Slasher

A young teen-aged girl with borderline personality disorder wonders why the world around her seems to be falling. As she cuts herself to feel 'alive' and 'in control' of her own thing, she succeed

SLASHER

 

Tears rolled down her flushed cheeks. Her hands, cold and numb, clenched themselves to a fist, to try and make her body stop from shaking. At that particular moment, it started to rain, and a rather convenient timing at that, for rain immediately mingles with all those salty tears you cry and hides them cleverly, when you don’t want them to be witnessed.

 

This was not the first time that Lúthien Mae cried, but it was definitely the first time she desperately wanted to be seen.

 

Back at ‘The Ripe Pudding’, Mark Ford and Lita Henley were sitting in front of an untouched five-course French dinner, clearly waiting for someone.  

   “I swear to you Mark, if Lúthien and Kneller show up any later, I’ll kill ‘em,” said Lita.

   “Oh don’t worry, they will,” laughed the fair haired seventeen year old, “And f**k that. I’ll make sure Devon Kneller’s so impotent that she thinks twice before marrying him.”

   “You know that’s not going to make a difference to her,” said Lita, “I love the fact that they’re together. I mean, you know how sensitive Lúthien is, and Devon always brings her back to life when she’s groveling in the depths of depression. He’s just… too good for her. I don’t understand why she has to be so complicated with him that’s all- just as I don’t understand why I’m having dinner with you.”

    “Let’s just be happy that we’re not having sex.”

   “Yes,” said Lita, “That.”

 

 

 

 

Mark walked Lita home and caught a cab to make it make to the bar at ‘The Ripe Pudding’. It was long after midnight, and he felt the need for a drink before he could make it back home. It was a sort of preparation for the reprimanding that the near future had in store for him.

 

   “You shouldn’t booze or f*g,” she had said, sitting on the chair opposite to him in the pub.

   “Why, ‘cause it’s suicide?” he mocked.

   “Homicide,” she narrowed her eyes.

   “It’s just some good ol’ booze, it ain’t like I’m killing myself, Looth!”

   She simply picked up the double shot of tequila and poured it down his shirt and said, “Call me ‘Looth’ and I will.”

 

He laughed at the thought of this particular memory. He despised her. Her confusion, paranoia, obsessive compulsiveness, her distrust in everyone she knew and the fact that she wanted to marry Devon Kneller on her eighteenth birthday, was just bullshit. He hated her attitude chucking behaviour, her bizarre obsessions with emo rock, Valhalla and the colour black one day and how she would suddenly change into a serene, beautiful angel in a white night dress, sans eccentricity, sans attitude and sans make-up. She was a complete loony-bird, always dressed to impress, wanting to be the centre of attention, silently screaming for praise and attention, running in and out of relationships with people she never loved and the next day, claiming to be lesbian. Indeed, he hated Lúthien Mae. But he missed her. He missed her very, very much.

 

The doorbell at 17, St. Abel’s Road rang twice. Eighteen year old Lancelot Xavorin stopped the music and went to the kitchen to grab some beer. He opened the refrigerator and frowned. The doorbell rang again.

   “You can f**k yourself, but I ain’t opening till I’m done,” he screamed.

 

He pulled out the cork and drank half down as he walked to the door and opened it. The bottle banged and crashed down on the floor, breaking into a hundred pieces. Lancelot found himself shuddering where he stood. The body of a familiar sixteen year old had fallen into his arms.

 

 

When someone commits a crime unto themselves and endures, one must realize something. There is always a reason- a reason why they attempted it in the first place, a reason why they want to see their nearest and dearest ones if they survived… and a reason, why they lived to tell the tale.

 

Lúthien Mae lay bleeding profusely. She was in her senses but too weak to move, or speak. Lancelot bent down to examine her wounds. Being a medical student, he immediately evaluated the four deep cuts that ran down her veins, dripping with blood. Attempted suicide. And this was not the first time. Something clearly had to be done. Intervention was imperative.

 

 The last thing Lúthien remembered was being carried by Lancelot, her brother, to his room And it was there, that he made the phone call.

 

She awoke the next morning in hospital. Gradually picking up her hand, she saw her wounds, the big ugly stitches had ravaged her angelic hands, and she felt like tearing them apart and killing herself. She would be scarred for life.

 

But that was not her greatest disappointment. Her greatest dismay, was that there she was again, in a room, all alone, white walls surrounding all four sides of her, blocking the world out, and keeping the world from coming to her.

 

She had heard that Mark would be visiting his friend Mariah in Texas, so he wouldn’t be there for a week. Even if he was, he’d probably never want to see her- she had promised him, that she’d never do it again. But she asked him not to buy her promises, because there were none that she would ever keep.

 

Inside the room, breathed Lúthien and a single white tulip that must have been left by Lancelot, because she realized that it was from his garden. Just when she needed someone more than ever, there was not a soul in sight- no Lancelot, no Lita, no Abe, none of her friends in school…no, not even her own parents…and that is what hurt the most.

 

 

   “Slasher!” cried one of the school girls, “Hey look, Courtney! Slasher’s back in school!”

   “How many slashes tonight, slasher?” they ridiculed her.

   “Avoid and ignore,” said Lita, “Remember Lúthien, avoid and ignore. They’re all freaks.”

   “They’re not,” said Lúthien, “They’re right. I am a filthy slasher.”

   “No you’re NOT,” cried Lita, “You still didn’t tell me what the ‘shrink’ told you.”

   “Never mind what she said.”

   “Why don’t you want to tell me?”

   “Just because, Lita. Now let’s get to class.”

 

The bell rang and everyone took their seats in class. The teacher was absent in school, so everyone was having their own sweet time, chatting, chattering and gossiping.

 

Gwyneth Ares stood up and cried, “Hey Slasher! So what’s your band gonna play now, emo rock?”

   The class burst into wild laughter.

   “Where’s the kohl and the emo-punk t-shirt, you emo creep?”

   Lúthien kept quiet. She looked down at the book she was reading and never said a word.

Avoid and ignore. They’re all freaks.

    “Oh look, aww… Slasher’s gone under depression! Everybody hail the Slasher!”

    “Shut up, Gwyneth!” shot Mark.

    “Slasher’s going to do anything for attention.”

    “I SAID SHUT UP!”

    “Mark Ford? Looks like Slasher’s done a good job at attracting the sympathy of all the teachers, everyone in school and the boys too!”

    “Shut your mouth Gwyneth ‘Fairies’, or I’ll shut it up for you.”

    “Don’t you understand, Mark, sweetie? Now that’s she’s done her attention seeking, she’ll perhaps get some more marks in Math, get back to the ‘popular group’ in school and get a few new boyfriends! Like you! So you should be happy!”

  

   Lúthien’s eyes filled up with tears. Devon sitting behind her looked straight at her. She could feel his gaze like a gunshot through her forehead.

   “She’s a wretched and pathetic girlfriend anyway.”

 

   Everybody turned to look at them. Nobody believed what they had just heard. Some people started to hoot. Not being able to handle it any longer, Lúthien quickly got up, picked her bag up and ran out of the room.

 

   “Mark and Lita stared at Devon, astounded. “Dude,” said Mark, “What’s with the freaking attitude, man? Is this what you give back to your girlfriend when she’s in deep crap?”

   “Don’t you know why we missed dinner with you and Lita that night, Ford?” laughed Devon, “I’m dating Victoria Tyler now. I dumped Lúthien Mae one week ago.”

 

 

Moonlight shone on the cobble stoned pathway leading to St. Abel’s park. Mark had searched everywhere, but Lúthien Mae seemed to have vanished in thin air. Her parents were thankfully not in the continent, for they were at a doctor’s conference in Moscow, and they would be staying there for the next two days, so the danger of parents getting to know about the episode at all was overruled. The only danger left was the very streets of the city, teeming with gangsters, thieves, possible rapists, and brothel owners. Mark was anxious- very, very anxious.

 

All this while, Lúthien was sitting in the wine cellar of their backyard storeroom.  That was the place she always used to go to when she felt alone, or scared, or just when she needed to be away from all other eyes peering at her. That was the place where she wrote her first love letter to Devon, and that was the place where she was blinded by her own tears, on the day he humiliated her in front of a hall full of people, and held her responsible for cheating on him, when he was the adulterous one who captivated her, and used her through and through. Sometimes, it is not the fact that someone cheats on you that devastates you, but it is the knowledge of the fact that he never loved you at all. He never loved you from the very beginning, and all the flying red skies, the scent of roses and home baked cakes, were all in vain.

 

Lúthien sat and pondered. She was never like this before. She always self assessed herself and found herself to be an extremely optimistic, happy-go-lucky, passionate person, who was lucky enough to have a hundred dreams and aspirations, and the talent to make them come true. She had always been popular in school, and she was beautiful- extremely beautiful. Her beauty was both ethereal and breathtaking �" a dream in motion, and poetry personified.

 

The event that followed thereafter was impetuous and horror striking. The common person would find this to be a rather strange, and dim-witted attempt to make things right. The mistake that they make, is that every person loves his or her own self more than anyone else. No matter how much you say, that you love your best friend more, or your spouse, or your sibling, every person loves his or herself first and the rest follow, because if you cannot love yourself, you cannot love the world. Taking one’s own life is more a matter of deep thought and sheer bravery, than cowardice and incompetence. But there is a catch. People who attempt suicide try to get away from a life situation that seems impossible to deal with, and most often, these attempts are impulsive and irreversible.

 

   Lita’s phone rang. She was at the ‘Ripe Pudding’ with Lancelot, drinking and hoping it helps lessen her worries. Mark had promised to come back before midnight, with or without Lúthien. It was past one, and there was no sign of him.

 

   “Answer your phone,” said Lancelot, “And don’t look so drunk, you’ve only gulped down a peg.”

“I won’t answer it if you tell me I’m not looking drunk,” said Lita.

“Fine, you’re looking like Woody Allen after a booze competition, now pick up your phone.”

“Golly,” said Lita taking out her cell phone, “Wonder why you’re so worked up about my phone!”

 “Just hoping,” said Lancelot, “NOW ANSWER IT!”

 

Lita pressed the little green button and said, “Hello?”

“LITA!” wailed a voice from the other line.

“Looth? Is that you? Oh heavens, where are you?”

“Wine cellar,” said Lúthien, “I… I’ve gulped down eight tablets of Clonazepam! I…. I think I’m dying! I made such a big mistake, Lita. I MADE SUCH A BIG MISTAKE!”

“What the hell are you talking about!” cried Lita getting up.

“I think I’m dying, Lita!” cried Lúthien, “But … I don’t want to!”

 

 

 

Clonazepam. Part of a group of drugs called benzodiazepines. It affects chemicals in your brain that may become unbalanced and cause seizures or symptoms of panic disorder. The symptoms of a clonazepam overdose vary, but can include slow reflexes, confusion, drowsiness, and possible coma. People who have underlying depression must be closely monitored while taking clonazepam, especially if they are at risk for suicide.

 

“I needed a miracle, Lita!” cried Lúthien, “All I needed was a miracle! Just one! To make me want to live! But now, that I’m as good as dead, there’s no going back. I will never see a miracle.”

 

One might say that Lúthien made her biggest mistake that moonlit night, when she took an overdose of the drug, to finish it off, once and for all. Everything would be very different after she’d pass away. Her parents would regret not having her checked up for borderline personality disorder, which the psychiatrist said was a possibility, and needed diagnosis. Lancelot would, in simple words, miss his sister more than a real brother would miss his own- he was not related to Lúthien in any way, they were what we’d call ‘family beyond blood’, but she was more a sister to him than Athena was to Ares, or Artemis was to Apollo. Lita would blame herself for the rest of her life, for not being able to fully understand Lúthien, and for answering that phone call so late. The students at St. Abel’s High would mourn her death, and Gwyneth Ares would probably be haunted by her spirit. And as for Mark, well, we can all use our own imagination.

 

But all that was not to happen. After Lúthien’s hospitalization and treatment, she survived. She got better. There was only one difference between the time she was first hospitalized and her second hospitalization- she was happy this time. She was genuinely happy to live.

 

As an ending note, I guess it’s safe to say, that laugh as much as you breathe and love as long as you live. Nobody can go back and start a new beginning, but anyone can start today and make a new ending. When one door of happiness closes, another opens; But often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened for us. Life is full of unparalleled beauty, it is only up to us, to make sure we do not miss anything out.

 

When she closed her eyes again, Lúthien saw it. The miracle.

 

Lúthien got back to normal life in three weeks’ time. Devon was ‘proved guilty’ after he cheated on Victoria and he confessed to everybody of what he did to Lúthien. Lancelot went back to irritating and teasing his sister, and spending many a happy evenings playing videogames and teaching her all the wrong things. Lita and Mark remained Lúthien’s best friends. Mark fell in love with Tyla Amnesty, and Lita married Lancelot two years later, and moved to Boston. Lúthien continued living with her parents, and then went to Harvard for college, where she studied and taught Art History and English Literature for the next ten years. Every Sunday afternoon, she visited her brother’s at Little Litton Road, where she played with Lita’s children Emily and Victor. Life was never better. 

 

The miracle is not to fly in the air, or to walk on the water, but to walk on the earth.

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

No weakness in this story. A lot of sadness. I was hooked from the first paragraph. People can be cold hearten. Many types of illnesses in this world. I like your detail and description in the story. You create a situation that was sad and told a powerful story. A outstanding story. Thank you.
Coyote