"Release" by M. Peter

Release

Inhale, exhale. Simple, right? Some call it breathing, but I call it releasing. Taking in the good, releasing the bad. It’s all about your state of mind. If you’re stable and normal, you call it breathing. If you have a therapist who says you need to “banish the bad,” you call it releasing because, well, you are forced to.

Therapist. Ha, I sound crazy. Apparently, I’m depressed. But then again, what teenager isn’t? Hours upon hours of homework, sports, clubs. It’s enough to drive anyone to insanity; however, I’m a “special case” because I am vocal about my needs. My pediatrician noticed this and said that not only am I depressed, I am aggressive, so off to therapy I went. 5 weeks and some thousand dollars later, and here I am…releasing, not breathing.

If you think about it long enough, you really get caught up in it. I’m not even breathing. I know technically everyone is breathing but…you have to feel alive to breath, not just be alive. And honestly, I don’t feel anything. The numbness of consistency always seems to get the best of me when I am at school. It gets the best of me when I go from school, to therapy, to my house, and then do the exact same thing every day after that. That’s when I seem depressed, I need something new.

***

That “something new” was easy to find. All I had to do was open my parent’s liquor cabinet. Rows and rows of unopened bottles on the bottom shelf, opened ones on the middle shelf, and empty bottles on the very top. I grabbed a bottle of vodka from the very back of the first shelf, my own bottle. I walked to my room with the bottle tucked under my arm. If I know one thing about my parents, it’s that they’re oblivious. I could be carrying a shotgun and they wouldn’t even notice, much less care, so sneaking the alcohol was easy.

I sat Indian style on my floor. The top was easy enough to break off, the hard part was consuming the liquid. It was like swallowing gasoline. The burn of the vodka ran down my throat until my voice was as rough as sandpaper. But I loved every raging second of it, and just like that, I was hooked. I took small gulps until the buzz from the drink overpowered the sting. Then the gulps got larger until roughly half of the drink was gone. I wandered around my room, stumbling over my own two feet. Releasing became difficult. In, out, out, in, no. That’s wrong. Inhale…inhale…everything is blurry. Maybe I should lie down. I walk to my bed and flop onto it face first.

Suddenly, my stomach cramps up and my mouth starts to water. God, it’s hot. Sweat beads my forehead as I try to sit up, only to fall back down and slam my head onto my bedpost. Due to the impact, I get sick not even a second after hitting my head. The only thing I can think about is cleaning up the mess, but I can’t see anything. My mom is right downstairs. I begin to panic, then nothing. The world is fuzzy, I begin to laugh and then I forget about cleaning anything up because I realize that I don’t care and this whole time…I’ve felt nothing. The numbness of consistency doesn’t faze me because it no longer exists. Now, thanks to the vodka, I am numb with…nothing. I’m just numb.

That’s when I discovered my rush. Pouring liquid fire down my throat every single day is an escape all on its own, but the rush I get from it is perfect. The buzz, the constant state of not caring and not seeing things as they should be perceived, but rather how you want to perceive them. Drunk. I want to be drunk all the time. No worries, no cares. Alcohol isn’t a problem, it’s a solution. A beautiful, burning solution.

***

As I was cleaning up the vomit, I heard a tiny knock that could only belong to Harlem. Ah, Harlem. My little sister, she’s a miracle child. She really is though. If my parents hadn’t had her, I would have been the miracle. But, I’m glad she exists because they won’t pay any attention to my drunkenness, they’ll only pay attention to her 8 year old girl needs. This would usually bother me but considering I’m smuggling a 21+ drink to my 17 year old bedroom, I need anything to keep them off my back.

Like I said before, she’s a miracle. My parents had me, tried for another, and had a miscarriage. This continued for years, then finally, 5 miscarriages and some fertility drugs later, Harlem was born. She’s perfect to me and to my parents.

She and I have a “special bond.” Brother, sister love is what you could call it. She’s so sweet, too sweet for anything to happen to her. She’s got, what I call, a porcelain heart. So breakable, so fragile, and so valuable. That’s what she is. One tiny bump, one little insult, and she’ll break. She listens to everything everyone says and takes it into consideration, using their words to “fix” herself even though she’s already perfect.

That’s what a lot of girls do though. They listen to false words and see themselves in that way. If you tell a girl one bad thing about herself, she’ll never forget it. That’s what I learned from having a sister like Harlem. No matter what I say, she listens intently and changes anything that might go against what I said. Next time I drink, I’ll drink to Harlem. One big gulp to the only person in my life who’s worth something.

***

Weeks passed and I was still pouring the searing potion down my throat. I consumed so much, so quickly. Everyday a hangover was eminent. Headache, sore throat, sensitivity to bright lights, nausea. Each morning I downed two acetaminophen, one ibuprofen, 3 cough drops, and wore sunglasses when driving and during 1st period. It sucked, but hey, it was an escape.

Coming home that day I figured I would try some whiskey. The beverage looked gross, smelled gross, and god did it taste even worse. But the burn was better, hotter. Each time it ran down my throat, I felt like someone was dragging a knife down it. As I drank more, it lightened because of the effect of the alcohol. Soon, I was out of it. I was lying on my bed when I heard my mom yell to me.

“Alex! Don’t forget to pick up Harlem from her friend’s house in 20 minutes. Your father and I are going out now,” she didn’t even wait for a response. I heard the front door open, close, then her car started and they were gone.

I watched the clock. It was now 6:40pm. I had to get her at…40 plus 20 minutes…60 minutes. 6:40, the next hour would be 7? 7. Yes. I had to get her at 7:00pm. This drink is literally eating me alive.

Eventually 20 minutes passed and I was headed downstairs to get in the car. I found the keys and started the car. I pulled out and after what felt like 5 hours, I was there. Usually I would have gotten here about 15 minutes after leaving. However, I decided to challenge myself. I had accelerated until I saw the little needle go a bit past 75 in a 35 zone. Made it here in around 5 minutes. Harlem and her friend were outside playing in the front yard so when she saw me, she ran right up and hopped in the passenger seat. She shouldn’t be in the front, I thought. But I decided it would be OK considering it takes 5 minutes to get home. What’s the worst that could happen in 5 minutes?

***

Her screams were the last thing I heard and headlights were the last thing I saw. I sat, sideways, watching as the firefighters yanked Harlem from the car. Then, they came for me. I sat, unmoving hoping they would pronounce me dead and bury me alive if I was just still enough. But sadly, I had a pulse. A throbbing, quick pulse that made them realize that I…I was alive.

“Time of death: 7:15pm,” I heard someone say. Who’s dead? I’m not, Harlem’s…Harlem. Harlem. The miracle, the angel.

I began to scream and thrash and claw. My whole body ached and suddenly…I was numb I couldn’t release. No-stop it. Releasing? I can’t breathe. I am alive. I always believed you had to feel alive to breathe and that’s why I couldn’t, but here I am. Alive. I shouldn’t be. I can’t be. I can’t breathe. I screamed some more and then I glanced to my right. Lying on the side of the road with a sheet over her was Harlem. I could barely see the tips of her pink shoes sticking out from under it. I could see little wisps of her blonde hair and I saw her fingers.

My first memory of her was when she was first born and I held her for the first time. She used her whole hand to hold one of my fingers. And now the hand that held my finger is lifeless.

***

I was finally released from rehab 3 months after the accident. My parents brought me home and never looked at me. When we arrived at the house, I went to Harlem’s room…empty. The once pink walls were now white. If you look carefully, you can still see the nail polish stains on her carpet from when she tried to paint my nails. Why did I have to do this? What was I thinking? I got angrier and angrier and…guiltier. The guilt was chewing at me, latching onto me, and sucking every little bit of happiness out of my once pure heart. I was good, I was a good child; Harlem was a good child but I had to mess everything up. I have to do something, I have to. I ran out of there and to my room.

My bedroom is still the same. My closet door is slightly ajar, the bed not made. God, I was a pig. After observing for a minute, I began to plan. I can’t take this. I can’t live with myself. I have to do something to restore my soul.

40 agonizing minutes passed and I had nothing. Then I thought of something, something good. I would feel better for sure. I went downstairs and snuck a bottle of beer. Wow, they still don’t care about me. Perfect.

I downed the beer and wrote a note. Signing my name, I rolled it up and stuffed it in the bottle. I went to my closet and grabbed my belt. Thank god the water pipes run through my closet. I looped the belt around the pipe and created the noose. Rushing to the bathroom, I got the stool that was in there. I remember we bought this because Harlem couldn’t reach the sink; now, I’m putting it to good use because my neck can’t reach the loop.

I set the beer bottle outside my bedroom door, came back in, and stood on the chair. I put the belt around my neck, tightened it, took a deep breath, then stepped off the chair. And as I did so, I thought of the one sentence I wrote on the note.

Harlem, I’m coming to mend your porcelain heart.