I am in the waiting room of a mental hospital—excuse me, mental rehabilitation center—and thinking about how utterly ridiculous that idea is. A waiting room, I mean. Do people come in here with delusions of a six-foot tall rabbit telling them that the world is ending, and are asked to take a number and relax? Someone will be with them shortly. Do they just hope that the crazy will subside itself long enough? I’m guessing not. Because judging by the coffee and magazines on mental illness, this place seems more for people like me, and not people like you.
There is a clock directly in front me. The standard issue; round with a black frame. Stacey is jiggling her leg next to me. Her high heel makes a clicking sound every time it hits the linoleum. Normally I would be bothered by this. But at that moment, all I could focus on was the clock. It was counting down my nerves. With every passing second, every slow stick-tock of the clock, I was realizing exactly how much I didn’t want to be here. How much I didn’t want to see you.

Your mother comes in and nods at the both of us. This is our cue to move. Stacey shoots up and drags me with her. She stands for a moment, lets in a big breath, and then blows it out. She’s nervous. I can tell. From the way she flips her blond hair over her shoulder then moves it back. The way she smooth’s her skirt, and checks her make-up even though she knows she looks perfect. She always does. I wonder if you and Stacey had never met, would we still be here right now. Would you?

Your mother tells us that you’re in the rec room. She points to a double door, and then pretends she’s going to use the restroom. Stacey walks in first. I trail behind her. The walls are completely void of color. The patients are all wearing beige pajamas and bathrobes. Stacey taps my arm and tells me she sees you. “Where?” I turn my head in the direction she’s pointing, but don’t see anything. She points again. “There.” And suddenly you come into focus. I am surprised to see how much you blend in here. You’re sitting in the corner of the room away from everyone else. Your head is turned towards the window, but I can tell you’re not looking through it. You’re lost in some memory. The way you always are. I wonder if those memories are the reason you got sent here.

Stacey and I walk up to your table. You don’t look away from the window. Stacey calls your name. You don’t look away from the window. We sit across from you. Try to get your attention. Stacey talks about the drive over here. How we nearly hit a cow out in the middle of nowhere. I stare at your face. Look for a reaction and see none. Because you aren’t here, are you? In the middle of nowhere; that’s where you were all this time? When we thought you were here with us. When we thought you were okay, you were really drifting, weren’t you; Out in the middle of nowhere.

In the table next to us there is a girl painting red swirls on a white canvas. Over and over again her hand retraces the pattern. Stacey is rambling to you about something, but I can’t hear what it is. I am too focused on the painting. Thick red globs of paint smeared on white. Like blood dripping on porcelain, like your blood. Your voice suddenly breaks me from my trance. “You don’t want to be here, do you?” Stacey starts reassuring you of exactly how much she wants to be here, but you just shake your head. “No, Stace. Not you.” Then you turn to me with a smug grin on your face and all I want to do is hit you. Instead, my hand grips the side of my chair until my knuckles turn white. I look you in the eyes and say no. I don’t want to be here. Your gaze shifts back to the window. “So, go.” I am stunned by what you say. The only reason that we’re here—that I’m here—is because your mother said you wanted to see us. I never wanted to come. I never wanted to be here. Everything smelled sterilized and synthetic. The whole building was packed with people—with nurses, doctors, patients—but it is all surprisingly empty. To be honest it reminded me of you, and right now I couldn’t stand the thought. And as if you were reading my mind, you turn to me and say those words again. “So, go.” And this time I do. Stacey calls my name as I leave, but I ignore her. And even though I don’t realize it yet, at that moment, I hated you.
~

The wind blows against me, as I enter the parking lot. During my storm out, I had forgotten that Stacey was the one who drove. So there I stood. In the frigid October air with nothing but my thin hoodie to protect me. I had left my coat in the car thinking I wouldn’t be out here that long. And luckily I wasn’t. Stacey walks out into the parking lot a few minutes later. She wraps her purple scarf around her neck, and searches the parking lot for me, or her car. It was hard to tell which. I wave over to her when she finally spots me (and the car), and she starts walking over to me (us). From her quick stride and heavy footsteps, I can tell she is angry. When she finally arrives at the car, she unlocks her door without saying a word to me. I grips the door handle to open it, but it’s still locked. I cross my arms and stare at Stacey from across the roof of the car. She does the same. I didn’t want to apologize for walking out, because I wasn’t sorry. And Stacey didn’t want to forgive me, because I had promised to go. So we were at an impasse, a silent one. She knew I didn’t want to come in the first place. But I had promised because of her. The wind whips by me, and makes a hollow screech as it passes. I shiver at the sound of it. Stacey notices, and seeing that neither of us is going to budge, offers a truce and unlocks my door. She opens the driver side door, but before stepping in she looks at me one last time. “I told you, you should have brought your coat.” And just like that, all was forgiven, at least for now.
~

“Six weeks, Brandon.” Stacey was swerving up and down the highway now. “That’s how long it’s been since we’ve seen him.” She could barely control the wheel as she gestured wildly with her hands. I’ve never seen anyone worse at multi-tasking. “I know how long it’s been, Stace.” I reply calmly. “Now can you please focus on the road?” Stacey scoffs at me. “Um, will everyone who actually has their license please raise their hand?” She raises her and the car veers to the left. She corrects herself then quickly looks over at me with a smug grin. I just frown at her. “The only reason you got your license before me, is because you had the hundred year old instructor. Who was technically blind, by the way.” She waves me off. “The point is that I have my license and you don’t, so you don’t get to judge my driving.” We exit the highway and I feel myself relax. “Anyway,” she says. “You’re not going to get away that easily.” I lean my head against window. The cool air was a nice contrast from the searing heat blasting through Stacey’s vents. “Get away with what?” Stacey pulls into the parking lot of our local diner. “Why did you walk out like that?” She puts the car in park then turns to me with a hurt expression. I guess all wasn’t forgiven after all. “Didn’t you hear? He told me to go.” Stacey crosses her arms frowning at me. “You could have stayed. In fact, you promised to stay.” “Well, technically I promised to go, and I did. So you really have nothing to be mad about.” Relaxing her shoulders Stacey uncrosses her arms. Her expression changes from anger to disappointment, and somehow that was much worse. “I’m not mad, Brandon.” She says rubbing her hand across her forehead. “I just thought you wanted to help him too.” Before I could respond, Stacey unlocks the doors and steps out of the car. I watch her step into the diner alone while I sit motionless in the car. Stacey was right. I didn’t want to help you. But if she knew what really happened, I don’t think even she’d want to help you either.

After a few moments alone in the car, I decide to join Stacey. She is sitting in our usual booth near the window. Her face buried in a menu, even though she has it memorized by now. Sitting down in front of her, I grab the menu out of Stacey’s hand and set it to the side. “It’s not that I don’t want to help him.” Stacey looks up at me then. “I just don’t know how.” Her expression softens and she takes my hands in hers. “I know it’s hard, but we’re going to figure it out together.” I nod giving her a small smile. She returns the gesture then lets go of my hands. Cindy, our middle aged waitress, walks over to us notepad in hand. “So,” she says. “Will it be the usual for you crazy kids?” Stacey and I both nod our heads. Cindy turns to walk away, then pauses and turns back around. She has this look on her face, and I just know she’s going to ask about you. “So how’s---“ “Excuse me.” Before she has a chance to even say your name I say I need to use the restroom. I know it’s unfair to leave Stacey to endure the pitying looks alone, but I just can’t handle it right now. Once I’m in the restroom, I turn around and lock the door. Luckily the bathroom was only made for one person at a time.
As I place my hands on either side of the sink, the memory that’s been haunting my brain ever since that night suddenly fills my vision.
I am not supposed to be there that night. I am supposed to be out to the movies with some kids from my gym class to prove to you that I have other friends, but I left my wallet in your room the other night. I am not supposed to be there to call 911. I am not supposed to be there to catch you when you fall. I am not supposed to be there shouting out for help. I am not supposed to be there. But I am. And you hate me for it.




After Stacey dropped me off at home, I spend the rest of the day lying on my bed. The volume on my iPod blasted to eleven. My mother came in several times to check on me. She was eager to hear how my visit went. I told her it was fine. “Well, what do you mean by ‘fine’?” “I mean it was fine, mom.” Not wanting to push anymore, she just nodded her head, and gave me a small smile. “If you need anything, honey…” she left the statement open figuring that I would know the rest. I managed to return her smile. “Yeah, I know mom. Thanks.” Every time she left I pulled out my beat-up copy of Slaughterhouse-five. It was a gift from my father. Back when he could give gifts and cared enough to. Inside the pages, there was a note hidden; a letter from you. I didn’t know when you had hid it there. You must have known that I’d find it soon after they had found you. That I’d want to curl up with it and try to make sense of the world again. I don’t know if you remember, but the note read like this:
What is there really to say, B. I’m sorry? Well, that’s too cliché. I felt like I never really belonged anywhere. Ugh, that’s even worse. I won’t bother explaining to you why, because there is no why. There is no because. There is no neat little bubble that you can fill in on some suicide test form. This is my life, Brandon. And I don’t want to be a part of it anymore. This probably doesn’t make any sense. I’ve always said that all the good words in the world are already taken. So here are some good words.
The note was taped to one of the pages in my book. There was an arrow at the bottom pointing right. I turned the page, and found the words that he couldn’t seem to get across.



I shut the book and placed it back on my desk. I shut my lamp off and kicked off my pants then my I pulled off my shirt. Lying there in the dark, with just my underwear and the cool of the wind through the tiny crack in my window, I stared out into the night sky and thought of the stars. They were blazing even against the city’s lights. They were different stars from the night before. Some had probably burned out long before I even knew they were dying.