Genesis
The New Testament
The Last Supper
Amelia avoids the dry pork chop on her tray, talking around a mouthful of crispy green beans that taste like dark, rich soil. “Looks like Monday.” Susanna loads a quarter of her vegetables onto Amelia’s plate, who swallows only half the food in her mouth before continuing, “Then a week to pack, then off to that fucking hellhole.”
“What? You don’t like your parents? Your dad seems like a good guy,” observes Henry.
“I love my family. I hate Florida.”
“Why?”
Amelia stops eating long enough to give a short list: “The heat, the rednecks, the old people, the Yankees, gators, water moccasins, flying cockroaches–” Susanna squeals. “Yeah, and they’re like this big.” Amelia uses both hands to illustrate the size of a Palmetto bug. “Disney, tourists, the stink of the marsh, hurricanes— the list goes on and on.” She steals one of Susanna’s fries and pops it in her mouth, savoring the salt. “Once, it got so hot that my rearview mirror melted off my windshield.”
“Yes, but at least it’s not ten degrees all winter,” says Marvin.
Amelia sneaks a halved pear off Susanna’s tray, and says, “BUT, if it doesn’t freeze at all, we have twice as many mosquitos.” She spears the entire thing with her spork and lifts the fruit to her mouth. Unbleached linen. Sheets drying on a line in the summer sun. Stealing pears from her next-door neighbor and trying to sell them to the postman in the front yard. The flesh has the consistency of a thick wool blanket. It squishes between her teeth – Sensory bliss for her brain. Henry gives in and takes a bite of fruit. His mood hangs in his eyes like sharp icicles.
The pear’s nutty, light taste occupies Amelia’s attention until Marvin says, “We’ll miss you.” The corners of his eyes crinkle up with laugh lines, but his smile is muted. Amelia stops eating.
Pedro looks up from his plate. “Yeah, me too.”
“I’m gonna need to find another garbage disposal for my food,” says Susanna as she transfers a quarter of her fries to Amelia’s plate. “Back to spitting it into napkins, I guess.” She smiles her rotting grin. Henry’s expression is unfathomable. He says nothing.
“I’ll miss you too, my insane cohorts. But it’s back to Daseinland for me.” Only Marvin gets the joke. “What about you guys? Any of you get a timeline yet?”
Susanna rolls her yellow eyes, but Pedro looks hopeful. “I’m getting out next week too. The new medication is working good,” he says. “And once I’m out, I’ll know to keep the lights on at night.” He playfully nudges Amelia with his elbow. “And I’ll know that I like Beethoven.”
“They’re saying three days after I start the patch,” says Henry, nibbling at the pear. He looks Amelia in the eye. Human. “I guess we’ll see. I mean, what’s the worst that could happen? I get really high.” She appreciates his attempt at positivity.
They all look at Marvin, who rubs his forehead with one hand, then takes off his glasses. “I feel worse,” he says. Marvin pinches his eyes shut with his forefinger and thumb, and crosses his other arm over his waist. “The depression is getting… really bad,” he says with his eyes closed. What do I say? It will be over soon? It’s just a phase? Don’t be selfish? Pray about it? Amelia has no idea how to comfort him.
Susanna, of all people, steps in. “Marvin, you have the best chance out of all of us. You were smart enough to put yourself in here for exactly this reason. Meds worked for you before; you’ll balance out. That don’t make it easier but at least you know you can be normal.”
He opens his eyes and gives a soft, humorless, “Ha.”
Amelia’s plate is as empty as her mind. The stringy pork sits awkwardly in the middle like a greasy heart. There is only one thought: Normal.
The Doctrine of Stephens
In the hard chair in the ice-blue office, Amelia is listening to Doctor Stephens talk around decades of coffee stains. He considerately took the batteries out of the clock prior to her arrival. “I’m not completely comfortable with you leaving while still experiencing death ideation, but if you’re not a danger to yourself or others we won’t keep you here. Doctor Chandra is an experienced psychiatrist and neurologist. He’s well-respected and I know he will be able to help you have a normal life.”
“An average life,” Amelia ripostes. “A mediocre life.”
“There’s a difference between normal and average. Nothing about you is mediocre, which means your normal life will still be exceptional. You don’t have to worry about being ordinary; what you need to worry about is that feeling you just expressed. That urge lures people to their deaths. You can be normal or you can die.” Normal. The standard exchange begins in her head, Nobody is normal – Fuck you. I know exactly what normal means. “Replace the bandages as needed and don’t take out any of your stitches. It will leave ugly scars that you’ll regret once you are healthy.” Normal means not wanting to cut your eyes out or seeing maggots everywhere or praying to be murdered. Normal means safe, if typical.
Amelia looks at the gauze neatly tucked into the crook of her elbow. I might as well walk out of here in a safety gown. Shoulda got a gun. Daddy. Andrew. Alexis. Mom – She screamed. “I’m nervous about seeing my friends and family.” She screamed. “What should I expect? Am I supposed to tell people? Keep it a secret?”
“Suicide usually causes…” His molars connect and pull in his cheeks before he completes the thought, “Complicated family dynamics. There will be a lot of blame, and guilt, and anger so be prepared for that.” SELFISH!
“I fucking hate being alive right now and they’re going to make it about them.” FAILURE!
“They can’t help it. Nothing makes a person feel more powerless than the suicide of a loved one. I’ve seen it with other patients and that’s why I’m warning you now.” She screamed. “But as time goes on and your treatment gets more effective, those relationships will heal. Just like your scars.” He gives her a pointed look. “Unless you pull your stitches out.” He sits straight in his chair. “Keep a regular sleeping and eating schedule. Don’t use alcohol or drugs. Exercise five times a week. Don’t engage in behaviors that are self-destructive, and always take your medicine at exactly the same time of day, every day. That’s the most important piece of advice I can give you: TAKE YOUR MEDS. If you’re feeling better, it’s because they’re working— not because you don’t need them anymore. Do not miss doses. Do not micromanage. Do not make changes in your regimen without consulting your psychiatrist.”
::silence::
“So that’s your advice? Take your pills?”
“Every dose. Every day. Every SINGLE day,” he commands. “That’s your responsibility now. I told you once that you were not responsible for your illness – Well now you are. Are you up for that?”
Amelia blinks in terror. She is suddenly faced with having to plan a future. Her pupils contract in panic. Breathe. Breathe. Her impending lifetime seems to stretch into eternity. How am I going to live that long? How am I going to survive? “You really think I can be normal without being tame?”
“I think you can be better than normal; I think you can be yourself. I think you can be a free and independent human being.” Freedom eagle shotgun noose.
“What if a pill doesn’t work, or stops working?” Her heart flutters in her chest.
“If you’re not noticing a positive change within two weeks, contact your doctor. You must maintain open lines of communication with him about what is working and what is not. We can’t read your mind. If something isn’t helping, you have to tell us so that we don’t waste time with you feeling functional.”
“What’s wrong with functional? I would definitely settle for functional.”
“It’s a low level of survival. You can feel good and be WELL.”
Amelia’s skepticism skirts across her lips. “Simply not wanting to kill myself all the time is good enough. Don’t get my hopes up.”
He sighs. “I realize that you’ve stopped believing in it, but know that we want you to take joy in life. Not to be artificially happy but to find your authentic self, without your neurotransmitters handicapping you.”
Taking four medications a day isn’t artificial?
“I don’t know how to believe that.”
“You will.” The doctor confidently leans back, hands behind his head. The chair skreels. “You’ve seen for yourself how much of a difference it makes just to sleep and eat on a schedule. If you stick with the program, communicate with your doctor, and take your pills EXACTLY as prescribed, you will.”
If it doesn’t work, I can always just blow my head off. “Okay. I’ll give it a shot.” She congratulates herself on the pun.
“And I want you to continue playing the piano. It will help the nerves in your mind and your forearms.” She thinks of the antique Winter upright waiting for her in Florida. The silence. I’ll be living in silence.
“What if I can’t stand being separated from music like this? Thinking as a singular perspective? Is there any way for me to keep that but lose the depression?”
“No. I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Actually, I’m a little surprised you would even want that. Wasn’t the constant music one of your most inconvenient symptoms?” ::silence:: “Just keep playing and you’ll get used to having control over it. Your capacity for creativity hasn’t disappeared, just transformed.”
“And the constant noise?”
“Get yourself an iPod.”
“That’s a good idea.” There is a moment of silent understanding between them.
Doctor Stephens stands and shakes Amelia’s hand. “It was nice knowing you, Amelia.”
“You too. Thank you for… for everything,” she says.
“You’re welcome. Good luck.”
Practical Blasphemy
Photography: Gratisography
“Let us pray.” Amelia looks at the gaudy Easter decorations with distaste while Nurse Jessica beseeches nothingness. “Father, thank You for another day of Your blessings and mercy.” Henry, Susanna, and John Doe’s eyes are open too, but they don’t look at each other. “We submit to Your Word and mighty power, and beg Your forgiveness for our many sins.” This is bullshit. She brings it up at the beginning of every fucking session. “May You grant us healing through Your Son, Christ Jesus, who protects us now unto the end of time. Amen.” I’m going to say something. “I know it’s been a long week for many of you, so we’re not doing anything taxing today. Amelia leaves before our next session and I think we should all thank her for the music she’s been playing for us.” For us. Everybody’s clown. The nurse claps her hands while a few patients murmur their gratitude. “We will all get a chance to talk about songs that get us through hard times after Amelia shares any last words she has for the group.”
Amelia knows the routine: why you came in, how long you were here, what you learned, your plans for the future. It usually takes up half the session. She looks around at the bored faces. “I tried to kill myself. I’ve been here for a month. I learned that religion is indistinguishable from insanity. I plan to pursue music therapy.”
Nurse Jessica blinks her huge eyes at Amelia’s curt response. “Would you care to elaborate?”
“From now on, I only believe in reality.”
“And what is your definition of reality?”
“Facts agreed upon by multiple, independent, objective observers.” Amelia has been obsessed for days with finding a suitable description of the concept. “I can’t spend any more time wondering what is and isn’t real. No one is torturing me or punishing me. I am free to make my own choices and live by my own rules, and I’m sick of all this bowing, scraping, posturing bullshit. God is probably not real— or only as real as the pantheon before him. But it doesn’t matter. It’s irrelevant.”
“You are a hopeless person,” Rosemary scoffs.
Amelia looks straight into her ancient face. “I am. I AM hopeless, but it has nothing to do with religion. I just think it’s better to face facts and accept chaos than to think our suffering is part of some special plan. Look at Pedro: he believes he will be healed. Wouldn’t it be healthier to believe in his psychiatrist and the medication he’s taking? Better to talk to his doctor instead of his priest? No god is going to help him.”
“That’s blasphemy,” croaks Rosemary.
“It’s practical,” counters Amelia. “Better than being a backwards, racist, Pharisee whore like you. I could quote you ten Bible verses right now that would shame you out of your chair.”
“Whoa! Girl fight!” yells Maxwell.
Nurse Jessica tries to steer the conversation to a smoother course. “And there’s the key word: shame. Does anyone know the difference between guilt and shame?” The patients watching Amelia and Rosemary have the air of burnt popcorn. “Guilt is about what you DO. Shame is about who you ARE,” she tries.
Amelia shrugs and says, “Well, she IS a whore.”
“Oh shit!” laughs Maxwell. Henry and Susanna snicker while Rosemary tries to think of a response.
Nurse Jessica shushes them before turning back to Amelia. “And you are being disrespectful. Is this how you want to waste your final group session? Insulting everyone?”
Amelia looks around the room and shrugs again. “I like these people. Know how I used to fight with Lucia all the time? Yesterday, she turned pages for me while I played Chopin. I didn’t know she could read music.” Lucia looks confused at the words she doesn’t understand, so Amelia cranes around to look at her and mimics playing the piano. She points at Lucia and mimes turning pages. Lucia nods and smiles enthusiastically. “See? Obviously the four of them are my friends,” she gestures to Henry, Pedro, Marvin, and Susanna, “but now I know that Juanita likes Mozart’s Requiem, and Maxwell is a tenor, and John Doe cries when I play Ravel.” She looks down at her socks. “That’s what makes me want to study music therapy.”
Nurse Jessica presses her lips together in disapproval, then says, “I’m not sure about your ability to work in the mental health field, but I think it’s very good that you have long-term goals. What I’m hearing you say is that you’re finding it easier to form connections now that you’re making music outside of yourself.”
“Exactly,” Amelia agrees. “As much as I hate the silence, I’m more present. I may stick around out of sheer curiosity. We are this rare, insignificant, beautiful accident, hurtling out in space with no one to care for us but ourselves. I’m choosing to embrace that chaos. If everything is absurd, the logical choice is suicide. But life is not logical. So, to truly be a participant in this absurdity, I must continue to live in spite of it.”
“Some of those things are very good to hear,” Nurse Jessica says with a generous smile. “Will you start the group discussion with song lyrics that got you through a hard time? Since your playing is the inspiration for our topic today? Just one,” she winks like a twit.
“The song doesn’t have lyrics.”
“Well, maybe you can play it for everyone before you leave,” she suggests.
Amelia nods, grateful for the song on a 2002 mix tape from an unrequited love. “I will.” She wiggles her fingers and says, “And I’m sorry if I… If I insulted anyone or anyone’s beliefs. I just had to work things out for myself.” After a second thought, she amends, “Except for Rosemary. She’s an ignorant, racist, hypocritical whore.”
2nd Apostles
Amelia stares blankly at a split in the wallpaper of the common room while her father and friends discuss her as if she’s not there. FAILURE.
Noah speaks from his hooked nose. “So she’ll be released, but only on the condition that she goes to Florida and lives with you.” FAILURE.
Her father’s eyes are animated. FAILURE. “Yes, and they’ve recommended a psychiatrist who specializes in this different type of bipolar; he’s supposed to be very good. What’s his name again?” he asks Amelia. They turn to her and her absent affect. The silence gets her attention. There it is again: that look of expectation.
Unsure of what she is being asked, she throws out, “Whenever you guys want.” It is immediately clear that this is not the correct response. Wretched looks of nauseating sympathy crawl onto their faces. Everybody’s clown.
Constance’s round eyes spark with relief and she ends the awkwardness. “Oh yeah, I brought you these!” She extends her long arms toward the floor, digs in a fashionable striped bag, and gives Amelia a small bundle. Amelia takes it and unfolds a pair of sensible navy blue dress socks that smell like Tupperware. The lab-created fabric is pleasantly slippery between her fingers.
“You got me socks?”
“Kindof,” Constance says, taking them back. “See?” She holds them out to Amelia. “I cut the toes off and put a hole in for your thumb. So you can cover your bandages when you’re out in public.” FAILURE.
“That’s… great.” The socks are perfect. Clothes. “That’s actually really awesome, thank you.”
“Of course, you can’t have them till you’re out,” she says, putting them back into her bag, “So I’ll have them back at the apartment waiting for you. Four o’clock, right?”
Amelia takes a deep breath. FAILURE. “More like four-thirty. They want me to play one last time.”
“I’m meeting her in the parking lot, then we’ll drive back to the apartment,” Amelia’s father elaborates.
Constance continues her abject cheer. “Can we do anything to help?”
“Would you be up for making dinner?” asks her father.
“Absolutely!” she jumps at the chance, entirely cardigan. “Chicken okay?”
“Chicken is fine.” Their voices are strained.
“I brought over some movies if—” Noah begins, but Amelia holds up her hand and stops him.
“Thanks guys, you’re really wonderful, I just… I just want to be alone with my dad.”
::silence::
Noah rises, all elbows and knees. “That’s cool.”
“That’s totally cool,” says Constance, gathering her stuff. “We can just—”
“Not now, when I get home!” Amelia makes small gestures to their chairs, unwilling to accidentally expose the gruesome stitches at her elbows. “Please. Like I would ask you to leave. You’re good friends. Thank you for coming to see me here.” FAILURE.
There is a brief pause before Constance’s voice lowers to her normal, alto level of enthusiasm. “It’s just… You were talking about it so much and I didn’t know when to start taking it seriously. Like, at what point does it go from a sarcastic joke to a cry for help?” She turns to Amelia’s father. “I’m sorry we didn’t stop her. I didn’t think she would do it.”
“Constance,” Amelia interrupts her apology, “I waited until you were out of town on purpose. You, Chris, Jeremy— Only Eli was left, and he was at work. If I could have, I would have done it in secret, but someone had to take care of the dog. I would have been happy if I’d disappeared from existence and been wiped from everyone’s memories.” Constance looks down at the grubby tabletop. “No one could have stopped me.” The only thing that could stop me is the sick, twisted genius who designed this entire ward and literally thought of EVERY WAY to kill yourself – Then built the opposite. Safer than a playpen.
“Well, there were signs,” Noah’s gentle vocal cords tighten in his larynx, “And I ignored them. Coming here is the least I can do to make that up to you.” FAILURE.
The guilt is crushing. “You don’t owe me anything, Noah.” She takes in his apologetic countenance, then looks to her friend cloaked in her cashmere bubble wrap. “Or you, Constance, or Dad.” Daddy. “I’m willing to give this doctor and this medicine a chance.” FAILURE.
Constance resumes her chirpy enthusiasm. It sticks in her teeth as she speaks. “At least it can’t be any worse than the past ten years.”
“ …True.” Amelia tries very hard to appreciate her efforts. “Always the optimist.”
“Where’s Henry? I want to say goodbye to him, too,” says Amelia’s father, looking around the room.
“Probably sleeping. He started his new medication last night and they usually give you some time to adjust.” She thinks of the week she spent on the floor of the shower. The blue blur of his flannel pajama pants appears from around the corner just as she finishes her sentence. “Oh, there he is!” Amelia waves at Henry, who is partially dressed and walks as if he’s carrying a two-hundred-pound sack on top of him. He slowly comes into focus, then slams into the seat at her table, disoriented. Amelia touches the edges of his clavicle and examines the event horizon of his pupils. “Dude… Where are YOU right now?”
Henry pitches to the left and points to his chest. “I’m just started… The night at night and I slept SO good, Amelia. I slept SO good.”
She places her hands on each side of his face and tries to make eye contact while his eyelids flutter. “Henry, look: these are my friends Constance and Noah. Constance is one of my roommates, and Noah and I went to high school together. They’re good people.” Henry shakes his head with his mouth open, a cavern of destruction. Amelia’s father gets his attention.
“We just finished up a round of spades. What do you want to play?”
“Billyjabbit?” Henry answers.
“How about gin?” her father suggests, then starts dealing the cards. His TMJ clicks as he grinds his teeth in concern. Keeping his cornflower eyes on the deck, he speaks to the table. “Thank you all for being such good friends to my daughter. And Henry, I’m glad she had you while she was in here.”
Henry’s eyes go average with shock. He turns his whole body toward Amelia. “Are you… Areyou, you’re getting out?”
“Yes, I told you that.” She looks into his Cookie Monster eyes, googly and unfocused. “Are you alright?”
“Sorry, I’m just there and then at the… it’s…”
“Wake up, Henry!” Amelia claps her hands in front of his face. He struggles to open his eyes, then falls asleep sitting up. Their embarrassment for him turns to fear. Drool creeps out of the corner of his mouth.
Noah stands up. “Is he okay?”
“He could be having a seizure,” worries Constance.
Amelia’s father speaks from years of experience with drunkards and druggies, “No, he’s just zonked out. Is he on some kind of opiate?”
“Daniel!” Amelia waves over the orderly. He jogs from the nurses’ station.
“What’s going on?”
“He’s dead asleep,” Amelia says. “Sitting up like that. Mid-sentence. Is something wrong with his meds?” Concern calcifies in her like layers of soap scum.
Daniel checks Henry’s vitals, then reassures everyone. “Nah, he’s just tired. I’ll get him to his room.” He lifts Henry in a fireman carry. “Come on, buddy. Let’s get you back in bed so you can sleep this off.”
They play the game in silence, with Henry’s unused hand screaming from his seat at the table.
The Book of Elliott
Photography: Juan Pablo Serrano
Everyone gathers in an orderly ring around the piano after art therapy. The pregnant therapist unlocks it with excitement as silence settles over the room. Amelia lifts the bench so that it does not make a noise, and carefully places it eighteen inches away from the keyboard. The song comes to her without effort: ‘Bye,’ written and performed on a tragically out-of-tune piano by the late, great Elliott Smith. She plays from memory.
Amelia’s fingers steadily start the minor G arpeggio – Dolente. The left hand begins a downward slope: Root-Chord, Root-Chord. Her body sways with the 6/8 time signature. It is a sea of sound that rocks her neurons to sleep. The chord structure draws the venom from her wounds and blisters the keys. The rhythm is as constant as the tides. It dips into the muck at the bottom of The Void – The luxury of drowning denied.
Muscle memory carries her to the octaves. The tendons in her forearms feel flexible; her fingers dexterous. Rocking side to side with the triplets, Amelia follows the song down. Her left hand continues to alternate between root and chord, sentito. The melody moves upwards from the G, courting sharps like hypodermic needles. Triste. 8va The octaves return, and she revels in her plasticine scar tissue. She absorbs Elliott Smith’s ruined chest and bloody hands through the keys. Accidentals appear in the melody like unwanted but brilliant thoughts. It is the perfect song for a sad, drunken clown – Rolling back and forth in mock stupor.
The song walks downward, wavering in expression but a tempo. As her wrists get closer together, Amelia keeps time over heavy pedal. 1–2, 1–2. She is the prodigal son. She is Elliott’s mother, screaming. She is stabbing herself in the chest, twice, just to make sure. Deeper and deeper she goes into the empty well. At the bottom is sludge and she nurses the filth for every last drop. The last few notes are deep and doloroso, then an acciaccato glissando.
::silence::
Amelia stands up. The group is quiet, expecting more.
Everybody’s clown.
“I’m leaving now.”
Maxwell is the first to come out of his reverie and respond to her words. “Well, freak, this…” he approaches her, and lays a hand on her right wrist, “— is an Indian burn.” He wrenches her arm and does the Daffy Duck dance on his way out the door.
Amelia cradles her forearm to her chest, mumbling, “Fucking psycho.”
Henry stumbles into her for a hug, still acclimating to his new meds. His clumsiness is repulsive. “You look beautiful in that shirt,” he slurs. “I want you to keep it.” Amelia forces herself to smile, despite her disgust. He was right. That’s not even him.
“I will, Henry. Thank you.” He staggers to lean against the wall but doesn’t leave the room.
Susanna wheels herself forward and slips Amelia a nearly empty matchbook. “These are the matches I stole from Rosemary,” she whispers. “Use them well.” BURN US ALL.
“You’re my girl,” says Amelia, tucking them into the folded waistband of Henry’s boxers. “Hey, I hope you die soon.”
“You too, Amelia.” Susanna balances her giant head on top of her spine. “You too.” The animated skeleton exits, winking a moldering eye over her shoulder.
Amelia hoists up the box of sheet music, her stitches straining, and pushes it into Daniel’s arms. “Please thank Doctor Stephens for me.”
He quickly relieves her of the heavy object. “I will. Are you sure you don’t want your belongings from Processing? It lists an engagement ring in there.”
“I don’t want anything in that bag. You can have it for all I care – Sell it – Give it to your girlfriend. Melt it down and turn it into a paperclip; I don’t give a shit.”
“It will remain in storage, if you ever change your mind.” He repositions the box to shake her hand. “Good luck, Amelia.”
When she turns to push in the piano bench, Juanita appears in front of her. She makes apologetic and ecstatic faces that Amelia does not understand, then gives her a quarter. The mute tries to communicate with gestures: Piano. Thank God. Piano – Me. Juanita points to the quarter. Thank me.
“I can’t take this,” Amelia’s heart pulses while Juanita insists on pushing it into her hand, choking out broken air. Finally, Amelia accepts. “Thank you. I’m gonna frame this when I get home.”
Think. Her. The woman points to Amelia’s head, then to herself again. Remember me.
Lucia barges in, rapidly speaking Spanish to the mute, who hurries out of the way. She makes the sign of the cross over Amelia and gives a short blessing in Spanish. Then, for the first time, the woman makes eye contact with Amelia. Speaking as though rehearsed, Lucia parrots a short, broken sentence.
“You stop.” She grabs Amelia’s wrists and lifts them to waist-level with bony fingers. “You stop. You don’t hurt.” Amelia grasps the quarter tightly, wishing the woman would take her hands off her. “You don’t hurt.” Amelia starts to squirm.
Marvin saves the day, politely excusing himself while maneuvering his body between Amelia and the staring woman. “Disculpe, señoras.” Juanita hovers nearby. He waits until they tear their eyes away from Amelia and leave, before surreptitiously placing something in her hand. “I thought you should have this.”
Amelia looks down. It’s the ‘missing’ remote control. “Mo-ther-fucker!” She gives him a hearty hug. “Now who’s gonna cause all the havoc?”
“Just going to have to get on with this,” he says, shielding his sleeve from the rest of the room. He flashes a razorblade at her – cracking ice crows flying from a white tree the dark is rising – Kill it KILL IT! Amelia looks over his shoulder at Rosemary, who flips the bird. “Open the battery compartment when you get out of the building. Just something to remember us by,” he whispers. She puts a hand on his opposite shoulder.
“I will. Thanks, Marvin. Good luck.” He adjusts the sleeve hiding the razorblade.
“Same to you,” he says with a smile that would convince most people that he wanted to live. “Take your meds,” he advises, then walks away.
Pedro lingers by the door. “Thank you. For everything,” he says sadly, and then, just hugs Amelia for a long time.
“I’ll think of you every time I play Beethoven,” she comforts him.
Amelia gives Henry one last look. The beautiful young man is grotesquely disoriented, upright with only great effort from the wall. He is too fucked up to offer any parting words— too far-gone to say, “See? I told you so. UNRECOGNIZABLE.”
Elliott Smith is splattered all over the walls like the precious blood of a genius.
“Bye,” she says. And all else was ::silence::
Genesis
Photography: Ivan Babydov
Amelia steps out of the building into the chilly spring air. Chicago at its finest. The petrichor perfumes the air with yesterday’s rain as she contemplates her southern childhood spent musing over the ‘Spring-Green’ label on the side of a crayon. RoseArt was for the poor kids. We always donated Crayola so they wouldn’t be embarrassed. She looks for the cherry red Saab 900S Turbo that Chris bought for her birthday, but her vision is so bad that she can only determine that there are no moving vehicles nearby. Amelia stands in the shade of the hospital, shivering in Henry’s boxers and threadbare T-shirt unraveling at the seams. She looks at the quarter, then at the remote, and remembers what Marvin said. She opens the battery compartment. In it, is a single cigarette. David Bowie skips into her head without an intro and she follows his instructions without question:
She takes the cigarette.
Puts it in her mouth.
Pulls out the matches, with a single strike, lights the cigarette.
The toxic smoke is calling. It lingers.
She won’t forget.
Oh – I’m a rock and roll suicide.