Barely Breathing

Rachel grabbed the bottle and dumped it over the cubes, filling the glass to the rim. She picked it up, sloshing the vodka over the side, onto the floor. She took a large sip and placed the tumbler back on the table.

I stood in the entrance of the room, watching her. Truly wondering if the vodka took away her pain. It seemed to always amplify her temperament, not mask it. Or perhaps it released her secrets unfiltered, brutal and honest. I awaited the truthful assault.

"I thought he would love me more because of you. He was so happy when you were born. But you took him from me." She picked up the glass and took a larger sip before setting it down, half consumed.

"You can't take them all away from me, Emily."

I wasn't sure what she meant. At first I thought she was talking about his death, but I didn't know who else she meant... Then it hit me. Jonathan. She thought he'd chosen me over her.

"Why didn't they love me? Why wasn't I enough?" she choked, raising her voice. "Why you?" Her head lolled slightly as she shifted to face me. Her eyes were heavy, but the hatred in them was unmistakable. "You." She shook her head lazily, closing her lids with the motion. "You. You should never have been born."

And just when I thought I couldn't hurt anymore, her words left me breathlessly incapacitated. I leaned against the entryway for support.

"Sharon left you, not me."

I was confused again, until she clarified, "I didn't leave you. Was in the hospital. Took too many pills." The more she talked, the harder it was for her to form words. The vodka was completely taking over. "Said I couldn't have you. But never wanted you. I can't," she breathed heavily, the effort to speak draining her. "Can't love you."

My head spun, and each breath was excruciating. She took another sip from the glass and almost missed the table when she set it back down with a hard thump. She laid her head on the arm of the couch and closed her eyes.

I stumbled out of the room, then stopped before I reached the stairs. I turned back around and realized there was something wrong. I scanned the living room in a panic. Where was it? What had she done with it?

Then I remembered the smell of burning wood when I came home, and spun around toward the back door. I rushed out into the small yard and practically collapsed on the stairs. It felt like someone had thrust their fist through my chest and was squeezing my heart.

In the middle of the yard was a heap of embers still glowing red. A few spindles were recognizable amongst the ashes, but it was gone. She had set the rocking chair on fire and now there was nothing left.

I clumsily lowered myself down on the steps while holding onto the railing, staring at the remains and shaking my head in aggrieved awe, lost in the wafts of smoke.

Pulling myself up, I returned inside, empty and broken. My insides felt like they'd been ripped out and burned as well. I couldn't see straight. My eyes were glazed over as I made my way to the stairs.

I trudged up to my dark room without glancing in the living room. Flipping on the light, I mindlessly filled my bag with random clothes. I zipped the bag and fell back into darkness when I shut off the light. My hand slid along the railing as my legs numbly guided me along.

I gripped the doorknob to leave and hesitated, searching within the shadows of the living room. I couldn't see her. But I could hear her breathing.

Compelled, I walked to the loveseat and sat down across from her. I folded my arms and stared at her silhouette, listening to her breathe.

I knew. I always knew she didn't love me. I didn't know why I thought I could change that, even after all this time. It would never change. She couldn't even look at me most of my life, forget about love me.

I knew. But I didn't understand why she kept trying. She'd show up at my sports games. And the letters she'd write... why? I guess that was her effort―she said she tried. She couldn't convince herself to love me anymore than I believed that she did.

I looked away and my eyes fell upon the glass leaving a wet ring on the coffee table. Pain killer. Really?

I leaned forward and picked up the half glass of vodka. The ice cubes were melting into tiny stones. I brought it to my nose and smelled it. My mouth filled with saliva and I cringed. I pressed the rim to my lips and tipped it back, taking a large sip.

I coughed and grimaced in disgust. The liquid set my stomach on fire as it crashed against its empty walls. I took a deep breath and shuddered. It was horrible, but so was aspirin if you let it touch your tongue―and that was supposed to take away pain as well. I held my nose and swallowed again, emptying the glass―wanting it to work, to take away my pain.

I held the empty glass in my hands and my eyes filled with tears. What had I done? I clenched my jaw and breathed heavily through flared nostrils. What had I done? I shook my head, horrified.

I slammed the glass down on the table and stood up to leave. The sight of the vodka bottle filled me with so much fury, I wanted to scream. I picked it up and clenched it so tightly, I thought it might shatter in my hand. Shaking with rage, I threw it into the darkness. The glass shattered against the wall on the far side of the foyer.

I breathed a sob and rushed to the door, grabbing my bag and slamming the door behind me.

I didn't remember driving to Sara's. I probably shouldn't have been driving at all, blinded by tears, my head hazy. I pulled myself together as best I could when I turned into her driveway. Anna and Carl didn't appear to be home, thankfully.

Gripping my bag, I climbed the steps to Sara's front door. Sara opened it before I reached the top. "Where have you been? I've been..." Her sentence trailed off. Her aghast expression indicated that I was a bigger mess than I thought.

She held the door open for me and I walked through, lowering my eyes as I passed her. I continued up the stairs to her room without a word.

I dropped my bag on the floor next to the bed I usually slept in and sat on the edge with my shoulders bowed. My head felt light and was spinning slightly.

Sara sat next to me and waited, knowing I would tell her once I found the strength.

After a few minutes of silence, I took a deep breath and said, "I wasn't supposed to live."

"What?" Sara gasped, sitting perfectly still.

"She killed me, Sara. I was dead. Why am I still here?" My voice was heavy. Tears filled my eyes.

"Oh, Emma," Sara breathed. "Don't think like that."

"I don't want to feel like this. This pain. I shouldn't have to feel it. I was supposed to be dead." A tear rolled over the rim of my lid and slid down my cheek.

"Emma, please tell me what happened," Sara begged softly. "You're not making any sense."

I took a stuttered breath and revealed, "My mother told me she never wanted me. That I was the reason my father never loved her. He left me everything, Sara." I connected with her large blue eyes. They glistened with sadness. I had to look away, unable to bear her pain as well.

"What do you mean he left you everything?" she asked patiently, trying to understand.

"A lawyer came to see me yesterday. My father had a trust set up for me. The lawyer told me the truth about my parents. They were never married, and my father only stayed with her for me. She blames me. She hates me. I'm pretty sure she even tried to kill herself because of what happened."

"What are you talking about?" Sara's brows tilted in confusion.

"That's how I ended up with Carol and George. She was in the hospital after taking too many pills. I think she tried to commit suicide." I spoke without connecting with my words. My whole body was a whirl of incoherency. I could no longer feel or think.

"When did she tell you this?" she asked, shaking her head like it was incomprehensible.

"Tonight," I stated flatly. "I should have told you. I should have said something about what was going on… her drinking, but I thought I could handle it. I thought I could fix her. But I can't."

"It's not your fault," Sara consoled, taking my hand. Her words echoed through me, and I focused on her, drawn back to my exact words to Jonathan earlier in the day. In that moment, I recognized the impossibility of forgiveness when my insides were tangled in culpability. Guilt was lonely and isolating. I wondered how Jonathan had lived with it all of these years.

"I'm so tired," I told her, the ache in my chest sucking the will out of me. "I don't want to do this anymore."

"Do what?" Sara whispered, helping me up so she could pull back the covers.

"Hurt," I muttered, tears seeping between my quivering lips.

"You don't have to," Sara soothed, guiding me down on the bed. "Emma, it's going to get better. You don't have to do this alone. I'm here, okay?"

Sara lay next to me on top of the blankets and smoothed my hair away from my face. "You don't have to hurt anymore," I heard her whisper again as I closed my eyes.

35. Everyone Hurts

I would've thought I'd be up most of the night, unable to sleep, but when I opened my eyes it was midmorning and Sara's bed was empty. I lay under the covers for a while, not sure what the point was of getting up. But I couldn't suppress the need to use the bathroom, so I forced myself out of the bed.

Since I was already there, I decided to shower. I realized I’d never showered after my daytrip with Jonathan or practice last night, and I desperately needed it. I remained hollow as I stood under the water, unable to feel anything stirring inside―not an emotion or a single thought. I was tempted to go back to bed when I came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel, but Sara had already made it and was lying on top, reading a magazine.

"Hey," she greeted with a smile. "Are you hungry? My mom's making pancakes."

I shrugged and started to dress, not caring if Sara saw my scars―she'd seen them at their worst anyway.

"So, where were you during school yesterday?" she asked casually, keeping her eyes on the magazine as she turned the pages.

"With Jonathan," I admitted softly, my voice hard to find.

This got her attention. "Excuse me? You were with Jonathan? Why... Uh, what did you do?" It wasn't often that Sara had difficulty finding her words.

"We went for a ride on his motorcycle," I told her. She waited, but I didn't continue. There wasn't much more I could say without revealing his secrets, and I couldn't do that.

"What's going on between you two?" she questioned. "Anything I should be worried about?"

"No," I answered simply. "We get along. He understands what I'm going through, that's all."

"What does that mean, what you're going through?" She sounded worried. I suppose I would as well if she said it.

"About Rachel's moods and stuff," I attempted to explain. "We talk. He understands. I mean... he dated Rachel, so he gets it. We've become friends through all of this."

"Okay," Sara contemplated. "I think. Did you explain this to Evan?"

"I didn't get to," I breathed sitting next to her on the bed. "Sara, I totally screwed up. He's so upset with me he wouldn't even see me before he left." The misery of his call stirred in my chest.

"Yeah, I know," she comforted. "He was so freaked when you didn't show up at school yesterday. Then when you didn't answer your phone, I thought he was going to lose it completely. I gave him Rachel's number when he asked, not like she was any help or anything. You really should've called or texted him or something."