Dreams of Destruction

A dramatic, depressing short story written in the Fall of 2015 about, you guessed it, depression and its destructive capabilities.

Depression is a deep-rooted thing. It starts out small; just an inconspicuous seed. It escapes your notice for a while. Then you start to experience a persistent feeling of sadness that you can't shake off. You’re full of despair for no apparent reason. You lose interest in everything. Happiness is impossible, and you don’t know why. The feeling slowly intensifies until the weight of it is crushing you. By the time you finally realize it’s there, it’s become a part of you. It's a mental illness. The vicious weed seizes hold of you and strangles you until you can barely breathe. When you rip it out, it takes a piece of you with it. Over and over again, bits of you get detached until you are left numb and unfeeling. The worst part is that you feel completely alone, left to wallow in your own misery. You're like a blind man, trying to feel your way through the suffocating darkness.

I can't remember the last time I saw the light.

I'm currently on the floor of some bar’s bathroom, puking my guts up. White-hot agony is blazing through my stomach. I refuse to give in to the urge to scream; I won't relent. I keep my pain shut tight inside. I let my thoughts wander back over the past nine months that I had previously refused to think about.

***

“Hey, Mom! Mrs. Powers said to tell you ‘hi’!” I called as soon as I came through the front door.

I threw my backpack down, kicked off my cleats, and went to the kitchen to hunt for something to eat.

“Mom!” I called again before I started shoveling food into my mouth.

I was rifling through the cupboard, looking for Oreos, when I heard a loud thump from overhead. I looked up and frowned. My parents’ bedroom was right above. A moment of silence followed. I went back to eating. Another thump sounded, this one more pronounced than before.

“Mom? Dad?” I yelled, starting to get concerned.

I listened hard. I could just make out muffled high-pitch screams and angry bellows. My heart rate accelerated. I left the kitchen and went for the stairs, pausing before I started climbing. With each step, the shouts got louder and clearer. Dad’s voice rang loud and clear by the time I reached the top of the stairs. I hesitated in front of their door.

“You ungrateful, worthless bitch!” Dad was yelling with an edge of hysteria. “After all I've done for you! You're no good! Useless!”

His words were followed by yet another thump that my heart mimicked and Mom screamed. It weaker this time. Almost pitiful.

I pushed the door open and took in the scene before me. Mom was cowering on the floor, panting and shaking with sobs. She looked up when she heard me enter, her face white and her eyes wide with terror and pain. When she lifted her head, I could see nasty bruises developing on her arms and forehead, blossoming across her skin like some sick, blood-red flowers.

Dad was standing over her, glaring down hatefully with his hands clenched into fists. He turned slowly to fix me with a look I would never forget. His eyes were bloodshot, so red they looked maniacal. He had been drinking again. His lips were parted, twisted into a dangerous scowl. He looked absolutely insane.

I stood in the doorway, frozen with shock. Dad had an enormous temper and a drinking problem, but he had never hit Mom before. They had fought with each other for as long as I could remember, but it has never been this bad. A new emotion began to materialize in me...fear. Of my own father. Wound up as tight as a spring, every muscle stood out in his body. He took a stiff, jerky step towards me.

“God damn bastard child!” he spat. “You're nothing but a disgrace and a financial burden! I never wanted you!” He took another drunken step.

“No!” Mom cried, cutting him off. “Robert, please don't!” She pulled herself into a half-sitting position, her supporting arm shaking uncontrollably.

He turned on her again, rage swallowing his features whole. Primal, inhuman rage. A string of profanities spewed from his mouth as he reached for something by the closet door. She cringed away, and I heard her sharp intake of breath.  I wasn't quick enough to react. I blinked, and my mom was gone.

***

A new stabbing pain brings me abruptly back to the present. I gasp then grit my teeth to prevent any more sound from coming out of my mouth. I lean over the toilet again. My stomach is already empty, but I can't stop vomiting. There is a burning feeling simmering deep in the pit of my stomach. Every breath burns in my lungs. The flames spread through the rest of me in waves.

Someone knocks on the bathroom door. I couldn't speak to answer, even if I wanted to. My tongue feels swollen and numb, and every inch of me aches. Just when I feel like I'm about to fall to pieces, I'm done. Physically exhausted, I slump to the floor and wait to die.

***

Eight months ago, standing in Trinity Church Cemetery, I had wished to die, too. I'd rather have been anywhere but there. As the coffin glided by, I stared down at Mom’s blank face. I remembered her empty, unseeing eyes after she’d crumpled to the floor and the flow of blood that came shortly after, rushing to fill the carpet around her. Thick tears streamed silently down my face as the funeral march played. I’d stayed quiet during the proceedings, refusing to share about my mother’s life.

What was I to say? That she had spent her last moments cowering in terror, utterly helpless and defenseless? That my dad was a psychopath who murdered her in front of his own daughter? The last part everyone knew. Dad was locked away for good now. If only that could bring comfort to my tortured, traumatized mind.

Every time I closed my eyes, I couldn't help but picture Mom’s milk-white face covered in bruises. Dad’s half-crazed stare. And most of all, Mom’s crumpled, broken, bleeding figure that I had wanted so badly to put back together. But I couldn't. She was gone forever.

I couldn't get rid of the irrational, irrefutable guilt hanging over my head. I had provoked Dad. I hadn't reacted quickly enough to save Mom. It was all my fault.

I let one more tear slide down my cheek before I turned and walked away, leaving my mom’s cold, lifeless body behind me. I had no parents, no siblings. I only had a few months to lie low until I could legally be on my own. Before my aunt and uncle could come looking from me, I pulled my hood up and disappeared.

***

I'm being drawn and cut into quarters; I'm sure of it. It feels like I'm unraveling and being pulled apart at the seams. I can't move except for the occasional muscle spasm which only brings on more severe pain. I can't stop from moaning now. Someone is at the door again, knocking. Harder and more impatiently.

“Is anyone in there?” a frustrated voice grunts.

I wait for them to leave, writhing in agony on the floor. Suddenly, it feels like a dozen knives are being plunged into my abdomen. My back arches and I can't suppress my strangled scream. It echoes off the bathroom walls. The knives twist and dig deeper. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.

There is a long period of silence in which I can distinctly hear the violent, uneven pitter-patter of my heart.

***

I rolled over in bed, stretching my arms out to the side. I sat up, surprised, when my fingers brushed empty sheets. Still warm. He must have got up only a little while ago. I slipped out from under the covers and went to find him.

He was in the kitchen, still in his pajamas like me. I came up behind him and wrapped my arms around his waist. He froze with his coffee halfway to his lips, standing straight as a board despite my warm embrace.

“Good morning,” I murmured.

“Good morning,” he answered, sounding oddly strained and stiff.

I pulled away to look up at him, frowning. “Are you okay?” I asked.

He nodded, not meeting my eyes. He kept his gaze carefully focused right in front of him.

“Hey, look at me!”

He unwillingly dragged his eyes over to me to fulfill my request.

“What's the matter?”

I waited. If there was one thing I'd learned, it was to know when to expect an incoming bomb. I wasn't quite so experienced with how to survive them.

He sighed and turned to fully face me. “Actually, there is something.” He gnawed his lip nervously.

I crossed my arms over my chest to try to ease the building anticipation I felt.

He took a deep breath. “Don't freak out on me, okay? It's just…me and you (I mentally corrected him to “you and me”), we’re not the same anymore.” He gestured between us as he spoke.

I raised an eyebrow. “How so?” I kept a measured tone.

He seemed reassured with how good I was taking it so far. “In the past couple of months, we've grown apart. We don't have the same connection that we used to. We've lost a lot of the passion that we had originally.”

“Basically what you're saying is...the flame between us has died out?” I tightened my arms against my chest.

“That's exactly what I'm saying.” He struggled to hide his immense relief.

“Is that it?”

I shifted my weight impatiently and watched him carefully to see his reaction. He grimaced slightly, as if I'd asked the exact question he’d hoped I wouldn't ask. He looked both guilty and determined not to answer.

I narrowed my eyes. “Fine. I'll find out for myself.” I already had a hunch.

I left him looking bewilderedly after me as I strode to the bedroom, picked up his phone from the bedside table and returned to him. I watched with savage pleasure as his expression changed from one of confusion to one of panic.

“Wait, what do you think you're doing?” he cried.

“Reading your texts,” I answered casually. “Surely you have nothing to hide from me?”

He did nothing to stop me but looked anxious as I scrolled through his recent texts.

“You've been texting my best friend?” I asked, puzzled.

Then everything became clear. I gasped. He made no reply. He already knew what I was reacting to.

I took a moment to compose myself. “Wow. Her? Really?”

He looked pained and extremely uncomfortable. “I-”

“Save it,” I hissed.

He could only stare back like a deer caught in the headlights, obviously displeased with this sudden turn of events.

“How long has this been going on?” I asked him in a calm but clipped voice.

Without realizing it, I had put a foot of distance between us. We both had tense, guarded stances. I set my jaw.

“Not that long…” He was such a bad liar. His eye twitched when he lied.

“It’s been at least a few months, hasn't it?”

He flinched at my tone. Before he could say anything more, I spun around and returned to our bedroom. I threw my belongings into my bag in a frenzy. I tore through the bathroom, snatching everything in sight. His razors? His shaving cream? Yes, thank you. I swung my bag over my shoulder and stormed past where he was still standing in the kitchen. I filled up on his favorite snacks that he would no longer be needing then headed for the door.

“Hey, wait!” he called. “I'm sorry.” Please.

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“I-”

I whipped around to face him. “You had better not say you're sorry one more time. How can you possibly be sorry? I've always been faithful to you. You’re the dick who cheated on me with my best friend and broke my heart!”

I rushed out the door without another word and slammed it as hard as I could in his stunned face. Over the threshold now, I stopped, and the full reality of the situation crashed down on me. I just broke up with my boyfriend of two years, whom I loved. He'd stuck with me through my mom’s death and dad’s imprisonment and been a major source of comfort and support.

But now, he didn't care about me enough to tell me he didn't want to be with me anymore before he started seeing someone. My best friend of all people! I got as far as the lobby before I collapsed on a couch. I didn't even care how I must look to the man at the desk, with my bed head and pajamas, bawling like a baby. Misery took hold of me, dragging me deeper and deeper into its clutches. I struggled to fight it for a second before I gave up and let it pull me under. I never resurfaced.

***

The only thing I can think is, I can't remember where I am. What am I doing here? Why am I lying on hard, tiled floor? Why can't I sit up? I’m not left wondering long before the seizures start. My eyes roll back into my head of their own accord, blinding me. My muscles jerk and twitch. I'm unable to do anything or control myself. I keep blacking out. A face swims into view. I grab desperately at the memory as I gladly slip back into unconsciousness and the pain fades away.

***

“Hey,” I said in a shaky voice.

“Oh God, you sound awful! Are you alright?” my best friend asked.

“I've been crying. A lot,” I admitted, trying to steady the phone against my ear.

“What’s going on?”

“You already know, though, don't you?”

She paused as she processed my new hostile tone. “What're you talking about?”

“You know full well.”

She was still stalling.

“It has something to do with my ex-boyfriend...and you,” I said icily.

There was shocked silence.“I-I’m…not sure what to say. I meant to tell you. I really did. We both did…”

“That’s a pathetic excuse,” I whispered. Then, louder now, I went on. “You always had your sights set on him, even before we started dating. It wasn't enough that I got him, oh no. You just had to get him too!”

“Listen, you have to understand! We didn't mean for it to happen. We tried to fight the attraction for a while, but one night while you were away…” She trailed off. “We didn't mean to hurt you. You know that, right?”

I could envision her expression: one of desperation. I'm sure mine was emboldened by fury and hurt. Suddenly, my face smoothed out and hardened into a mask. I turned into rock. I was emotionless. I was impenetrable.

“I can't believe you could ever do something like this to me. I thought we were best friends. I thought we could trust each other,” I said in a hard voice. I continued speaking over her feeble protests. “I never want to see you again. Don't talk to me, don't contact me.”

“Y-you don't want to be friends anymore?”

I laughed, short and harsh. “Cheating on your best friend with her boyfriend is kind of the ultimate betrayal, don't you think?”

She tried yet again to make some sort of defense, but I cut her off.

“I hate you,” I spit, my voice venomous. Then I hung up. I felt no remorse. I didn't know her anymore.

***

The seizures have passed, as have the vomiting, the dizziness, and the nausea. I’m not blacking out anymore, but I lay on the floor in a barely conscious state. My ears are ringing, my head is throbbing, and my pulse is weakening, but otherwise I don’t feel anything. I’m entirely painless.

I can hear some sort of commotion. Lots of voices, clamoring from my attention. The sound ricochets off my skull, making the worst racket. I try to move my hands to cover my ears and find that I’m able to. Strange… I seem to be getting better rather than worse. I sit up, and the voices and various other sounds slide into focus along with my vision.

Suddenly, I can hear multiple people at the bathroom door, shouting.

“Someone’s in there! Unlock the door!”

“They’re hurt! Get them out!”

Someone bangs on the door really loudly.

“Hello! Can you hear me? If you’re able to, unlock the door!”

A moment of silence follows as they wait for a response. They aren’t going to get one. More fighting and attempts to get in continue.

I smile blissfully. I haven’t felt this good for, well, nine or so months. Before all hell broke loose. I feel strangely good. Happy!

I find that I’m able to sit up, so I do. After a few minutes, I pull myself up with the edge of the sink. Then I look in the mirror, and instantly my momentary high vanishes, like a dream gone up in smoke.

The reflection staring back at me can’t be real. She looks like something out of a nightmare. Gaunt and starved-looking. I hadn’t realized I’d lost so much weight. My sallow, papery skin hangs off my bony frame. I lost all my curves; look at that flat chest! You can just barely see the scars that creep out from under my shirt sleeves. They criss-cross in a beautiful, continual pattern all the way up my arms. I stare at the harsh, angular contours of my body and wince when I take in my gaunt face. My big, brown eyes are as bloodshot as a Basset Hound’s and they pop out of their sockets in a creepy, unnatural way that makes the rest of my sunken face seem even worse. I look like the Corpse Bride.

I’m filled with anguish when I remember why I let myself waste away like this, the reason I even locked myself in this bar’s bathroom in the first place.

I’m still not feeling any pain, which makes me relieved. But if I'm being honest, the numbness scares me worst of all.

***

About a month after my boyfriend and I broke up, I started to lose myself. To depression, to drugs, to self-harm, to everything. I starved myself all for the savage pleasure of feeling helpless and weak. I relished the feeling so much that eventually I stopped eating altogether. I refused to give in to my desperate cravings for food.

A part of me knew something was wrong with me. I knew that I should get help. But I didn’t even stop to consider it. I was too stubborn. There were lots of things I should’ve done that I didn’t. I should’ve gotten counseling long before Dad even killed Mom. Shame combined with my unbudgeable pride prevented me from seeking it even after I was orphaned.

Then there were all the things I never should’ve done. I shouldn’t have run away. I couldn’t say I regretted breaking ties with my ex and best friend, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

My heart was gouged out the day I saw my mom die in front of me. I was left with a hole in my chest that couldn’t be filled. I certainly tried to fill it with other things, but nothing lasted. My temporary replacements only dragged me further and further down my tunnel of despair and depression. I would cry until I couldn’t breathe and would end up having a panic attack. Sometimes, days would go by before I could force myself out of bed.

My life was utterly hopeless, joyless, and meaningless. I began to dream of my own destruction. If I didn't detonate, I was sure to explode and take out everything in my path. Once I came to that conclusion, I decided to act on it.

***

I should’ve known the worst was yet to come.

My body contracts and shakes as the waves of pain roll over me. I can’t even scream because my throat is squeezed shut tight, cutting off the flow of oxygen. My arms jerk up with the next spasm and I see that my hands are turning blue. My hands. I can only imagine what my face looks like. My brain is expanding by the second; the pressure is pushing against my skull. My head is going to explode. My heart is now racing so fast in my chest that it feels like a caged bird trying to break free.

Every cell, every nerve, every bone in my body is on fire. I can feel the heat coursing through my veins. Everything that it touches bursts into flame, until I'm swallowed whole by my own personal inferno.

I’m sitting on the ground, hunched in a ball, tears pouring down my face. They’re my silent plea for all this to end.

“Please, please, please, let it all be over,” I cry inwardly.

The pain amounts to suffering that becomes too much to bear. I collapse, and my airways seal shut completely, except for one tiny stream of air that forces its way through to get to my lungs.

The consistent banging on the door is becoming more and more violent. I think I can hear police now.

I let my eyes slide shut. I focus on that tiny stream of air, the last bit of life in me, blocking out my emotional and physical torment. The last of my fight leaves me. The trickle of air wanes until it is finally cut off. Slowly, consciously, each system in my body shuts down, like a series of switches are being flipped off.

My mind is all that’s left of me now. I can feel myself slipping off the edge. I think of all my loved ones, and I feel no pain. At last. I fall forward into the abyss, arms wide to greet death as my long-awaited, elusive friend.

***

On August 21st, 2015, police discovered 19-year-old Daniela Blanchet on the bathroom floor of local bar Lee Harvey’s. She was pronounced dead at the scene from cocaine overdose, and police ruled it as suicide. Bradley Jansen alerted others and then the police when he heard screaming coming from the locked bathroom.

“We couldn't get in. The bartender couldn't find the key. I called the police and they arrived within minutes, but they were too late. We might've been able to save her if we could've gotten the door open sooner,” he said in his statement.

Ms. Blanchet had been reported missing for eight months prior to her suicide by her aunt and uncle when they discovered she had disappeared from her mother’s funeral. Nine months ago, her mother, Erin Blanchet, was shot and killed by her husband and Ms. Blanchet's father. Vernon Blanchet is now serving several life sentences on charges including drug possession and use, domestic violence, aggravated assault, and second-degree murder.

A former friend of hers, Lori Davis, said, “She wasn't the same after she lost both of her parents. After we stopped being friends and she broke up with her boyfriend, she isolated herself. She had no one to help her deal with what she was going through. It should've been me. I should've been a better friend to her.”

Lee Harvey's owner, 36-year-old Allen Cohl, is currently facing charges of his own for not being up to code.

Authorities hope this case will inspire people to be aware of symptoms of depression and suicidal tendencies in others to prevent more tragedies of this kind. If you're feeling suicidal, you can contact the National Suicide Hotline at 1-800-273-8255.

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