I’ve always had a
theory as to why people are afraid of heights.
It starts with the
escalation--the realization that the ground you so dearly trust and rely on to
keep you safely secured is being slowly ripped away from your grasp. You begin
to rise and break painfully free of the precious gravity that was holding you
down. You don’t know where you’re going or if you’ll ever stop, but for some
unspoken reason allow yourself to ascend.
The next part happens
when you reach the top, and… foolishly glance down. There’s a tingle in your
toes and your stomach doubles over as you force yourself to keep away from the
edge; to merely maintain your struggling sense of balance. And yet, it’s not
the height itself that you’re so afraid of.
It’s the fall.
The single drop that
could end your life in a matter of seconds. All you can picture is the feeling
of your body sailing to the ground and the crunch of all your bones breaking at
once as you collide with the surface.
A slip of the hand, a
misplacement of the foot. That’s all it takes for your life to flash before
your very eyes; for your lashes to flutter closed as you prepare yourself for
the unbearable agony that undoubtedly awaits you.
It’s a simple fear,
really--one far too easy to lose yourself in completely.
I was always afraid of
the fall.
Deaven wasn’t.
Maybe that’s why she
jumped.
***
The first time I came
across Deaven Chase was at an unknown point during my sixth grade year. At the
time she was quite intimidating, with short, chin-length black hair and bangs,
a small pair of wired glasses to frame her large brown eyes, and braces that
lined her teeth. She had a great majority of her caramel-colored skin covered
by clothing that was generally dark in shading, and her normal outfit consisted
of a t-shirt and jeans--the same as me.
I suppose we always
had been quite similar, though neither of us ever realized it. We didn’t
exactly know each other, either; our only interactions had happened because of
the mere fact that we possessed mutual friends. She kept to herself, and I kept
to myself.
But then seventh grade
came along, and so did eighth, and each year we were in Spanish class together.
Our conversations began to increase, although their depth wasn’t exactly
something to be proud of. We talked about simple things, like the previous
night’s homework or the current state of the weather. She was too kind, and I
was always cautious around her because I had no clue as to whether or not she
was faking it.
In my ninth grade
year, we had a few classes in common, and it was suddenly as if our minds had
both been opened. It was a scary thing, high school, and to come into daily
contact with another freshman you knew was a rare opportunity, which we quickly
seized.
We murmured grumblings
about our photography class, and shared the nervousness of public
speaking--though she continued to prove that she was much better at it than I.
In Spanish class we exchanged bilingual thoughts and plenty of laughs.
She always did have
the knack for making people chuckle, whether it was in whispers behind Mrs.
Wheetley’s back or when giving an opinion in class discussions of literature.
It was hard not to crack a smile when her medium-pitched, sarcastic, and witty
voice flooded the classroom. She could mesmerize us all with the skill of
changing her tone to mimic anyone’s, and to portray their sentences in an
exaggerated sort of manner.
It was inevitable--everyone
liked Deaven. I never really could figure out why, but maybe it was because she
liked everyone too. Wherever I saw her--school, church events, the library, or
even Target--she was always talking over-animatedly with someone and either
laughing or smiling. She once told me that she looked stupid when she cried; in
turn, I never saw a hint of sadness or anger cross her face. Her joyful persona
was easily another factor that drew us all in.
Now, if there’s one
thing you must know about Deaven Chase, it’s the fact that she had a twin
sister. She and Kara were inseparable, even though they fought frequently over
just about everything. In ninth grade Spanish class, I had to sit in-between
them while they hurled writing utensils at each other and argued over who was
more of a stupid jerk. During our speech class sophomore year, they repeatedly
interrupted one another’s lectures to add in a much unneeded note of what they
tended to call “constructive criticism”, although it was a bit more destructive
than constructive.
Most of the time,
though, they got along well and performed various stunts which only the two of
them alone could pull off. The most memorable of these tricks was
class-switching.
Taking advantage of
the fact that the majority of school staff couldn’t tell them apart, they
swapped hairstyles, sweatshirts, wallets, watches, shoes, and necklaces, and
breezed through the day with only a few good friends noticing their
arrangement.
I took pride in the
fact that by the fall of freshman year, I had no trouble in distinguishing one
from the other. They did look quite similar, with their braces and retainers
long gone and their hair grown out about half a foot over their shoulders, but
there was a certain shape to Kara’s face and smile that made her different. By
the time winter came around, I had learned to recognize their individual voices
as well--Deaven’s was a bit lower and more monotonous, while Kara’s was barely
higher in pitch and slightly nasally.
The two of them
connected in strange ways, which perhaps not even a strand of DNA could
explain. Señor T would be in the middle of an important lesson when they would
randomly turn to each other and laugh at the thought of something they both
just remembered. It was amazing to see the two connect, whether it was Kara
running into the classroom seconds before the bell, with her eyes shining
brightly and a drawing in her hand, which she would eagerly pass to Deaven…
“Hey, Dev,” she’d
pant, “Look what I drew in Art today.”
“Is that Alex?” Deaven
would ask.
Kara would grin
widely. “Yeah.”
“Oh man. Alex is so
cool.”
“I know, right?”
…Or when they would go
off rambling about something that only they knew, ignoring the surprised looks
from our classmates and the facial expressions of the teacher, who watched in
pure disbelief. There was no waiting
to tell each other something; whatever was on the top of one of their heads, she would instantly turn to share with the other.
That’s one of the
reasons why Deaven’s fall was such a shock. Not even her twin, her other half,
could see it coming.
Nobody could, really.
***
I never was truly able
to handle funeral homes well, and Deaven’s was no exception. The walls were
painted a golden shade and jutted out irregularly to form a giant churro. The
ceiling above us was too low, and the rooms were hardly spacious. I could feel claustrophobia
settling in as I took in my not-so-comfortable surroundings and surveyed the
people around me.
It seemed as if
everyone had decided to show up. There were all different ages of students
here, ranging from some seventh graders to a few college freshmen. Practically
all the staff members from our high school and middle school also stopped by to
pay their respects. Looking around, it was easy to tell that Deaven was
well-liked and already dearly missed.
She was probably the
only one who could bring together just about every level of the social hierarchy by
means of her funeral. There were the football players, who until then I thought
only cared about their piggish selves, a fair share of your typical “band geeks”,
a group of girls wearing pounds of makeup and hundreds of dollars’ worth in
designer clothing, and people who were just like me: regular; normal; invisible.
Kara seemed to be the
center of attention, and this caused me to feel terribly sorry for her. She was
practically smothered every passing second by hugs and “It’s gonna be okay”s
and even kisses on her cheek from old ladies. I must admit, she was taking it
all rather well, even being able to smile weakly a few times.
After wandering around
aimlessly for a few minutes, and taking a few sips of miscellaneous beverages
that I discovered on the refreshments table, I finally gathered the courage to
throw away my half-empty cup and make my way up to the casket.
I knelt on the soft
pillows lying in front of the coffin and stared down at Deaven. She wasn’t
dressed up in any sort of fancy attire; the mortician must’ve received a piece
of advice and left her in a simple everyday outfit: her favorite black skinny
jeans, with a wallet and pocket watch chain; a dark Oh, Sleeper t-shirt; and the black hoodie she’d worn since before I
could remember.
They’d done a nice job
of setting her bones, I noted, though you could still see a few uneven shards
sticking out from her wrists that they must’ve been unable to fix. I winced as
memories flooded my mind.
“Tonight
was awesome.”
“Yeah,
definitely.”
Silence--crickets
chirped; grass swayed in the night breeze; the river flowed steadily below us.
My hands were shoved deep into my sweatshirt pockets to keep them toasty, but
hers rested on the railing in front of her.
“Hey,
can I tell you something?”
“Sure.
Anything.”
All I could picture
were those hands, perfect and unbroken, lying carelessly on the metal edge. My
gaze shifted back to their current decrepit state, and I shivered--although I
had been sweltering moments before. After mouthing a silent prayer, I headed
back over to Kara, who for once was not swarmed by hundreds of mourners.
“Hey,” I told her,
tugging awkwardly at the sleeves of my black dress. Dresses weren’t really my
thing; never had been. I preferred the comfort of a snug pair of jeans and an
oversized hoodie, but I figured for Deaven, I could make a few exceptions.
Kara noticed my
discomfort, but didn’t comment on it. “Hey.”
“How’re you holding
up?” I asked, studying her face in genuine concern.
She bit her lip and
forced a small smile, and guilt instantly flooded my being. “I’m… getting
there.” The reply was strained, and I immediately got the feeling that she had
already been pressed enough for one night. A few beats of silence passed
between us.
“That’s good,” was all
I finally said, before I walked away from the funeral home and the Chase twins
for what I thought would be forever.
***
Barney’s Psychiatric
Institution for Teens was indeed named after a purple-and-green dinosaur, and
we all felt that it was our job as the inhabitants to make fun of its history
as much as humanly possible. It was one of the few pleasures we were offered in
the godforsaken place, and, knowing us and our diluted minds, we quickly seized
the said pleasure and thoroughly abused it daily.
It wasn’t actually a
bad place to stay, but we liked to exaggerate upon the fact that the shrinks
were too nice and the meals were too disgusting. Heck, everything was too something--the rooms were too
perfectly organized; the grass outside was too short and green; rules were too
easy to break, and we never got in trouble for breaking them, either.
Well, I shouldn’t get
ahead of myself. I referred to all the residents as “we”, implying that I was, in fact, friends with some of them.
That would be false.
Among other things, my
social anxiety rendered me as an outcast, even there on the Funny Farm. In my
later teenage years I found it increasingly difficult to make friends, and
didn’t do so with much success until the Institution finally arranged for me to
have a roommate.
It was Kara.
We didn’t say much the
first few days; just merely acknowledged one another’s existence. I was almost
positive that she was clueless as to why I was here, but I knew just exactly
why she had come.
One twin couldn’t live
without the other. It was a fact.
Kara was dying, and we
all knew it.
***
My counselor was a
woman by the name of P. R. Martin. Her first name was never revealed to me, so
I took it upon myself to just call her by her full name. She never resisted.
Opening up to people
was never one of my specialties. Opening up to P. R. Martin was even worse. I
had to see her every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and soon learned to hate
the appointments--and her--with a burning passion. She had managed to worm her
way inside my brain and learn a few bits and pieces of my story, but I vowed to
never let her know all of it.
One Wednesday
afternoon, when P. R. Martin was getting to the point of borderline-frustration
at my refusal to answer any of her questions, she decided to send for Kara.
Word had somehow gotten around that the two of us had begun exchanging
conversations on a frequent basis, and she figured that with a friend by my
side, I could perhaps feel a little more encouraged to spill my guts.
In my opinion, Kara
needed the counseling and shrink pep-talks more than I, but P. R. Martin never
seemed to see that. She soon ignored any personal boundaries that had been set
up and started to fire questions at the two of us about Deaven.
“If I knew she was
going to do it; if I could’ve stopped her…,” Kara was saying, when I
interrupted.
“I took her to the
carnival.”
P. R. Martin turned to
look at me, with a face that was too kind. “Carnival?”
“More of a festival,”
I explained. “Corn Fest, to be exact.”
In
my mind, the night couldn’t have been clearer, or more beautiful. The dark blue
sky wasn’t dotted with a single cloud, and the reflection of the full moon on
the Kishwaukee River seemed brighter than it'd ever been. I saw it mirrored in her eyes as
we walked down the path that led to the bridge.
“Tonight
was flipping awesome!” she exclaimed,
grinning in remembrance of all the crazy rides we’d gone on. She began to
describe, for the millionth time, how amazing it felt to see the entire city at
the top of the Ferris wheel, and how her stomach was still doing flip-flops
from The Zipper.
“Yeah,
definitely,” I echoed, smiling at the sight of her excitement.
We
stopped at the bridge and I leaned against one side of the railing, while she
rested her hands on the other and looked out over the river. A nice, comforting
silence followed, only to be peacefully broken by the music-making of various
insects and the water rushing by.
“Hey,”
she said, without turning around, “Can I tell you something?”
I
knew right away that it was important and nodded, even though she couldn’t see
me. “Sure. Anything.”
“To
be honest…” Her eyes drifted over the scenery in front of us. “…I think of you
as one of my closest friends.”
My
heart swelled with something that I couldn’t decipher, and my smile grew
larger. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
She turned back around and grinned, then hoisted herself up so that she was
sitting on the railing. “Thanks for taking me tonight.”
“No
problem.” I laughed, walking over to playfully punch her in the arm. “It was
amazing.”
She
punched me back. “Remember Zero Gravity? Aw, man.” She then found it necessary to describe
yet another ride, in her own little entertaining way, and it ended with both of
us cracking up hysterically.
I
punched her again, and joked about throwing her off the next time. That was
when she started punching me back once more. The two of us then engaged in a
mini-fight, and soon she was struggling to keep her balance on the bridge
railing.
“Sorry,”
I said, noticing that she was close to falling off, and reached out a hand to
try to keep her steady.
“It’s
fine,” she replied, and an oddly serious expression crossed her face as she
stared downwards--and ignored my hand.
“Deaven?”
I asked.
The next few moments
were a blur.
One moment she was there,
the next she was…
Gone.
“Deaven?!”
Looking
down at the water, which was tinged red with her blood, I saw her mangled
corpse lying there, completely motionless.
“DEAVEN!”
I looked over at Kara,
and couldn’t stop the tears from streaming down my cheeks as she stared at me
in complete and utter horror.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered,
my shoulders heaving. Neither P. R. Martin nor Deaven’s sister comforted me;
instead they chose to stare at me in absolute shock. “I’m sorry I couldn’t stop
her.”
I took a deep breath,
stood up from my chair, and barged out the door of the shrink’s room, hoping with
all my might I would never have to see either of them again.
But, deaths and
funerals do happen, and Kara’s was quick to come. As I stared down at her body,
lying peacefully in the casket, I was reminded of Deaven and what could have
been prevented. I now had the deaths of two people on my hands and couldn’t
have felt more apathetic or lifeless myself.
I was always afraid of
the fall.
But now, it’s my turn to
jump.
![[send message]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/mail.png){kind=small}
![[befriend]](https://www.writerscafe.org/images/friend.png){kind=small}
Share This
Email
Facebook
Twitter
Read Request
My Library
Flag Writing
