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Youtopia, Ch. 4 |
| Written by Sneh =] | |
| Monday, 14 April 2008 | |
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Share it:      I walk into the kitchen to pour myself some cereal and think. My kitchen’s always been the best place for that. It’s always sunny and warm in here, especially on June days like this when the curtains over the window are blocking out most of the sun, so there’s just enough light and just enough heat to make life feel good. Top it off with some coffee and some selects tunes from the Ipod and there you go– the poor man’s version of perfection. It lets you forget about all the problems you can’t do anything about so you can focus on those small little things that have been bugging you all day. Of course, I’m not entirely sure if what Morgue is going through counts as a small little thing. The reason I’ve been so worried about him is that he’s been sort of listless and unresponsive like this before, and that time, if I hadn’t realized what he was doing before he managed to pull it off, he’d be dead right now. Almost losing Morgue was the most traumatizing thing I’ve ever gone through. It started on such a good day, too– it was the first day of winter break, and I was all hyped about spending the week in the wonderful Sunshine State and talking to hot bikini-clad lovelies while my friends were going to be stuck here in below-30° New York, freezing their asses off. I was in 8th grade then, and so I was busy calling up everyone I vaguely knew to brag while my mom packed all my crap. I realized I hadn’t been able to talk to Morgue since school ended, so I dialed his cell and waited forever for him to pick up, but he never did. I kept calling, and he kept not answering– which was weird for him, he always answered my calls– so I decided to just go over and see what the hell was going on. When I got there, the front doors were closed but not locked, so I just came in and walked around, looking for him. I knew he was home by himself because the sparkling twin Mercedes weren’t in the driveway, and I knew something was definitely wrong because the TV was off, there was no music blaring, and I could smell nothing being warmed up in the kitchen. I finally trekked the huge staircase up to the third floor where the bedrooms were, and walked up to his room. The door was closed and there was no light showing from beneath it, which probably meant he was either in some deep-ass coma of a nap, or he wasn’t here at all, which didn’t make any sense because either way, why would he leave the house unlocked? So I opened the door, and there he was, laying sprawled on the floor besides a mountain of empty pill containers. His eyes were closed, and I was naive enough to believe for a few minutes before I dialed 911 that he was just sleeping, but as my hands– almost on their own accord– reached for my phone it hit me that I was half-right. He was in or slipping into a coma, and if he didn’t get any help soon he would die. Later, the doctor told me that if I hadn’t acted as quickly as I did Morgue wouldn’t have survived. For a few minutes, the life of my best friend had been in my hands. I could hardly handle turning in projects on time, how the hell had I managed to stand in the way of death? But I had, somehow, and I’m thankful for it. I’m thankful, but I’m scared shitless of it happening again. What would I do if Morgan Berekely was dead? At the age of 13 we had already mapped out the rest of our lives– we were going to get our driver’s licenses together, go to the same college together, find some hot, rich twins to marry, and settle down not more than five blocks away from each other. This was before Morgue had told me his little secret, but even knowing that didn’t change anything. Sure, it was strange at first, having a friend who preferred dicks over chicks, but it didn’t make him any less of a person in my eyes. Hell, he’s basically the coolest person I know. He’s done his own tattoos, and he was the first kid in freshman year to get a lip piercing. And overall, Morgue’s got balls. I mean, he may be gay, but he’s not a sissy. He’s always been able to stand up for himself against anyone– whether it was against bullies on the playground or against his parents when they finally found out. I’m really kinda proud to consider this kid my closest companion, and, you know, usually I can trust him to stick around and be there for me when I really need him. Usually. But when he starts getting like this, depressed and ****, it’s scary. It’s really freaking scary because he’s supposed to be there. It’s an indisputable fact of life-- best friends are supposed to be around for each other. Forever. Period. So, I don’t know what to do. I don’t really have hard evidence that something’s wrong...but I’m not willing to take a chance. I’m not going to be riding in an ambulance while lights flash and cars swerve away because somebody’s in trouble– not just any somebody, but a somebody I know. Not again. I guess I could maybe talk it over with Jacob, my brother, except for the fact that he’s a terminal douche and I hate him. All he does all day is play Guitar Hero while finishing off yet another six-pack of watery beer because he can’t mooch enough off my mom to afford Budweiser. It’s pathetic in a funny sort of way. He doesn’t care about anything or anyone but himself. He didn’t give a **** when I told him about Morgue trying to kill himself, and he really didn’t give a **** when out of nowhere, Dad left. Mom was sitting on the sofa with smeared mascara and a ripped pencil skirt because she had tried to run after him, to stop him because we needed him there, and Jacob just kept zoning out on his Playstation. Okay, so I didn’t really try to help her either, but it was because I didn’t know how to help. I still don’t know to help, which is why I end up not really talking to my mom when she’s home, and since she’s at work almost all the time that means I end up not talking to her for days. I think she prefers taking her lunch break anyway when I’m at school and Jacob’s in his room so she doesn’t have to see us. I think we remind her a lot of Dad, not only because we have half his DNA, but because we never try to make anything easier for her. She’s pretty much given up on trying to make us into good kids. By now, I’ve finished up my cereal and have no real reason to be in here anymore, but I still have no idea what to do about Morgue. Maybe I’m making a big deal out of nothing. I don’t know. I hesitate for a second, then pick up the black cordless by the microwave and dial his number. A few rings go by, and then he answers. “Hello?” “Hey, Morgue, it’s me.” “What the hell are you doing calling me now?!” Did I mention he’s not a morning person? “Nothing...well, okay, actually I’m calling because...” I pause. This sounded like the right thing to do a second ago but now I’m not so sure. How am I supposed to say this? ‘Hey, Morgue, you haven’t been thinking of killing yourself lately, have you?’ “If you’re just calling to annoy me, go jump off a cliff.” “I’m not, I’m not. I’ve just been worried about you.” “How sweet.” He yawns loudly into the phone. “It’s nice to know I’m in your thoughts.” “No, look, this is serious. You...weren’t yourself yesterday, and I’m just wondering if, you know, everything’s okay.” “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” I peek in Jacob’s room to see if he’s trying to listen in, but the only thing in there are a bunch of empty pizza boxes and a huge red blob of lard on the bed. Oh wait, no, that’s Jacob in his flannel Pjs. It looks like we’re safe. “You sounded pretty bummed about you and Rob,” I say as I go into my room and shut the door. “Sort of...depressed.” Unfortunately, he can already see where the conversation’s going and I can almost hear the amount of eye-rolling and exasperated sighing on the other side of the line. “Stop it, Foss. Nothing’s wrong. I’m feeling perfectly fine.” “Are you...sure? You’re totally okay?” “Yes. I’m not getting any urges to slit my wrists or throw myself off a seventh-story window if that’s what you’re asking.” “Are you totally, absolutely--” There’s a click and all I can hear now is a low beep. I grumble to myself and throw the phone on the floor. Jesus, all I’m trying to do is help and he’s getting all pissy at me. I swear, queers get touchy about everything. Well, whatever. I pick up the receiver from the carpet and decide to call up my brand-new girlfriend, a.k.a Em. Hopefully she’s up and we can get that date started– I think ice cream, followed by a really steamy makeout session, would be the perfect thing right now. We can share a sundae and kiss and not talk about Morgue or any of his emo little problems because it’s not like he matters anyway. He’s always been like this. Emo. For Godsakes, his entire wardrobe is made up of skulls and stripes and black hearts and skinny jeans. You could find a thousand people who look like him on Myspace, easy. He’s a good friend but I could find someone just like in an instant if I needed to. If he decided to just leave. I could find someone just like him in half a laugh, half a smile, half a heartbeat. Just like that. I’m right in the middle of dialing Em’s cell when I stop, and drop the phone. I’m suddenly not in the mood anymore for and it’s all ******* Morgue’s fault. I could find someone like him, sure, but I couldn’t find another Morgan Berkeley. And it’s this that makes me press Redial even though I know this time he’s going to check his caller ID and press Ignore. I guess that what friends are for, right? They’re supposed to be around even when you don’t want them poking their noses in your business. If I hadn’t done that the last time...well, you know. So I call again, and he doesn’t answer, and I sort of smile even though nothing’s funny. Later the kid’ll thank me for this. Right now he’s wishing I would take a hint, but later he’ll see I’m just showing I care. That’s all I care about– later. That there is a later, that in an hour or a week or a month or a year I’ll call, and we’ll talk about nothing like usual because we have time, in the future, that ever-present future, to talk about whatever needs to be talked about. Maybe I’m overreacting– I do that a lot. But I’m just so scared of this. One of my worst fears is staring me in the face, its eyes glinting and its mouth curved into an evil smirk, and it makes me feel like I can’t do a thing to stop it. Copyright 2008 Sneh =] |
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