Ruin (5 page)

Alexander

Before

As I walk out of the classroom door, I look through all the tiny little windows that line the wall of the gym class.

By accident, of course.

Obviously not because I know dance classes started there twenty minutes ago.

And most definitely not because I see her make a few twirls in a costume.

Every step I take is slower than the previous until I’m sauntering as slow as a snail. Because I’m tired, of course.

My hand touches the wall as my eyes refuse to let go of the image in front of me.

The way she swishes through the air, her feet light as feathers as they barely touch the ground. How her fingers twitch, and her lips pout while she performs the moves. The little quirks that are barely noticeable, yet clearly there, and the grace with which she presents herself.

It has me completely enraptured.

So much so that I stumble over the first step of the stairs I forgot were there in the middle of the hallway.

Some girls pass me by, giggling behind their hands as I compose myself, my face glowing bright red.

They probably saw me looking, dammit.

I throw my backpack over my shoulder and run up the stairs, walking as far away from the gym as I possibly can until I find a table and chair in a corner of the school, which is where I sit down and stare ahead.

I watch the students come and go, none of them her.

Not that it matters. I shouldn’t even be thinking about her. It’s not like I could ever come close.

Like I’d ever be good enough for someone like her.

So I grab my books and throw them on the table, determined to finally not go home without having done my homework.

Ten minutes later, I’m completely frozen in place.

Not because of what I just read.

But because I smell her perfume … And when I look up and see her patched-up Pucca bag, I feel the weight of the world pull me down.

From the corner of my eye, I notice her walk to the lockers.

Goddammit, why did I forget the lockers were here? Of course, she comes here after class.

I turn my head slowly, trying not to make it too obvious that I’m looking, but then I realize she’s not going to look my way. No one would if they saw what she saw.

Her first and last name, scribbled in permanent ink over three lockers, accompanied by the words
is a stupid bitch.

She hesitates to open her locker but then swallows away the fear as she pushes through. A dozen pieces of paper come falling out and flutter to the ground. She picks one up, only to find it’s a picture of a potato … with her face below it.

Squinting, I can make out the text just underneath it.

Maybell Fairweather’s nose looks like a potato.

The longer she looks at it, the more sour her face turns, until that smile which I admire so much disappears into thin air, and all that’s left is the defeated look in her eyes as the tears start to gather.

She crumples up the paper and throws it in a bin, brushing away the single tear that rolls down her cheek. Then she starts to run.

Before I stand up to say something, she’s already long gone.

Stupid.

Stupid, stupid!

I mentally chastise myself, but it doesn’t help. It doesn’t make these bad feelings go away.

I’m always too late.

Too late to do anything. Too late to matter.

Too late to make a change.

***

Now

I shoot up from my bed where I was staring at the ceiling, thinking about what happened, and climb out. Checking the clock, I yell, “Shit!”

I’m late.

I run downstairs and past my dad. He’s taken up the entire couch to watch his television show about cars being dismantled and redesigned, but he turns his head toward me anyway.

“Where are you going?” His voice is always so low and gruff, like he’s trying to bite my head off.

“I have to go to work.”

“Work? Since when do you work?”

I shrug. “A few days.”

Actually, it’s been longer than that, but I never really cared for showing up on time or even being there some days.

But now … now, it’s different.

I’m different.

My dad coughs. “Doing what?”

“Volunteering.”

He grimaces. “Volunteering? Why’d you do that? What’s the point in working if you don’t earn money?”

I don’t answer. He always blurts out stupid shit that would make other people feel attacked, but I’ve grown used to it. He’s been this way ever since that one fateful day, and it’s only gotten worse as the days pass. Not that it matters. I’ve learned not to let it get to me.

“Later,” I say as I put on my jacket.

“Where is that volunteering stuff?” he yells as I walk out the door.

“Hospital,” I say, smiling as I close the door.

***

Maybell

A day has passed since the accident.

Only three hundred and sixty-four to go until I’m finally me again.

If I’ll ever be the complete me again.

I’ve never felt this defeated, but my mom tells me to keep my chin up.

I try; I really do. I smile whenever the nurses come to give me medicine and when I get my juice and sandwiches. I make stupid jokes with the doctor and those who come to check on me. I share a room with an old man, and I even explained to him what happened to me. Too bad, he forgets it within ten minutes.

At least, I tried.

I can say that for everything, but there’s going to be a point when I can no longer fake the joy.

I fear that moment.

I don’t know if I can handle it. Hell, I can’t even handle my mom’s emotions when she cried on the phone last night, let alone my own.

How is a person supposed to deal with the news they’ll never be able to do what they were aiming for? That everything you once knew is gone. Thrown out the window.

You just don’t.

You ignore it until the uneasiness goes away.

Except it doesn’t. It keeps bubbling back to the surface, including what little memories I have of the accident along with a hint of regret.

Regrets … God, I have so many; I don’t even know where to start.

Instead, I focus on distracting myself by putting on my favorite pajama shirt that my dad brought with all my other clothes for my lengthy stay. And I’m going to watch some anime on my laptop that my dad brought for me too.

But when I put on my headphones, I notice a guy my age standing just outside my door. His curly brown hair falls loosely over his thick black glasses that frame his plump, scruffy face as he licks his lips while looking straight at me.

No—not just looking—staring.

And I can’t look away.

His hands are at his side, and he seems momentarily frozen in time like a statue.

Then he turns around and walks away, out of my line of sight.

I frown to myself and wonder who he was and why he was looking at me as if he knew me.

Although, now that I think about it, he did look familiar.

I just don’t remember why.

But I don’t have time to think about it, as my stomach cramps play up again and I bend over to rub my belly.

Crap.

Literally.

I haven’t been to the toilet since yesterday, and now, I’m really feeling the need.

I’ve been holding it for as long as possible.

Anyone would to avoid the pain.

But I can’t avoid it any longer. I need to go.

So I press the button to call the nurse and blow out a few breaths to stop myself from soiling the bed.

When she comes in, my voice is high like a deflating balloon. “I have to pee.”

Well, it’s more than that, but she doesn’t need to know.

“Oh, well the chamber pot is already being used right now. You’ll have to wait.”

“Can’t. Wait.” I scrunch my face to handle the pain.

She looks back and forth between me and the other room before deciding to help me. “All right, but then I’m going to have to take you to the toilet around the corner. Just a sec.” She turns and walks away, leaving me with a stomach that feels like it’s about to explode, only to come back with crutches.

She places them beside the bed as I carefully lift the blanket off my leg. I have to take everything as slowly as I possibly can because any movement, even if it’s as light as a feather, hurts like a sharp knife. So I take my time to unravel the sheets and pull my leg out, but the moment I get to the edge of the bed, I scream and push back onto the bed immediately.

“What’s wrong?” the nurse asks.

“I can’t get off the bed,” I say, biting my lip. “I don’t know how. I can’t lift my leg. I can’t use my muscles. I can’t get off without it hurting like shit.”

“Oh … Right.” She leans down next to me and puts her hands around my ankle. “What if I helped you? Would that work?”

I nod and take a deep breath. When she moves, I hiss.

Underneath the plastic boot, I can feel the bones shift.

“It’s okay. Okay. Take it slowly,” she says.

“I’m trying,” I huff as I’m using my pelvis to guide the movement. The boot is so firm I can’t even bend any part of my leg except at the part where my pelvis is. I have to move my entire butt off the bed first, with her holding my leg in the air, before we can lower it to the ground.

It takes more than a minute, and when it hits the ground, the pain feels like an electrical current running straight up my leg.

Sweat drips down my forehead already, and I’m not even trying to stand yet.

She hands me the crutches, but when I situate them, I don’t even know what to do with them.

“How am I supposed to get up with one leg?” I ask.

“Right …” She grabs my arm and lifts. “There. But don’t stand on your bad leg. Don’t use it.”

I’m standing on one leg now. It feels unnatural. Weird. Out of place. Just like that boot around my leg. God, it itches. I just know I’m going to scratch the shit out of my skin when it’s finally off.

But first, the toilet.

“Crutches in front of you then you make the step. And remember—don’t use the bad leg.”

“Gotcha.” I put the crutches in front of me and make the small jump.

Pain shoots through my muscles and up my leg. I cringe and take it in with another hiss.

The next jump has me more sweat gathering on my brow, and I’m breathing heavily.

My bones … I feel them sliding across each other.

Each step is so painful I can barely stay standing.

When I look up and realize we’re not even ten percent underway, I panic.

“I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can.” She says it like it’s easy. Like she knows what this feels like.

“No, I can’t!”

“You can. Just try.”

“No!” I yell, finally losing my patience.

I don’t want to be unkind to her.

I don’t want to be like this. Like some kind of angry, raging bitch.

But my pain is talking …

I haven’t ever not been able to do something just because of pain.

She sighs and nods. “All right. I’ll get a wheelchair. Stay there.”

Like I have a choice. I almost say that out loud but stop myself at the last minute, just like I always do when I think stuff that’s not nice. I’m used to interrupting myself to keep people from thinking I’m a pessimistic bitch. Although, I often do fail.

Just another lovely part of the Asperger’s in my veins.

The nurse comes back with a bright green wheelchair, which she puts in front of me, and I happily throw the crutches down on the bed so I can sit on the chair instead. The moment I sit down and the weight lifts off my good foot, I can feel the pressure release, and I breathe out the tension slowly. The pain is still there, but at least, I can sit now.

The nurse brings me into the bathroom and wheels me beside the toilet.

But as I get off the wheelchair and sit down on the toilet, I realize I can’t even lower my own pants.

“I can’t …” I pick at my pajama pants, but nothing I do works.

“Let me help,” the nurse says as she leans toward me and pulls them down in one go.

It’s so easy for her.

It used to be easy for me too.

I sigh as I grab the metal rods beside the toilet to lift myself onto it and then lower my panties.

“I’ll be outside if you need me. You can pull the red string if there’s anything you need help with,” she says, closing the door behind her.

She must’ve seen and done this a million times.

But to me, it feels like my pride has been tainted.

I relieve myself, and when I’m done, I go through the hassle of trying to wipe myself with a leg that doesn’t work. I never knew how hard that could be when you’re not allowed to lean on it, and you can barely reach your own behind.

It takes more than fifteen minutes to be finally done.

And then the lengthy process of getting back to bed begins.

God. I never realized how debilitating being sick really is.

How much independence you lose.

How a simple thing like going to the bathroom can become such a humongous task.

When I’m back in bed and sweaty again from trying to avoid the pain, the nurse puts a few pillows under my leg so it can rest and then she leaves me alone.

I stare at the window and realize the old man’s gone. They must’ve taken him for a walk or a shower.

Which means I’m finally by myself for the first time since the accident.

For some reason, the mere thought makes me melancholic … and the tears just spring up out of nowhere.

I don’t know why or for what reason.

Stop, May, stop.

Why can’t you stop?

I never just burst out crying, but I do now.

The sadness just won’t go away.

I guess crying never has any rhyme or reason. It doesn’t change a thing, yet I can’t stop it, either. Something just has to get out.

But I don’t want anyone to see, so I wipe the tears away using the blanket.

Not that it stops them from rolling anyway.