Cracks

The story of Victoria Lawson's life. Her struggle, her pain, her brush with death.

            I stood there, in my dim garage. The cold metal of the gun clenched in my hand. Oh, how I desperately wanted it all just too end. All this craziness, all this s**t that had messed up my life. I just couldn’t live with the pain and the insults anymore. I didn’t want to end my life this way, but it felt like the only way to escape, be free from the suffocating hands that were my life. I was numb to my suburban life, anyways.

 

The sound of tears dripping on the hard concrete relieved me from my tormenting thoughts for a moment. I looked down at him, kneeling there on the floor. His dark hair hanging in his eyes, his body was shaking and his tears streaked his fleshy cheeks. His tears fell for me. I felt bad for him. He was trying in vain to make me change my mind. He didn’t know my plans wouldn’t easily be faltered. He used to always be in charge, even when we were kids, and here he was now, begging at my feet. I’m probably confusing you, so let me start at the beginning.

I was five when I met Chris. My family had just moved into this suburban neighborhood where I didn’t know anybody. It was one of those stereotypical suburban towns, the houses were basically made with cookie cutters and the only way I would be able to find my way out of the web of streets was to find a house with some slight difference, like maybe a different color  or different styled shutters.

We were in the house next-door to his, the last one on the street. I sort of remember the day I met him. He was hiding behind his mother’s legs with one chunky hand clutched to her pant leg and sucking his thumb with the other. His hair was really dark, even then. I was nervous. I never was any good at making friends, but after a while of just sitting on the unfamiliar lawn, playing with my dress, he came over and sat with me.

“Christopher.” He mumbled around his thumb, holding out his free hand. “V…Victoria.” I stuttered. Over the years, I finally lost my stutter, now I only do it when I’m nervous or stressed. Chris said it was what made me special, but in middle school it was the reason I would have a bruise in the shape of a milk carton on the side of my head. I was apparently good target practice for the bullies; my reddish hair makes me stand out.

I was confused why his hand was still in my face. “You’re supposed to shake it silly.” He said after a few strange seconds passed. So I did. And that handshake marked the beginning of our friendship.

Chris was my only friend all the way up through middle school and some of high school. I was to “strange” for the girls, I didn’t want to play with their Barbie’s anyway, and I was a girl so the boys wouldn’t let me play with them either.

On the first day of Kindergarten, during lunch, Christopher and I played in the sandbox together. He defended me when Jimmy Bailden started pulling my braids and making fun of my stutter. He was truly a very good friend.

Up to fifth grade were our happy years. I remember some looser thought it would be funny to trip me on the blacktop. I fell and hit my head on the pavement. I had to get three stitches, just because that jerk thought it would get a few laughs. Chris was furious. He punched the kid in the face and walked me to the principal’s office. Leaving the kid hunched over by the basketball hoop holding his gushing nose. Chris got in trouble but I made sure he didn’t get expelled. I never could figure out how to repay him. I remember telling him I’d let him play with my scooter, but he said he just needed to know I was okay. He could be so sweet.

In sixth grade a new kid moved into the neighborhood, across the street from me. He was…different. Rich parents, kid had his own go-kart. I could see the appeal. Whenever I would come outside he would look at me as if I were a leper, some diseased thing crawling out of my hole. For the first few weeks Chris would convince HIM to let me play with them, but then Chris started to tell me to leave THEM alone. I was hurt. He was my only friend. I remember crying in my mother’s lap that night. She had no idea what I was saying, my stutter was intangible, mixed in with sobs and snot bubbles. She did her best with the information she was able to extract, Chris, new boy, mean, not let me play…stuff like that.

She talked to his mom.

Ugh, I hate it when mothers do that, they tell you, “I talked to so and so’s mother today, she said she would tell him/her that s/he has to let you play with them.” It was NOT helpful. It made things awkward and much much worse.

Don’t they know it only works when the parents are looking? When they turn their backs, you end up back to sitting by yourself under an old oak tree up on the hill behind your house. Hiding from your parents and refusing to talk about your day when they do find you.

Eighth grade was a bit better; the boys still had the dumb idea that girls had cooties, well mostly the unattractive ones. I was one of the luckier girls in my grade; there was a list the eighth grade boys had secretly written. The girls were never supposed to read it. But we had a kid on the inside, Malcolm Wilson had a little sister in second grade that snagged the list from his room and brought it to school. All the eighth grade girls congregated in the bathroom during lunch to read it. I felt bad for some of the girls on the “Ugly” side of the list, it was surprisingly short, which was good for most of us, but not for Becky Lorg, poor girl got number one on the ugly side. She was just a few pounds overweight, but the sweetest and smartest in the class. Plus she would bring candy to school and if she liked you, you would always get a piece.   

Christopher asked me if I wanted to sit next to him during the graduation ceremony, I did. I also got reprimanded at the after party by our principle for being out of alphabetical order. To be honest, I didn’t like my spot all the way in back, V is not a fun letter when it comes to alphabetical order. But it could have been worse.

Freshman year of high school was when my life hit a wall.

The first semester was pretty normal, new friends, boys, and new enemies, pretty much in that actual order. I had a group of friends that I felt close to; there was guy that always hung out with us. Dylan, who, by my standers was gorgeous, I had a class with him, sixth period photo. He had me pose for him, it was beautifully back lit. For the first time I actually thought I looked really good, the soft light made my ginger hair glow. He asked me out a few days after. I don’t really remember our first date, I think we went to the lake pier, but I’m pretty sure we just went to a pizza parlor and after his mom drove us home. He was really sweet, or so I initially thought.

Apparently freshmen guys only want one thing, and when they are denied entry to our pants they get all pissed and try to ruin your life, or that only happened to me. He asked me to hook up at a party on a Friday night. It was a big party, lots of popular people. I didn’t want to, so I gave it to him straight. My answer was No. I knew what he would probably try to pull. The next day I found the picture of me burned on my porch. My face burned away. I felt horrible. He broke up with me over text message, it appears that he wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted.

The next Monday, he had told all my friends that I had gotten wasted at the party and tried to hook up with him and he said no (some religious excuse, purity ring maybe), then I had left, binge drank and hooked up with his best friend, Sheldon. Let me get this clear, I don’t and never will like Sheldon. It was his idea to fabricate the story anyway. They both acted like victims, like I was a sort of criminal that had wronged them both. My friends turned their back on me. I was an outcast. I had to eat my lunch in the girls’ bathroom to keep from getting weird looks. Because of course, the rumors spread like wildfire.

Chris was out of my life then, sure we talked on the bus, but he didn’t know my life was spiraling out of control. I started to get really mean messages online, from people I thought where my friends. The day after the messages started showing up Chris asked me how I was holding up, I told him it was nothing and I was fine. I really wasn’t. I slowly began hating myself more and more.

People began to use my name as an escape or an excuse, “I swear this weed isn’t mine! This chick, Victoria is having me hold onto it for her,” or when the boyfriend cheated, “Vicki was the one who kissed me! I would never cheat on you.” I got a lot of angry phone calls from parents and some slaps in the face from angry girlfriends and I also became a regular in the councilor’s office.

That summer, the messages started getting worse and worse. People I didn’t even know started chiming in with things like, “You s****y w***e,” or straightforward “Go kill ur self and save us the trouble.” It was really hurtful and I started believing in what they were writing. I started to wear black, hiding the scars on my wrists under leather bracelets. Christopher would sit with me on the bus, but that was the extent of our connection. Soon that even stopped happening.

Sophomore year my teachers started getting concerned by my solitary attitude, but what else could I do when it felt like the whole school hated me. I would pretend it didn’t bother me, soon I had become so good at faking my feelings I was even fooling my parents and myself. My counselor suggested some depression counseling groups, I told her off.

I had one good friend that stayed with me throughout the abuse, he was sweet, gay of course, but he knew what I was going through. He would always ask me if I wanted to talk about it, I would just end up crying in his lap while he watched Pretty Woman or The Wizard of Oz. He loved Richard Greer and Judy Garland.

I had a boyfriend outside of school, I wouldn’t really consider us “dating” but we hung out a lot. I told him I hated my school, and he just said I should transfer so I could be with him all the time. He didn’t get it. It would probably make it worse. I couldn’t pretend I didn’t have problems anymore, I needed help. But, like a dumbass, I convinced myself I was fine. I really wasn’t.

I was cracked, broken. Like an egg, each word would feel like someone dropping me on the floor, but I wouldn’t break, I was almost to my tipping point. Soon I would be nothing but a broken egg, splattered on the floor. Isn’t that what THEY wanted? He didn’t know about the bulling, plus he would sometimes tease me about my stutter and that would send me tumbling back into my depression. Our relationship wasn’t healthy. I broke it off.

I knew I should really try to talk to my parents about how I felt, but they wouldn’t get it either. This wasn’t preschool were you could talk to the kids’ parents, and everything would be better. This was high school, and I felt completely alone. I knew that if I did tell them, they would just have me go to a therapist who would pump me so full of drugs and pills that I would be a zombie. Inside, I wanted to feel nothing, I wanted it not to bother me, but it always picked at my brain.

In the past there had been other kids that had been bullied too, one hung himself out front of the gym. Another transferred, and some just stopped coming to school. I really wanted to just disappear.

The summer before junior year, Chris asked me to come with him to the 4th of July carnival. I didn’t really want to go, people would be there, and I had really started hating the world. I went, though! How could I say no? I was kind of left to my own devises, his football buddies showed up and basically took him away. I saw him later locked lips with some s****y cheerleader from school. I ran home and cried. How could I have been so stupid, he didn’t feel the same way about me, I had loved him ever since he had punched that kid in the face in fifth grade. Off and On, of course, but we both had changed. I was the “freaky” girl, and he was the jock.

Damn, I feel like I’m making myself sound so pathetic, but that’s how it was. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, I already covered that with my self-loathing and self-pitying.

Recently, I had looked up suicide methods online. They all seemed a bit…over the top. But I picked one. The article said that one shot to the head and it would all be over, quick, easy, no regrets. It sounded perfect. But there was only one flaw. I WANTED to tell him how I felt and I WANTED someone to tell me my life was worth living. My time was numbed from all the bulling and hate mail online. I’ve never been afraid of dying. I just wanted to know who would actually care that I was dead. Obviously, someone other than my parents. I had the idea that I should stream it live, but then I realized that they would just think I was faking it and trying to get attention. But I WAS. I want to be noticed for who I am, not because they think I'm a w***e or what I supposedly did.

Who would cry for me?

I had planned it all out, Halloween night, I would message him. Text him my plan and wait for a reply. He would no doubt be at a party, a party I was conveniently not invited too. He would arrive and tell me I was being irrational. Then…BANG. I would be gone. I thought it was perfect. He would witness me die, he would finally understand and feel my pain. Pain his friends had caused, all these years he could have intervened, but no. People tend to ignore things that don’t affect them.

I sent him the message. “Goodbye forever.” It read. I knew it was a bit vague, but I knew he would get it. I waited for a reply, none came. I watched the clock, the minute hand slowly making its way to the twelve. My exit time, the time the curtain closed on my life. I was about to pull the trigger. The muzzle of the gun was cold and uncomfortable inside my mouth. That’s when I heard it, a car door slam, the banging of fists on the front door, shouts. His voice!

Glass broke, tinkling on the hardwood floor. He ran around the house yelling for me. Then he kicked open the door to the garage, casting a long shadow along the barren cement floor. He stepped slowly in. I knew he could see the gun in my hand. I didn’t dare look at him; I just stared out the windows in the garage door. The gun no longer in my mouth but held tight in my fist at my side. The candle glow outside, flickering in the autumn wind was beautiful. I wondered what heaven was like, I couldn’t help thinking about it. His breathing was quick and I could tell he was scared. Afraid of me, of my plan, and of the gun.

“I thought you had already done It.” He said shakily, “I thought you were already gone.” His voice cracked. He was scared. Good! “I’ve already made up my mind. I just wanted to say goodbye to my best friend. Well…you were my best friend.” I don’t know what made me say it. It just came out. He was stunned by this. “What? We are…you mean the world to me.” He was standing in front of me now, forcing me to look at him. He kept his distance, continuously glancing at the gun in my hands. “Do I? If so, then why didn’t you tell them to stop? Why did you just stand there when I needed you the most? Your “friends” are the reason I’ve had to make this decision.” It just kept coming, like word vomit. I could tell I was hurting him, but I wanted him to feel as bad as I did. That’s when I turned the gun over in my hands, a Sig Sauer 9mm. It wasn’t heavy, surprisingly. It was my dads, always locked up in his bedside drawer. He cowered when the light reflected off the shiny barrel. It was beautiful. I loved the way it felt in my hands. I was in control.

That’s when he dropped to his knees; he came to his senses that whatever he said couldn’t change my mind. But then I realized he was crying, his eyes were red, and the salty tears dripped off his nose and splashed onto the floor. I felt bad, for the first time, he was vulnerable, and I felt like it was my fault. I wanted so badly to comfort him, that moment I knew I would never be able to do it. I would never want him to suffer because of me. My initial plans had gone off course.

“Stay.” He sobbed. “Stay for me.” How could I not want to, I wanted to kneel down beside him and kiss his cheek and tell him I was his for eternity. “Let me help you. Let me, please.” His body shook with sobs. “I l…love you.” He was barely able to say it. I almost started crying myself. I dropped the gun. It went off. No one was hit. Thank God. But it brought the neighbors. They came in and saw us huddled on the concrete floor, he was hugging me so tight I was unable to breath, we were both sobbing now. One of my neighbors saw my note; they shared it with the group that had congregated.

It felt like I was in a fish bowl for the next couple months. My mother forced me to go to therapy, I was medicated of course, and I did feel like a zombie with all the meds they made me take. Chris stayed with me. I was the happiest I’d been in a long time.

I know it sounds stereotypical, the depressed girl tries to commit suicide and her best friend convinces her not to go through with it and her true love finally loves her back. But this is my story, there’s nothing unconventional about it.

My name is Victoria Lawson and this is my remarkably true story.

 

Author's Note

What do you think?

Reviews

[adrenalin_od]

This is very good because of how emotionally in depth it goes. It seems like a real point of view, a real person lived this life. I can relate to it, as I was bullied similarly to this girl... I feel that only someone that was also bullied similarly could've written this.

One of my favorite lines was "Whenever I would come outside he would look at me as if I were a leper, some diseased thing crawling out of my hole."
I also loved, "She had no idea what I was saying, my stutter was intangible, mixed in with sobs and snot bubbles" because of the honesty of it. There are snot bubbles, there is incoherent babbling on your mother's lap, when you get bullied.

But, throughout the story, you'd often use the homophone of the word that you meant to be using. You kept saying "where" instead of "were." "Looser" instead of "loser." "Too" instead of "to." I could still understand what you were saying, but yeah.

Over all, great job!

[ForeverNever]

Had me reading start to finish...it was very insightful...and quite thrilling actually. Reading it, I felt the breath swooped outta me and I was actually entering panic mode almost. With all that said, amazing, keep writing.