was nothing like my father. Guess what I just figured out?”

“What?”

“I lied.”

With that I got up and got back to work. At least that was something to keep my mind off of all this.

“Mrs. Anderson, you have ovarian cancer, but thankfully it was diagnosed early and you will begin treatment as soon as possible. Here’s a specialist,” I indicated to the doctor right beside me. “To explain everything to you.”
He started talking gently to the shocked couple while I sat in a chair and zoned out, Newbie style, as much as I hated to admit it.

Would what he said be true? My mom wanted peace? I have been blaming myself for so many years now…I would give almost anything to believe what he said. I mean, why did she kill herself? I know that Paige and I together were a lot of trouble…and dad was getting more and more drunk and soon violence would follow…but she had dealt with that for years. During that time, Paige and I were pretty much going down the drain: our grades, our health, and in general our overall lives.

Why? Couldn’t she have asked us for help? Or dealt with it? Or at least run away? That way I could hold onto the faint hope that she was alive. But now, she had to just die right in front of me because I just froze up so much that I couldn’t save her.

I would give my own life if I had to in order to believe what Newbie said: she was thanking me for letting her pass on in peace.

But it just wasn’t that easy to let go