Guilt Ain't Got A Name

A girl whose mother is an abusive alcoholic and whose best friend has just killed herself contemplates suicide

Guilt Ain’t Got a Name

 

Darkness…

Shadows…

Fading…

Falling…

Gasp…

 

I wake in a heat. My breathing is quick and uneven. I hear my heart thumping in my chest. In the dark, I scramble for my inhaler on my bedside table. I find it.

*Huff*

 My breathing evens, my heart slows, and I lay my head back down on my pillow. I glance over at my clock. The two, colon, zero, eight on the screen is disconcerting. It wasn’t always like this. I didn’t always have these vague nightmares waking me up at all hours of the night. But ever since Heather, my best friend, committed suicide four weeks ago they have been coming every night. Always hard to make out but frightening enough to make me feel as if something were festering inside of me.

I close my eyes but cannot sleep. I sit back up and look at the clock again; 2:09. I stare at it, for what feels like a long time, until it says 2:10. I sigh.

“I will never get to sleep this way,” I say to myself.

I roll off the bed and look at the clock one last time; still 2:10. I turn around and now it’s 2:11.

The living room of the “grand ole’ house” is dull and dreary, complimenting the rest of the house. It is quiet. My mother is out of town and has left me, 17 year old Anna Belle Wilson, alone so she can go drink cocktails and party in Brazil and it is okay because I’m old enough and can feed myself.

I know, it sounds bad, but I’m used to it. I’m used to her leaving and not returning until a few days later. I’m used to her coming home wasted at three in the morning. I’m used to cleaning up her vomit when I wake up. I’m used to her bringing home new toys or jewelry, reluctant to tell me of its origin. I’m used to every time she sees me in the morning when the mess is gone, me waiting for a simple thank you, her only giving me a slap in response.

“This house looks like s**t,” she would say, “I go out every day to put a roof over your head and in return you leave my gift in shambles! You don’t deserve it! You self centered b***h!”

What do I say?

“I’m sorry mom. I-I’ll do better. I promise.”

Then she disappears and I walk to school even though it is 6 miles away and she could drive me if she wanted.

I think about all of this as I sit on the couch that smells faintly of marijuana. And as I think of this my mind wanders to Heather. She was the one who took me away from it all. I remember what she said when we first met. The night before mom had come to my room, bottle in hand, and bruised my hip, humerus, and collar bone. I was sure the t-shirt I wore would cover it up but she bumped into me in the hallway as I was walking to the restroom. Neither one of us was paying attention. When she hit me pain shot through my chest.

“Are you alright,” she gasped when I squealed with pain.

“I-I’m fine,” I had said.

“You don’t sound fine,” she retorted, “Let me take a look at that.”

“You don’t-,” I tried to protest but she was already dragging me into the bathroom and she had a strong grip. She pushed down the collar of the shirt and there blatantly seen was the only gift I ever got from mother dearest.

“Oh my God,” she had said.

“It’s okay,” I had reassured.

“How did this happen,” she intruded.

My answer was the choice I made to create an ally, a friend.

My mom…” I started.

“Shhh,” she hushed me, “Say no more.”

Then she hugged me ever so gently and I began to cry. At first it was just whimpers and then they turned into sobs.

“Have you told anyone?” she asked.

“No,” I told her, “Please, you don’t tell anyone either.”

“Why do you want to keep it a secret,” she asked, “it’s not right.”

“I love her,” I said, “no matter how painful it is she’s my mother and she needs someone to take care of her.”

“Okay,” she said, “I understand.”

“How could you understand?”

“You’re right; I don’t understand you’re pain. But, I do understand why you wouldn’t want to tell anyone.”

I looked at her and she looked back. She smiled and helped me up off of the floor.

“Would you’re mom notice if you didn’t come home,” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“Come home with me,” she offered, “my mom won’t mind as long as I have permission to explain to her why…”

“Okay,” I said.

“What’s your name?”

“Call me Annie.”

“I’m Heather, nice to meet you.”

We walked out and went to our separate classes and I smiled. This was the first kind gesture anyone had ever given me. She was my mother, my real mother. I loved her and I still do. She was everything to me. She made me whole. She listened to me when I spoke of my mom’s alcoholic fits. Not once did she threaten to tell the police.  Not once did she say I was crazy for not telling them myself. With her, my fears faded away and I could talk with her about anything.

It’s all gone now, the comfort, the love, the sincerity. All of it is gone along with her and there’s nothing I can do about it. Why? Why did she have to leave me all alone to fend for myself? Could I have stopped her? The guilt grew as a lump in my throat. Was I the reason she was gone? Could she not take it anymore? A peek into my life was just too much for her. What was she thinking before she pulled the trigger? Her parents told me the suicide note just said “Good bye Annie, I love you.” But, if she loved me why did she kill herself?

Contemplating this; my mind begins to wander to the revolver in my mother’s drawer. No Annie, don’t think that way. But it was so tempting. If she said she loved me in this life, who’s to say she wouldn’t love me in the afterlife. Throughout my life I have always thought I would be better off dead and now with Heather gone I had something to die for. But, a revolver. Way too cliché! I want to die more cleanly. That’s when I think of it. The roof!

I climb up to my mom’s bedroom and go out onto the balcony. From there I climb up to the roof. I sit down; dangling my feet off of the edge. It is 50 feet down to the concrete which looked so inviting. Don’t do it. One voice tells me. It’s the only way out of this misery. Says another, and then I think, what would Heather do?

“Jump,” I say, “just as thoughtlessly as she pulled the trigger.”

Then I think of mom. What would happen when she found me? Would she be devastated? Would she drink herself to death? I couldn’t let that happen to her. Then I think of Heather’s suicide note. I go to her desk drawer, find some blank paper and write her a long and drawn out goodbye note.

“Finished,” I murmur and go back out onto the roof.

I look down at the dark concrete and put the note in my pocket.

“This is it,” I say.

“Where ever you are Heather,” I look up at the sky, “I’ll see you soon.”

I linger on the edge of the roof and smile. Then close my eyes and slowly slip my feet of and drift through the wind like a bird down to the surprisingly soft concrete. As I fall, I remember the nightmares and think maybe they weren’t nightmares at all. Maybe they were just my destiny.

 

 

May 14, 2011

The last Will and Testament of Anna Belle Wilson:

I write to you from beyond the grave reassuring you all that where I am now is much happier than my living status. I killed myself to be with the one I love the most, Heather Turner. I believe it is my right and destiny to be with her and now I am. I am not ashamed that I took my life and you should not feel guilty for my doing. I would like to speak directly to my mother. I know it will be hard with me gone but I would like you to invest in counseling for your alcoholism. If not for yourself, do it for me. It is the only thing I ask of you. I want you to be safe and most of all, happy. It’s not your fault I’m gone and I never want you to think that, and I want you to have just as much fun without me there. I am not angry that you hit me or yelled at me and in fact I forgive you for it all. I leave you with no harsh feelings or resentment. You are a wonderful person and you know that and I know so don’t you forget it. One last thing, in my room underneath the mattress is a suitcase containing $3,000. Don’t ask me how I got I, but I reassure you it was legally. I want you to have it all. It should provide for you until you can get a real job. Oh, and see a woman named Charlotte Turner and all of your criminal records will be cleared. Her number is at the bottom. I love you and I will miss you all.

Goodbye,

Annie

1-770-562-3497

Author's Note

What are your feelings on the ending? What do you think of the plot? The conflict?

Reviews

[The Poetic Infusion Soc..]

Wow, this is such a moving plot and sad too but I was really drawn in. My feelings of the ending when Annie committed suicide were at first disbelieving because i thought Annie might just change her mind or something but then I realized this is more like real life...you made it more realistic. :) There are some good ideas put together in the story.
The way the character felt about her mother was touching.
Overall I think the plot has a good structure and a good technique of the sequence of events unfolding.
:) -