December 2014

Month 5 of being unemployed.

Still enrolled in college, submitting all of my assignments on time and with minimal effort. Finishing the semester with a 4.0 GPA and no sense of direction or ambition.

Still living with my parents as their youngest and last child in the house at 22 years old.

Hour 12 of today’s gaming binge with breaks only for my personal biology.

I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I’m not sure where I’m going. I’m desperately avoiding thoughts of my future and instead clinging sloth-like to a self-pitying view of the past and a hedonistic blundering trundle through the present.

Nothing impeccable, nothing sacred, simple naivety and a lack of self-awareness.

My phone rings. Markus?

“Hey, man what’s up?” I pin the phone to my ear so my hands can return to the keyboard and mouse - not willing to slow down my game for whatever has him calling. He’s a damned knucklehead after all, and he’s called before for the silliest of favors. I’m a sucker for his bullshit because I’m deeply in love with his sister, even after she left me, and I’m close with his family. To be honest, I’ve become friends with him in his own right after all I’d been through with his sister over that last six years. He’s been the little brother I never had.

“I’m sorry….” Markus says in a voice that has clearly been crying for a while and is somehow more distant than just being on the other side of the phone line.

“What’s up, buddy? Are you okay?” I ask, my voice a mix of concern and annoyed suspicion that he’s done something to get in trouble with the law or his mama. I’ve been proud to play big-brother to him before, but I’m also not a pristine role-model, so if he’s in trouble there’s as much a chance of me being able to help as there is of me making it worse.

“Just… " his hoarse voice catches in his throat and I can hear the tears in his squint-and-swallow while finding his voice. He’s struggling against himself just to get the words out.

“Just tell Mom I’m sorry and I didn’t mean to.” He whispers with a desperation that runs my blood cold and makes me swallow hard.

My screen flashes red indicating that myself and my team have been eliminated in the game that I was playing before taking the call, but the red of that flash reaches me through the reflection of my car keys sitting on the table next to my left hand.

“Talk to me buddy, you’are a good kid - what do you have to be sorry for?” I ask, my words spilling out of my mouth while the fingers of one hand close on the keys and the fingers of the other close on the doorknob of my room. Somehow I already know what’s happening and my body is moving with an urgency and certainty unlike anything I’ve known.

He sobs and keeps whisper mumbling variations of incoherent apologies.

I keep telling him that its okay and that I’ll help him no matter what it is, just keep talking.

Without recollection of the time between I’ve ended up in the car and I’m driving the 7 minutes to his house, but the streets are all 30mph at most and I’m going 55mph before I pass the third house down from my own. Part of me hopes a cop sees me and joins the response.

Markus is still speaking, but I’m not listening. I’m driving. I just need the reassurance that his voice is still there. He’s still pulling breath into his lungs.

I’m still driving.

90 in a 30. Pedestrians are rightfully agog at my reckless driving. I’m not even sure I’m driving. I’m just moving. Moving closer to Markus’ house and holding back my tears of fear because I need to be able to see the road.

Markus’ words stopped being words and just became sounds. Still breathing though. Not the worse sounds I’ve imagined and reacted to, not the last sounds, not the sounds that have my body trembling with adrenaline at their prospect.

I’m still driving, but I’m closer. I round a corner with a tire screech and I can see his front door.

He’s still on the other side of the phone, still drawing breath. I have time.

“Markus - I’m here. I’m here. I’m here.” I say to myself more than to him, somehow knowing he’s not hearing anything outside of his own head now.

I bottom out my car on the curb at the edge of his driveway and dive out of the car leaving my phone on the console. My hand touches the doorknob at the same time as my chest touches the red painted door. Marisa keeps her door unlocked throughout the day because she’s as close as family with her neighbors on either side. It took me months of dating Bri to get used to “just walking in” when I’m over there. This time though, I’m bodily through the door and putting all of my weight onto the bottom handle of the bannister before I realize that Bri and Marisa are home. How can they be sitting there in the kitchen just talking? Don’t they know? God please tell me he’s here and not somewhere else!

I’m up the stairs before they can react to my presence and call my name. It takes them another while to overcome their shock at my urgency and for Bri to follow me.

I’m in his room. He’s here. Christ almighty Markus is here in his room still on the phone with the empty car sitting outside.

I move to him swiftly but smoothly. My hands are not my own, my gentle certainty is coming to me from somewhere else. I drop to my knees in front of him and mirror his posture. Our foreheads touch and I take the phone from his hand. His body is trembling and something in him finally lets go. I catch him under the armpits and pull his chest onto mine letting him lean into me.

I pull the rope from around his neck and up over his head. I briefly consider untying the knot and pulling the rope down from the pull-up bar where he’d secured it in the doorframe of his closet. There was no time though, and no way to hide this. No reason to. Marisa needs to know, even if its going to break a part of her.

I pull him over to the wall and turn him around so that his back is against my chest and we are both leaning against the wall. I’ve got his wrists in my hands and we are both hugging him while catching our breath.

We are both crying freely now, both accepting wordlessly the weight of what almost happened.

The door to his room knocks gently and swings open. Bri is there looking partly curious and partly annoyed.

“What’s going o-” she begins to ask but her voice catches when her eyes land on the rope hanging in the doorway to the closet.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Markus whispers, his voice hoarse and weak. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Mommmm! Mom! Mom please get up here!” Bri yells out the door and I can hear her feet pounding down the stairs.

Marisa’s got a bad knee that prevents her from traversing the stairs quickly, but she appears in the doorway a moment later and pulls Bri with her to join us on the floor.

Incredibly Marisa’s voice is controlled enough for us to understand her words, but her eyes are wide with tears and her face is contorted with a silent scream of anguish. She knows she almost lost a second child.

“Markus, what’s going on?” she asks, her voice a mix of desperation and disbelief. “Please my baby boy please talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“I’m sorry.” Markus whispers again, his body releasing some of the tension; perhaps finally physically believing his own apology.

The next hour of our time sitting on the floor of his room is a painful amalgamation of tears, apologies, and admissions.

A few hours later I’m sitting quietly with Markus, Bri, and Marisa in the waiting room of a local hospital. The doctor has just come out to tell us that Markus can be accepted to the facility and due to his age and the severity of his actions, he will be admitted immediately. He’ll receive treatment both individually and in a group setting. We’ll be able to visit him every day during certain hours if we’d like.

I’m not sure what to say. I’m not sure what to do. I’m not sure what to think. I’m not sure what to feel.

I’m just here.

I’m doing my best to be a good friend. A good person. To repay to Marisa and Bri the love they’ve shown me, even if I’m no longer a part of their family.

I’m doing my best, in the absence of any real understanding of the world or my place in it, to be an instrument of good.

I don’t know why he called me. I’m surprised I noticed the call at all. I don’t know if I believe in the Christian God, but this instance in our lives has always borne the feeling of unreality that sometimes feels like I was selected to play a small part in a much larger orchestration.