I never should’ve woken up. As my eyes slowly opened and harsh white lights bombarded my retinas, my first thought was that I’d done it. I was free. But as my head began to pound like a drum line against my skull and I felt the embrace of cold linoleum, I realized that something had gone horribly wrong.
Grasping at the sides of the bathtub, my fingers caught hold of some sticky substance as they fumbled around at its slick fringes. My eyes opened further, vision blurry at first but slowly clearing to reveal the scene from what had to have been some sort of nightmare.
It had to be a mistake. I couldn’t be alive. Maybe the gun had misfired. Maybe a momentary reflex at the last second had jerked away my fingers, altered the trajectory just enough. A fleeting moment of regret that had spared my miserable existence. But through the spots in my vision I knew I couldn’t have missed.
I was lying in a pool of warm red liquid, gooey and coagulated into a sticky, gelatinous substance. The walls of the shower were splattered with the stuff that looked like ketchup with chunks of cabbage sticking to the walls. I had seen such scenes in horror movies, I had long envied the victims in such films. Their suffering was long over, their faces looking so peaceful in death. It took me awhile, however, to fully process what had happened.
The strange red stuff was blood. The chunks that stuck to the shower walls and curtain were bits and pieces of my skull, my brain. Even now I could feel a trickle of blood dribbling down the sides of my head and here the soft dripping as it joined its brethren on the floor of the bathtub. It was as fascinating as it was horrific, like dissecting a frog in class. Seeing the insides come out. The weirdest part was that this time it was me.
Part of me wanted to reach up with blood soaked fingers and claw out the rest of it. Cast out the rotten, horrid thing that had gotten me into this whole mess. It felt foreign, like a germ that needed to be removed. It was why I was so miserable. It was why I’d done this in the first place.
My childhood wasn’t a particularly tragic one, though that might have been better in the end. My parents were strict but never abusive, and people had always been friendly to me. I could never tell though if they were genuine or masks people put on to try and make me feel better. I was always included in groups in school, though I had few genuine friends. I’d always known I was autistic, and everybody had acted like it was completely normal. At least I thought it was normal. I was a good kid who just needed a little help here and there, right?
That all changed when I came home from another dismal day at my crummy retail job and by happenstance I saw my formal diagnosis sitting on the living room counter. I had a routine doctor’s appointment the next day so mom probably put it out to not forget about it. It was mostly doctor speak and scientific jargon but I could understand enough to realize the truth.
The document had tried to be nice. It used language like “struggles in social environments” and “recommends special accommodation” but I could see through the pity-laced pretenses. My whole life had been a lie. All my accomplishments were fake. I’ve been a burden on my family and friends my whole life. I won’t strap you down with the details but it all made sense when I read it. I think I’d always suspected but never realized how deep the rabbit hole went until that day. It was that day I decided the world would be better off without me.
Grunting, I lifted myself out of the bathtub, muscles aching and struggling to find footholds on the slippery surface of the tub. My head was buzzing as if someone set off a beehive and spots flashed in my vision. I felt like I would faint at any moment. Perhaps that would have been better. But something drove me forwards, lifting a shaking leg over and out of the blood-stained tub and onto the cold tile.
As I stood up to full height my arms and legs were trembling, and I immediately felt dizzy. Looking back I saw my uncle’s prized .22 handgun balanced delicately against the shower wall, barrel soaked with blood and brain matter. A lump arose in my chest, I knew my Uncle would yell at me if he’d known I’d sullied his prize handgun. It was his favorite possession and he made no secret about where he kept it. Right by his bedside where he could grab it if someone broke in. He would spend hours polishing it, cleaning it, making sure it was ready for use. He would flip out if he saw any stains on it.
I knew Mom wouldn’t be happy either. The whole bathroom was a mess, I bet she’d make me clean it up. The shower curtains had been stained with blood, the bright flowers that dotted the fabric seemed to have lost their luster. It was as if the whole bathroom had taken on a duller, more morbid shade. Wavering with each step, I stumbled over to the mirror where I took my first good look at myself.
I knew I hadn’t missed. I could see the holes despite being matted down with blood-soaked hair. The right side of my face appeared to have blown away from the shot, nothing more than a gooey mass of red. Every now and then some fresh blood with sputter out like a leaky spigot and drip to the floor. My favorite cat t-shirt was ruined. My hands and arms looked like they had marinated in a vat of red dye.
I stared blankly for some time, unsure of what to make of myself. Strangely I didn’t feel much pain. My head was buzzing and throbbing, but it was far from the worst headache I’ve experienced. Maybe I was dead already and this was hell.
I was mostly worried about the mess. Would I get in trouble if Mom caught me? I definitely would if my Uncle realized I’d used the gun. I’d probably have to clean this mess up at least. At least it seemed like they weren’t home yet.
Slowly I shuffled out of the bathroom, head spinning as I entered the hallway heading towards the kitchen. Towels. I need towels. Paper towels were in the kitchen, right? Stumbling, I leaned my hand against the wall, regretting it as soon as I did. I’d leave a handprint, something else I’d have to clean up. Another failure I can’t deal with. I groaned, pulling my hand away with a messy schlorp sound, as if I’d stuck it in glue. No more balancing. Kitchen. Towels. Now.
With a renewed sense of urgency, I stumbled into the kitchen veering left and right like an inflatable man at one of those sketchy used car dealerships. What is wrong with my limbs? They felt like they weren’t completely responding to my commands. I needed something to support myself again, but I stopped myself, putting my hands on my knees while breathing heavily. Only one thing was on my mind, cleaning this mess up before mom got home. I don’t care if I’m already dead or if I keel over the next moment, but I’ll be in real hell if she finds me like this.
As I walked over to the quartz countertops, I noticed my phone sitting alone on the kitchen counter. I saw the screen light up as I heard the buzz of a notification coming in. Shuffling forwards like a zombie, I picked up the small device. It was a present from last year’s Christmas, even though I hadn’t asked for anything. I didn’t deserve anything.
The notification was from Angie, my manager at work. The message was short and sweet, one I’d seen a dozen times before. “Can you come cover Andy’s shift today from 4-10? He said he had a stomach bug and we really need more help. Thanks in advance :) “ I groaned. She was always asking me to cover, I hadn’t had a day off in nearly 2 weeks. I wished they’d hire more staff but I needed the money. I never wanted to, but I always came in. My heart dropped. Figures. Now I have to clean this mess up and go to work. I already feel like crap. Opening up messages, I saw a few solicitations I hadn’t bothered deleting, and a message from my friend Kylie asking me where I was. I felt too tired to respond, though.
Sigh. My head hurts, and mom will probably be home anytime now. I don’t know what to do. I don’t feel good.