Page 158 of Tiny Fractures

I have thought about ending it with Cat, for her sake. It would hurt more than hell, more than the physical pain my mother inflicted on me, to let her go, but maybe it’s best for her. She would have a chance to move on from this. I’m a burning, sinking ship, and she doesn’t need to be dragged down to the depths of darkness with me. She is too good, too perfect to be with someone as broken as me, and I don’t know how I can give all of myself to her when I’m half of who I used to be, and even that past version of me was nowhere near good enough for Cat.

It’s late Tuesday afternoon and I’m sitting in Doctor Seivert’s office. It’s a change from before when we would have sessions at my house, but she thought the change of scenery would be good for me, so my dad has been dragging me to her office twice a week for the past week or so, since my right knee still is not nearly well enough for me to drive myself. The doctor says it’ll take six to nine months to be fully healed, and even then I’ll likely have pretty significant limitations. It’s depressing to think that I might not be able to play hockey again or workout and run the way I used to.

Last week I found out that Drew was named captain of the varsity hockey team, purely based on seniority, since it’s pretty clear I’ll no longer be able to play. I anticipated this, but I’d be lying if I said it didn’t affect me. I put so much damn effort into being good enough, into living up to my mom’s expectations of me—getting good grades, excelling at whatever she asked of me—and in the end, none of it mattered. It was never good enough, and in just minutes she managed to destroy everything I had ever worked for.

Yesterday was the preliminary hearing, the day when some random judge would decide whether there was enough evidence that my mother beat the living shit out of me, tried to end me, and should stand trial for what she did. Luckily, I didn’t have to testify, didn’t have to face her. There was enough evidence even without me present. The prosecutor came to our house on Friday and it was really the first time I heard about what some of the evidence would be. Although I was vaguely aware of Steve’s presence while I was on the ground, struggling to breathe, I hadn’t known that Zack was there too, that he had caught part of what happened on his camera. I haven’t seen the footage; I don’t think I’m ready, that I will ever be ready, although I have a feeling sooner or later I’ll have to watch it and relive everything.

In the end, the judge ruled that my mother should have to stand trial, which is preliminarily set for spring, though the D.A. told my dad that these things sometimes resolve beforehand, which would be the case if my mother changed her plea to guilty. God, I wish she would; I wish I wouldn’t have to testify, wouldn’t have to relive everything she has ever done to me, talk about it to strangers.

Yesterday was a hell of a day, and the night that followed was one of the worst yet. Every time I closed my eyes, I was right back on that god damn floor, feeling like I was drowning from the inside as my mother’s face, contorted in anger, loomed over me while she beat and kicked the life out me. My dad woke me up five or six times and then ended up just sleeping on the floor next to my bed because the dreams were nonstop and I couldn’t wake up from them by myself. Eventually, at around four in the morning, I just dragged my ass out of bed instead of going back to sleep, and when my dad joined me in the living room a couple hours later, he looked as sleep-deprived as I’ve been feeling for the past month.

I actually fell asleep during my math class today, just passed right out with my head on my desk and only woke up when Vada roused me after class had ended. My instructor stood next to her, a sympathetic look on his face, and told me to go to the office and have my dad or Steve come and take me home so I could get some rest.

My teachers have been cutting me a ton of slack, but that doesn’t mean my grades aren’t suffering. I just can’t keep up with classwork, never mind homework, papers, and projects. It’s a lost cause at this point.

“I’m not okay,” I say again, more to myself than to Doctor Seivert. We’ve been sitting here for the last half hour, talking about the preliminary hearing and, for some reason, I suddenly felt the urge to let her know what’s really going on inside me.

Seeing her for the past month and a half has felt like a delicate balance. Open up just enough to make these hour-long sessions pass, but not enough that I break open completely because I constantly feel like I’m toeing the line of losing myself forever if I open the door too far. Things have been bubbling under the surface, and I feel like I’m getting worse rather than better, which is something I’ve been realizing for a while now. The dark thoughts have been encroaching on my days and nights, but it really hit me last night while I was sitting in the living room in the dark with Onyx by my feet. It was quiet in the house; Steve and my dad were finally getting some rest now that I was awake and not interrupting their night with my near-constant nightmares.

My mind wandered to the bathroom upstairs—like it has so many times these past couple weeks—and the unlocked medicine cabinet that holds my painkillers and anti-anxiety medication. There’s enough that, if I took it all at once, I would be asleep within half an hour—quickly enough that neither Steve nor my dad would know what I had done until it was too late. And the idea that I could just do it—end it all—that I had control of at least that aspect of my life, that I could just finally go to sleep without being afraid, excited me and scared the shit out of me at the same time. And what scared me even more was that I knew exactly how I’d do it, how to increase my chances of keeping a significant number of the pills down long enough to do what I so desperately wanted them to do.

I can’t describe the stillness, the peace, and the calm that came over me when I realized I had that power—that I could just end it. And they would all be free—Cat, my friends, Steve, my dad, hell, even my mother would finally get what she’s been wanting since the moment she found out she was pregnant with me.

“Can you elaborate on that for me, Ronan?” Doctor Seivert asks, and puts her notepad down on the little glass table beside her black leather chair to rest her hands on her lap. I fucking hate glass tables.

Doctor Seivert is wearing a beige knit sweater—it looks soft, like cashmere or something fancy—and she has on black trousers that only reach her high-heeled, boot-clad calves.

“I’m so damn tired. All the time,” I say without looking at my therapist. I keep bouncing my left leg and I can feel how tense my shoulders are. My eyes are burning from the lack of sleep and I shut them tightly while pinching the bridge of my nose between my left index finger and thumb.

Doctor Seivert doesn’t say anything, which is her way of urging me to continue talking.

“All I want… is to go to sleep.” I raise my eyes now, looking at her, and even though I don’t want to say the words that are burning in my chest, I hope to god she can read my face and understand what I’m trying to convey to her. I need help before I do something really fucking stupid.

She nods slowly, her lips parted as she leans forward slightly, lessening the distance between us. “Ronan, are you having thoughts of suicide?”

Her forward question is a shock to the system, and I feel shame wash through me when I nod my head yes.

“Tell me about those thoughts,” she urges, her voice soft as she interlaces her hands and scoots her chair toward me a little bit more.

I tell her about last night; the relentless, vivid nightmares I’ve been having; the near-constant thoughts of not wanting to burden anyone any longer, of not being good enough. I tell her about the physical pain I’m still in, despite my injuries healing; and I tell her about how exhausted I am—the bone-deep fatigue I feel from the moment I wake up to the moment I close my eyes at night, no matter how much I rest; my desperation for sleep, a sleep without dreams, a sleep without the possibility of waking up.

“I wish she had finished it,” I finally admit, my voice almost a whisper, expressing my darkest thoughts out loud for the first time ever. “I wish she had actually killed me. Then nobody would have to deal with this. It would just be done.”

“What about your family?” Doctor Seivert asks. “What about your friends? What about Cat?”

“What about them?”

“Don’t you think they would be sad if you were gone?” she asks, and I know what she’s trying to do. She’s trying to remind me that there are people who love me. But I know that. That’s exactly the problem. They love me too much, are too invested, which means they’re weighed down by what’s going on with me. I can see it in their faces, feel the tense energy, hear it in their voices when they talk while I’m around.

“I’m sure they would be,” I say. “But they’d move on. They’d grieve and then they’d keep living their lives. That’s what Shane did after his little brother died. He was a mess for a while, but he was able to move on from it,” I tell Doctor Seivert and myself, definitely leaving out the part about Shane going down a dark path of partying and drinking.

“Shane no longer misses his little brother? Doesn’t get sad anymore?” she inquires, prodding me on to think logically, rationally, to see the fallacy in my argument.

“Yeah, he does, but he still has a good life,” I say stubbornly.

She nods, not pushing me further because she can tell I’m about to shut down on her, just like I have so many times before.

“Ronan, can you do something important for me?” she asks finally, and I shrug. “I want to see you tomorrow morning, if that’s possible. I know you have school, but I’ll work it out with your dad.”

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