No names have been changed because there are no innocent parties in this.
March 1st, 2010
I used to really enjoy writing. I proudly listed it as a hobby of mine and beamed whenever I’d score an exceptional score on a prompt or paper in school. Now I couldn’t tell you the last time I wrote anything more than a Facebook comment. I have no recollection, but instead of dwelling on this fact, I am choosing to persevere. I detest writing long hand, but the laptop I purchased from ECU during my freshmen year is once again inoperable. My mind is jumbled. I can’t focus on school work. I’ve dropped classes and stopped attending the ones I’m still enrolled in. I’m apathetic. I’m waiting to die.
Approximately 3AM—August 12th, 2009
I’ve lived at 1005 East Wright Road for a year now. It’s my home away from home. My residence while attending college. Recently one of the roommates moved out, and I’ve moved into her bedroom with the adjoining bathroom. Sometimes being the only girl in the house has its perks. I’m frittering around my room, getting things situated and arranged to my liking. Mark, my best friend and roommate, is sitting in my room, something he’s never done before. I plop down in a chair and ask what’s going on. Mark has long suffered from depression and thoughts of suicide. This summer he finally began seeing a psychiatrist on campus. He’s confiding in me, sharing the darkest thoughts of his mentally ill mind. It doesn’t bother me; sadly I’ve heard it all before. Thoughts of suicide. Feelings of worthlessness. There was a time when I battled these very things. Mark is by no means a petite figure. He’s always reminded me a bit of Lenny from “Of Mice and Men” but with the mental faculties of someone like Truman Capote. He’s sitting in my favorite chair. A hideous orange arm chair I rescued from the Habitat Restore for five dollars. Everyone hates that chair. I love it. It has character. It’s at least 30 years old, guessing by the burnt mandarin color, and the worn patch on the arm rest that probably started as a small snag from a watch or bracelet. Mark doesn’t so much sit in the chair, as he does dwarf it.
“I wanted to kill myself last weekend but couldn’t because you and Brian weren’t here.”
Brian is a new roommate of ours. He and Mark have been friends since they were little kids. I met Brian through our campus ministry and he’s quickly become a close friend of mine, though Brian is more likely to refer to me as his fag hag. We spent the previous weekend together at my family’s home in Greensboro. I got the feeling Mark was a bit peeved I didn’t invite him, but he told me he planned on doing some drinking. See, one of Brian’s quirks is that he’s very anti-drinking. He doesn’t like people getting drunk.
When I ask Mark for clarification, he heaves a great sigh. I know he doesn’t like talking about feelings. Getting him to talk at all usually requires lots of nagging, some soul baring on my part, and the two of us sitting on the hood of his dark blue circa 1980s Oldsmobile.
“I tried to kill myself when I was drunk last weekend but couldn’t do it. I realized how many people I would hurt if I did it—“
I interrupt him, and awkwardly sort of congratulate him on this fact. He shakes his head and continues as if I hadn’t spoken.
“So I decided that before I could kill myself, I’d need to kill the people who I’d hurt the most because of my suicide.”
You know those moments when everything changes and you are fully aware you are now barreling toward an uncertain future? Imagine running through the woods, getting smacked in the face by branches, your feet are cut open, bleeding freely onto the uneven terrain. You can’t stop running though, for fear of what may catch you. There you are…running and just praying that you don’t crash face first into a damned great sequoia, but at the same time you welcome the possibility. Maybe spending some time choking down your own blood from the inevitable broken nose you’ll get wouldn’t be so bad. But then you remember where you are… in a room no larger than 10x12, with a man who could easily mutilate you beyond recognition.
“It’s pretty fucked up, I know. But that’s where my mind goes. I made a list of people.”
I take a deep breath of much needed oxygen. Time for the million dollar question. I can tell he’s waiting for me to ask. Even if I don’t, it’s already out there, hanging in the space between us.
“Was I…? I mean, who…?”
I’m struggling to articulate it. The words are dying in my throat.
“Yeah, you were on my list. So was Bri.”
He says this casually, as if he just asked me what movie I wanted to watch.
Invisible bugs are crawling across my skin, biting, stinging, doing whatever it is invisible bugs do when your best friend of two years tells you he was, or possibly still is, planning to murder you.
The floodgates have opened and he sets out the details of his plan. Like the chess player he is, Mark has thought out his every move. I ask “what if” questions, trying to point out flaws in his plan. I don’t know why, it’s of no use. He has carefully considered every gaffe I mention and easily dismisses them.
I see the motion detector light flicker on over the back porch. My ace in the hole. Our fourth roommate: Cory. He hadn’t made Mark’s macabre list. No sooner had I thought this, than my five foot six, Mustang driving glimmer of hope is crushed.
“I was planning on cooking dinner for you, Bri, and Jill. It’d be poisoned…then I’d drag your bodies back to your rooms. It’s not like Cory would notice you guys missing, he’s never around anyway.”
Touche psycho, I think to myself. Mark continues, “From there I’d drive home, kill my mom and stepdad. I’d have to get the key to my grandpa’s while I was there. I could sneak up on him...it wouldn’t be hard. After that, I guess I’d drive to see my sister, kill her, and take my life there. I’d much rather die with you guys, but the timeline wouldn’t work out right. I’d probably get caught before I could finish it.”
He’s not talking any more, just sort of staring at me. I fidget nervously.
“You think I’m crazy now, don’t you?”
Yes.
“No, I don’t think that. It’s just a lot to take in.”
Last year my mom bought me a SWAT team issue bottle of pepper spray. She told me she was worried about me living in Greenville. I thought it was silly at the time. Now I’m wondering how I could get it from the desk without Mark noticing.
“Yeah” is all he mumbles in response. “Don’t tell anyone okay? Promise me.”
I promise, he lumbers out of my near ground level orange chair, and gives me a quick hug. We say goodnight and I close the door behind him. For the first time since I’ve lived in this house, I lock the door. I unceremoniously slump to the floor. I half expect an axe to come crashing through the door like in “The Shining”. Mark always did love horror movies.
At some point during the night, I pull myself up and climb into my loft bed. I’m tightly curled up in the corner farthest from the door. Farthest from his room. My right hand is locked in a death grip around my pepper spray. I can see the sun starting to rise outside. Birds begin chirping. Normal people would be drinking coffee and reading the paper or heading off to work. This is Greenville though, there are no normal people.
