Nameless

My entire life has gone from bad to worse in 16, almost 17 years. I don’t remember, but the pictures on the wall clearly show when we had the most amazing life. Dad hadn’t left us yet, and we lived in New York City. I wanted to be an astronaut, like every other kid on the planet when they’re 7. Dad was a brain surgeon, and that alone was enough to get us wealthy. Mom worked at home, to take care of me. My life was perfect! If only it had stayed that way.

The door slammed. Mom was home, and hopefully, she brought the food I wanted.

“Hey, sweetie, can you help me with the groceries?” she called up the stairs.

“Don’t call me sweetie,” I replied. Then I got up and went to help Mom. She was trying to hold open the door while carrying an armload of groceries. I held the door open for her and once she had passed, went to get the rest of the groceries. There was one bag left, and a quart of milk. That was it. Three bags and a quart of milk. I sighed and grabbed them. Even though I was 17 tomorrow, obviously there wouldn’t be much of a party. Not that I had any friends, of course.

Dad left when I was 10. No one knows where he went, one day he just disappeared. Mom and everyone else guessed that he had run off with another woman, apparently, he seemed like that type of guy. In other words, no police were notified, no authorities called, and now no one knows where he went. The money stopped flowing in, and Mom decided to move herself and me (her only child) to outside the city. Still in New York, but in that really boring part that is mostly farmland. Mom called it her house of dreams. I hated it. Ever since then, my life has just gone from bad to worse to terrible.

Once the groceries were unloaded-everything carefully selected by Mom- I looked around for a cake or at least something to celebrate my birthday, and when I came up empty, called Mom.

“Hey, Mom!”

“Yes, sweetie?”

“Did you get a cake or something to celebrate my birthday?” I called, exasperated. She came in the room, her eyes downcast and a little frown on her mouth.

“Sweetie, I’m sorry, but all of the cakes were so expensive. All of the stores I went to didn’t have anything at least a little affordable.” She spoke quietly. Then she smiled and tried to change the subject. “Did I tell you how handsome you look? My little boy, almost 17 years old!”

“Mom, I can’t believe you. You probably just forgot,” I replied frostily. I ignored the part about me being handsome.

“I can go out and look again if you want, sweetie,” she answered. I rolled my eyes. I would give her time to get something, but I wasn’t happy about it.

“Fine. Go. Now.” She rushed to the car and left after I uttered the words.

“Love you, sweetie!” She called. I just slammed the door.

Some people call me spoiled, but I disagree. I just want the most I can in life, and moving to outside New York City was not the ideal life. Not getting the computer, or the phone or the iPad that I wanted was not in the plan. My entire life sucked. The way that Mom decided to homeschool me to save more money was terrible. Now I couldn’t ever have friends. We were running out of money, not quickly but steadily. Yuck. Mom kept saying that she was trying to benefit our lives by making changes was really crazy. The only okay part of my life was being able to drive. I had gotten my license, and sometimes I would drive to the city and just walk around for awhile while Mom was at a job interview or something else.

Three hours later, Mom still hadn’t returned. I was starting to get at least a little worried. I mean, who takes three hours to get a birthday cake? I started to walk down the driveway and out on the street, looking for her car. There it was! But something was wrong. The trunk was pointed towards me, not the hood. The car was also… off the road? I ran over to get a closer look, tripped on a rock in my bare feet, and fell right by the car. It was flipped over and smoking slightly. I looked up and stared directly into the dead eyes of a corpse that used to be my mother. Visions ran through my mind. Mom tearing through the street to get my cake. A cat, or bird, on the road. Mom swerving to avoid it. The car flipping over. Instant death. I threw up, unable to process what I was seeing. Mom couldn’t be dead. I sprinted back to the house, sure that it was just a prank. Although somewhere in my mind I knew it wasn’t and that I was alone.

I collapsed on the driveway, shaking and starting to sob. I was the worst. The absolute worst. The last thing I had said was not what should have been said. How could I slam the door in her face? How could I order her around like I was the boss? I hated myself, I truly did. The sun was shining, a perfect spring day. Birds were chirping. Dogs were barking. It was about ten in the morning, and if it were any other day I would be happy, but Mom was dead. The gravel was harsh and stung my knees and hands as I crawled back to the house. The acidic taste was still in my mouth. My eyes were collecting dust from the tears streaming down my cheeks, and the world spun every time I moved. I made it inside the house, then collapsed.

Night fell, two days later, and my stomach was eating itself. I was starving, but I couldn’t bring myself to eat the food that Mom had brought home. It was my fault she was dead. I couldn’t eat the food that she had brought home. I couldn’t do that to her. Lying on the kitchen floor, I glanced on the clock on the microwave. 12:15. It was my birthday. I had been 17 for fifteen minutes. In the past hours, I had thrown up more times than I could count. I had missed breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I was dehydrated and the possibility of starving was a very real possibility. I just wanted to see Mom again. I wanted to die. I looked around, still lying on the floor. I still had a smidge of pride left, and I wanted to go out in a blaze of glory, not curled on the floor dead from thirst and lack of water.

I stood up and leaned on the counters. I dry-heaved yet again and slightly slipped. When I got up again, I was eye-level with the kitchen knives. I grabbed one before my legs gave out and slid to the floor. The knife was cool to the touch and very sharp. It was squeaky clean, thanks to Mom. Not the slightest hint of whatever it had last cut. Blood rushed in my ears and I swear I felt my own heartbeat. With shaking hands, I rolled up my sleeves. I knew that the inside of the wrists had lots of veins and I would bleed out quickly. A much gorier ending then starving. And hopefully a lot less painful, too. I hesitated for a quick moment, waiting for someone to stop me, but the only sounds I heard in a pitch-black night was my heartbeat and my own labored breathing. The whole world seemed to hold its breath as the knife glinted cruelly above me, the light from the microwave illuminating it in a ghostly glow.

I held the knife above my wrist, afraid of the pain, but not enough to stop my arm as it swung down and slashed at my wrist. One, twice, three times. It was finished. I would bleed out soon.

The pain I wasn’t prepared for. It seemed like fire was running through my wrist and I moaned, closing my eyes to the pain. I looked at the clock one more time, black spots obscuring my vision. It was 12:30. I was going to die half of an hour after my birthday. A small chuckle escaped me, and then I blacked out. I really was pathetic.

I blinked awake. The entire world was while. Did I die? I focused my eyes and blinked around a bit, the only part of my body I was strong enough to move. I could feel that I was lying in a bed of some sort. The sheets felt as cool and as soft as water, but the comforter was pressing down on my currently useless legs. The place smelled sterile, unfriendly, and clean. The arm where I had cut myself throbbed gently whenever I thought about it, so I diverted my thoughts to other matters.

I wasn’t dead, I could figure that out just fine. I was in a hospital of some sort, and obviously very weak. As more of the world focused around me, I noticed the IV in my arm. Right below it, my wrist was wrapped in a bandage that was soaked in red. The red had spilled all over the sheets, making the gravity of the entire decision press down on me and become much more real. Scared, I jerked back. All too late, I realized that my head was spinning wildly. I fell unconscious yet again.

“Hey, sweetie? Can you hear me?”

“Mom?” I murmured sleepily.

“Oh, honey, I’m so sorry but… I’m not your mother,” the nurse replied.

She was standing over my bed, face filled with worry. Although why anyone would bother to worry about me, I don’t know.

“What’s going to happen to me?” I asked sleepily.

“We’ve given all the support we can give in your unstable condition. If you heal, well, we’ll worry about that later if you do,” said the doctor who had, unnoticed by both of us, slipped into the room. I took a second look at him. Although the nurse had been just like all of the nurses in Dad’s old hospital, young and tall and pretty, the doctor looked nothing like the doctors back in the city. He was bald, and tattoos covered every inch of skin that I could see. He was clearly one who gave out the cold hard truth and didn’t sugarcoat things, and did it often, due to the nurses exasperated look at him. I instantly disliked him.

If… That didn’t sound too good.

“It’s all up to you now, buddy,” the doctor said, then left the room with the nurse.

“All up to me?” I called out.

The nurse looked at me and replied “Yes. You can choose whether to live or die. It’s entirely dependent on your choice.”

I wanted to live but I also wanted to die. If I died, I could see Mom again, but if I lived, then I could prove that doctor wrong. I didn’t know what to choose, so I fell back asleep.

Visions creepy and distorted ran through my head. Mom, smiling sadly at me before both of her eyes exploded and blood ran down her face… A cat with wings, hairless and scabbed, covered in tattoos. The knife, glinting with my blood, driving into my father’s soul… Myself, running into the arms of my mother as she held me tight… That was the last thing I ever saw.