When Does it Get Quiet?
JADE WILLIAMS
One night mimics the feeling of many. The pellets of Venlafaxine, and the individual tablets of
Escitalopram, simmer and dissipate within my belly. My days were spent being stagnant, so
much so that entertaining the thought of movement resulted in the feeling of stiffness, as if rigor
mortis has already set in. Defeating the point of “blackout” curtains, the sun’s rays slip into my
room, accenting the strands of dust that hover. I watch them there, floating ever so gracefully.
They appear so lively and vibrant, dancing beneath the light. The specks grace me with their
presence for a moment, and then they were gone.
I’ve never cared for the saying, “stay strong” because I feel as though it’s all I have ever
been. The fact that I’m still here, existing, is proof of that. When I’m told to “hang in there” I
picture my last attempt. I picture that, in a perfect world, everything would go according to plan,
down to the very last detail of the very last day.
If I could, I’d spend it indulging in the finer things (or things I believed to be fine) such as
spending the majority of my paycheck on a fancy meal at a fancy restaurant. There, the table
would be draped in a seamless white cloth of the finest linen and set with impeccably clean wine
glasses, an embroidered plate that nested its matching bowl. My napkin would be folded to
resemble either a flower or a creature and my utensils would be placed on their assigned sides
according to proper etiquette. Soft music would play in the background and the menu would list
words that I could not pronounce. I’d dress up with the specific intention of impressing only
myself, my favorite accessory dangling from my earlobes. I’d be gluttonous, not once
considering the prices of my requests and leave a big tip, just because I could, just because it
wasn’t going to matter anyways.
Next, I’ll stop by the liquor store to browse the shelves for the cheapest liquid that will allow
me to separate from my physical form, and give me the feeling of hovering ever so gracefully
beneath the sunlight. Like a rushing stream, gulps of the liquid would pour down my throat,
mostly from the bottle itself. My bath water will be a combination of lush bubbles and dried rose
petals. The lights would be dimmed just enough to highlight the steam rising towards the ceiling.
The ball of my foot, breaking the surface of the water, the ripples scattering to either side of the
tub. The water is hot, and I smile at the burning sensation because I’d imagine it being a
prerequisite for where the church books claimed my soul would be going.
Drunkenly fumbling with the digits, I’d call up the few who still choose to deal with me and
reminisce about all our good times and the bad ones, just for the hell of it. We’d talk about how
and when we met and I’d give them a teary confession of how much I cared for them before
hanging up, a goodbye sounding too certain.
My bubbles have melted and my petals have now all become soggy. I hoist myself out the
bathtub and soak up the droplets that are rolling off my skin. Moisturizing, my hands glide over
the various scars and markings that each have their own story.
I’d like to make sure my parents were okay and that they were proud of me, despite my
numerous uncertainties in life. I would want to make sure they had everything they needed,
thank them for everything they’ve done and all they intended to do, make sure that they know
that I love them, and that I was sorry. And, if I could see my dad, maybe we could meet up, I’d
drive instead of him. We’d eat and I’d pay for his meal as a way of suppressing my own guilt.
Afterwards, I will come home with flowers for my mother, real ones, in her favorite color. I knew
she’d love them and could exclaim, “my baby bought me those!” to anyone who’d ask. I’d give
her and my stepdad a long hug. My mother’s skin, as soft as it always has been which made a
perfect canvas for me to nuzzle as a baby. I would welcome the scratching of my step father’s
beard whilst hugging him longer than socially acceptable. He wasn’t big on affection, but
conformed because he loved me, and I loved him too.
And, perhaps I’ll call my older brother. If he answered, the conversation would be meaningful
and insightful, no awkward pauses except for when I told him that I loved him. He’d do the same
while exempting the “I”. I’d finally retire to my room, walking up those stairs one last time.
I’d imagine my funeral being an out of body experience, and that’ll be my eternity. My family
would line up to view my body, one by one or two by two, however they saw fit. They’d watch
me lay there, looking more peaceful than I ever have, undisturbed from their tears trickling down
onto my stagnant form. The sanctuary would be scattered with those that chose to put their
busy lives on hold to give me one final moment of their time. There’d be present speckles of the
few individuals whose lives I’ve touched or impacted in some shape of form. Volunteers would
come up and recite their speeches of my favorable traits and past happenings. My social media
would be riddled with numerous tributes from those who claimed to know me and those that did.
There’d be several “RIP” hashtags and photos of the various times throughout my life. Those
closest to me would reside on the front row and witness the casket close, encapsulating me
from the outside world, forever.
My casket would be black because it isn’t too flashy and the day would be thick with the haze
of grey clouds because there lies beauty in darkness. My mother would be in front, dabbing her
eyes with a tissue that was no longer capable of absorbing anymore liquid and should have
been thrown away a long time ago. As I’m lowered into the Earth, may my spirit be allowed to
touch her once more. She may think of me as a rogue fly or perhaps a droplet of rain sent from
the sky above. However, I’d like to think that she’d know it was me, and that I was with her. I
would take one last look at my family, friends and acquaintances and walk off into the distance
where I could only hope to be nothing more than a happy memory in the minds of those who
loved me. I could only hope to be forgiven for all my wrongdoings and be remembered for
“hanging in there” and staying strong, for as long as I could. Like my body left to be forever
undisturbed below the soil, I too would disappear, to dance among the speckles of dust under
the sunlight.
