The nightmare began my senior year of high school.
It still hasn’t ended.
I remember that first day perfectly. The crisp autumn wind pierced my inadequately thin, long sleeve shirt. I tightened my navy blue scarf around me, burying my hands under its layers. It was abnormally chilly for California. After a few minutes of fidgeting and shivering, I heard footsteps approaching me from behind. Converse footsteps. I turned, knowing who it was before I saw her.
Rebecca.
Rebecca and I had been friends since elementary school, and, in that time, had become inseparable. Her long, curly brown hair draped itself elegantly over the thick, shiny black layers of her unzipped leather jacket. Her pasty white jeans were accented with rips and holes of various sizes.
“Hey, what’s up?” I asked, blowing warm air into my cupped hands.
The overcast sky drew out the bold lip gloss and the heavy eyeliner that complimented her soft cheeks, piercing green eyes, and rounded chin. Her warm smile was a pleasant contrast to the weather as she approached my table. My eyes traced her as she threw her backpack down beside her and seated her petite frame opposite me. She crossed her legs in a dramatic flicker.
“Oh, my, god! Stephanie, you’re not gonna believe what just happened!” She whispered with a grin, leaning into the table towards me.
“Guess who Dominick just asked out?” She continued, looking over her shoulder. Her eyelashes rose as she turned back to face me, giggling like a child.
“You?! Shut up! That pig?” I said, not truly meaning the insult, as I only wanted to satisfy her predisposed notions. She hated Dominick. He was a nerd.
Not just a nerd, though. Oh no. He was an outcasted nerd. No friends, no social life, bad grades, wasn’t involved in any sports or clubs. This spelled certain doom in Rebecca’s book. She wanted nothing to do with him. Then to ask her out?! Was he crazy?! Surely he must’ve known how compromising that was to her social status and popularity! What did he expect besides rejection?
“Yeah! Stephanie, guess what I told him?! Guess!” She insisted. She cupped her hands under her chin as she placed her elbows on the table. Her eyelashes fluttered and her lips curled into a smirk as she relished the moment.
“I told him to go fuck himself!” She said, emphasizing the “fuck himself.” She covered her laugh with one hand, her other occupied by a hot Starbucks coffee.
“Wow, that’s kinda harsh, don’t you think?” I questioned.
“For him? No! He’s a loser.”
I stared at her, silently judging.
“What?” She picked up on my internal dialogue, side eyeing me suspiciously.
“Nothing, never mind. Forget it.” I said, wanting to avoid an argument. My thoughts tripped over each other. I wondered how to steer the topic to something else, finally stumbling upon one.
“How are you doing?”
Her demeanor suddenly shifted as her eyes stared down towards the ground blankly.
“What’s wrong?” I leaned forward, concerned.
Rebecca heisatated. Finally, after several moments of contemplation, she silently pulled down the fluffy collar of her turtleneck, revealing two large, raised purple bruises on her neck that darkened into navy blue around the edges. My hands flew to my mouth, tears began rimming my eyes, but not yet falling.
“Oh my god! Who did that?” I managed to squeak out. She sighed. I knew.
Her “father”. Abusive, drunk asshole. Rebecca’s mom didn’t fare much better when he drank.
“I had to hide the ones… the ones by my eyes. I had to cover them up with concealer. I have a B in biology in case you were wondering.” She looked away, her lip quivering slightly.
“Promise to keep this between us, ok?” She looked back at me, reaching over to squeeze my hand. She held my hand for a few moments. I nodded as I held back the tears, but only barely.
“Oh my god!” She gasped suddenly, staring at my hands wide eyed, mouth agape. She sipped her coffee.
“What?”
“You’re freezing! Your hands are all red! Here.” Concern peppered her now motherly voice as she peeled off her leather jacket, fully revealing her gray, knit turtleneck.
“Oh no, I’m fine.” I insisted. She ignored me, tossing the jacket over the table.
“I have a sweater, you need to layer more than me.” She said, her face concerned.
I held the jacket in my lap, the fuzzy lining tempting me.
“Come on! Just wear it! You look like you’re frostbitten!” She nudged.
After pondering for a few moments, I relented, slipping the jacket in one arm, then the other. Finally, after readjusting my hair and flattening the collar flaps, I was set. The smooth black leather felt snug and heavy over me.
“Thanks.” I said gratefully as I zipped up the jacket until it reached the beginning of the collar flaps. The jacket, to my surprise, fit almost perfectly. The warmth was immediate as goosebumps rose up on my arms and neck.
“You look like a… like a badass biker bitch!” She said, an outburst of laughter stifling her sentence. She held up her fists in a boxing pose, framing her smiling face.
I often wonder if he was considering doing it right then.
Later that night, I was laying in bed, darkness around me. The hum of the heater reverberated subtly through the house’s corridors. Suddenly, my mother popped in through my bedroom door, gently. After confirming I was still awake, she began speaking.
“Hey,” she said, whispering, “did you know a boy named Dominick?” The use of the past tense rattled my brain to alertness.
“No, not really, why?” I braced myself. I was putting two-and-two together.
“He committed suicide earlier today. I was just wondering if you knew him. I figured you’d want to know before the school told you.”
My mothers voice vanished, its sound unable to penetrate my ears. My head spun on its axis. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. I layed in bed, wide awake. It couldn’t be true, because if it was… well. I didn’t want to have to face that. Not my best friend. It wasn’t her fault, right? She didn’t make him…
Oh no.
The next day, a cloud seemed to envelop the school. The day started with a school wide assembly detailing the bad news. Afterwards, people huddled into groups, their voices hushed and whispered. People looked around wide eyed, wondering if they had said something. If they were the reason. They weren’t, of course.
I knew that.
So did Rebecca.
Which is why she didn’t show up to class that day. Since it was a Friday, it gave the students a much needed two days to process everything that had happened. Including myself. It was awful. I remember the guilt, I should’ve reached out to him. Had I been a better friend to Rebecca, then maybe she wouldn’t have lashed out so much.
Nobody gets noticed until they’re gone.
The following Monday, Rebecca and I met back up at our usual lunch table outside. Not much was said. Rumors spread, people stared at us as we ate. Their words were muffled behind hands, eyebrows raised, accusations hurled, fingers pointed. Our words, when they did come, were lifeless, pointless, and had melancholy cobwebs draped over each syllable. We mutually agreed to eat in silence, our noses buried deep into our phones.
This tradition carried on for a few weeks, but, eventually, people, especially high school students, forget. We fit right back into our old social lives, no longer outsiders. Looking back, it was horrible, but what were we to do?
“Do you ever feel… bad for what happened?” I dredged up one afternoon, trying to aussage my own guilty conscience.
“I mean, Stephanie, what can you do about it? What does feeling bad about what I said do? It doesn’t change what happened.” Rebecca spat out coldly, her voice suggesting she felt worse then she was letting on.
“I don’t know, but, you don’t ever stay up at night? Just, doesn’t it bother you at all?” I asked.
“Sure, of course it bothers me, but what am I supposed to do? Never live again?” I sighed in response, my stress levels unbearable. I couldn’t live like this. My appetite was nonexistent, yet I forced a bite of my lunch down my throat, gaging. I slipped my hands under my shirt and loosened my belt, immediately feeling bloated.
“Since when do you wear belts with your jeans? It looks so…” she paused, as if searching for the word, “unfashionable.” She snickered, picking up on my discrete motion.
“Since they’re loose and don’t fit.” Rebecca leaned over the table and ran her fingers over the shiny black leather. After several uncomfortable moments, she forcefully gripped my belt buckle and began pulling the strap back through it. I hunched forward, pulling my shirt down in an attempt to get her to stop. When she didn’t, I smacked the back of her hands. She looked up at me, her hands unmoving.
“What are you doing?” I asked, feeling violated.
“Helping you take it off.”
“No! I need it! My pants…”
“Oh my god is that your boyfriend’s? It’s like, so big and chunky, it looks hella uncomfortable! Does that even fit you? Do you even still have a boyfriend?” She prodded, sitting back down in her seat.
“Please stop.” I rubbed my temples. My cheeks blushed from embarrassment as I buckled my belt back up.
“Well, is it your boyfriend’s?” She continued pressing.
“No, it’s my older brother’s.” I replied softly. A lie. I had bought it myself when my jeans started falling off my hips. I wasn’t eating enough. I hadn’t since he did it.
“You know, most girls don’t need to borrow their brother’s belt because most girls have curves.” She said, a devilish smile spreading across her lips. She seemed smugly satisfied in getting under my skin.
“I’m not in the mood for this.” I said, standing up.
“What?!” She exclaimed. Heads turned.
“You know I haven’t been eating much, so what do you do? You point out the fact I’ve lost weight and make me feel insecure!” I shouted back.
“Well s-o-r-r-y! I was just kidding!” She threw her hands up as she rose to her feet, turning her back to me with an irritated spin.
“yeah, sure, my fault… whatever.” I heard her mutter under her breath as I walked away.
The following day, I heard the all too familiar converse footsteps behind me. They seemed quicker than normal.
“Steph, oh my god!” Rebecca was hyperventilating. She clutched my shoulders, I pulled away harsly, still upset at her for making fun of my newly acquired eating disorder.
“No!” I shouted, “Get away from me!” I jerked my shoulders as I stood up.
“Wait, Stephanie, please wait! Just like two seconds!” She begged, following me.
“Why? So you can laugh at me again?!”
“It’s about Dominick!”
“What?”
“He’s alive! I saw him outside my bedroom last night!”
“Stop fucking with me, Rebecca! You need help!”
“Steph, I’m not joking! He… he…”
“He what?”
“He watches me in my room! He has these wide eyes, they don’t blink! Just come over to my house after school! Please! You’ll see!”
“He’s dead, Rebecca! He’s been gone for weeks now!”
“No… yeah, that’s what I thought too, but, no, he’s alive! I’m telling you! He has this evil grin on his face! Just come spend the night with me!” She pleaded. I wasn’t having it.
“Look, Rebecca! Dominick is gone! Nothing you can do will change that! I know you feel guilty, and so do I, but stop this! It’s not normal to see things! You’re hallucinating!”
“He’s alive…” She trailed off, her eyes empty.
“Is this about your dad?” Fuck, I shouldn’t have asked that. What was I thinking? Immediately, her face reddened and her eyes narrowed. She grit her teeth, her vocal chords ready to explode. They did.
“Are you fucking serious?! Steph, you’re horrible! I hate you!” She stormed off, sobbing hysterically.
“Rebecca!” I shouted in a useless attempt to get her to come back. I looked around me, realizing our confrontation had drawn quite the crowd. They snickered, laughed, and pointed at me. I couldn’t take it. I stormed off campus and skipped school, unable to deal with my emotions.
Later that night, a text message. I was in bed, insomnia well advanced. I rolled over and grabbed my phone off the nightstand.
Rebecca 3:14 A.M:
“This is your fault.”
Me 3:14 A.M:
“What is?”
Rebecca 3:15 A.M:
A picture of a pill bottle.
Me 3:15 A.M:
What are you doing?
Me 3:15 AM:
Just stop, ok?
Me 3:15 A.M:
Calls Rebecca, no answer.
Me: 3:16 A.M:
Rebecca, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that! Please call me!
Rebecca: 3:17 A.M:
A picture of a note. Her suicide note. Too blurry to read.
Me 3:17 A.M:
NO! STOP! I’M CALLING 9/11!
Her mom found her the next day, slumped in the shower. I didn’t have the courage to go to her funeral. Neither did her father. Rumor has it he was drunk at a bar somewhere.
Rebecca was my best friend, but I couldn’t stomach seeing her like that. Maybe my memories, even as they fade in clarity and blur more with each day, offer a glimpse into something special, something I long to relive. Something gone in the wind.
I still can’t handle this or process it. I still don’t eat that much, I got down to 94 pounds the other day. My parents got me a psychiatrist, but she doesn’t do much except pretend to listen and give me meaningless advice that walks straight off a cliff. I should do that, maybe. I don’t know. I plan to move away soon anyways, even though I know this won’t get any easier. This isn’t a chapter I’ll ever be able to close.
Yet, I always ask myself…
What if Rebecca wasn’t lying? I mean, I like to think she just couldn’t handle the guilt and trauma of causing another person’s suicide, but, I mean, what if he faked his own death? What if Dominick was alive? Just to torment her? Make her feel guilty? Worthless? Could this coupled with her dad’s abuse be the reason why? It had to be, right?
I don’t know. I just drift most days now. I don’t talk much, eat much, some days I just lay in bed, watching the dull overcast sky float away. I only wrote this because it gave me something to do for a day, so I guess there’s that.