Starfish and Suicide
She was one of my mom’s friends from nursing school, but I don’t remember how she came into our lives. I just remember spending a lot of time with her. We’d drive about in her silver Jetta going 80 miles per hour on a 40 mph deserted road. We’d go to beaches and parks and all sorts of places.
“You should know I’m always here for you Ariel.” She told me once.
I remember once we went to Washington Park. It was so beautiful. We walked along the beach, through this cement tunnel with hand prints and mud splattered on the walls. I remember it echoed as we talked. I found this whole army of starfish, purple and orange. Some were bigger then my head, and attached themselves to my tummy when I held them. Others were small. We took three of the littlest ones and put them in her car to dry and keep forever.
We went to Deception Pass once. We hiked all throughout the woods nearby and talked about jumping off the bridge to our deaths. Then we’d hide whenever Semis passed because, mostly, she was afraid of them. So I was too. I remember exploring woods and taking pictures next to this old, demented tree that was supposed to be the trademark tree or something. I’d climb up cliffs and pick flowers for my mom. We’d sit on grassy hills and take pictures of anything interesting and watch random birds drop out of the sky.
I remember going to her dorm and sitting through her nursing classes, writing depressive poems and being emo in the corner. We’d go into her room that reeked of perfume. On her door was a rainbow of condoms that made me blush whenever I looked at them. Her room was small and cluttered, decorated with beer bottles and vodka glasses. Pictures of alcohol advertisements went around her wall like a border. I was always quiet whilst in her dorm, as if some dorm god might smite me for some unknown reason. She was obsessed with Idaho. She’d praise me and I’d follow her around like a lost puppy. I looked up to her so much.
We’d make wishes on 11:11, twice a day. We had so much fun. We’d blast 50 Cent and open all the windows and laugh as people glared. The music usually hurt my ears. We’d listen to James Blunt whenever she was sad. She was my best friend. She’d drive me to school, blasting music, and drive away like a mad woman. She’d take me out of school to go on little “fieldtrips”.
I can’t remember when it all started to go downhill. But I remember it did, horribly. Around this time Phoebe came into our lives. She was about as big as my hand and the cutest puppy there. But she hated Phoebe, and since she hated her, I did too. But I also loved her because she was mine.
Once Heather was over at my house and we were eating suckers or something. We were messing around on the computer and there was a paper cup full of water. It had no scent, no color, so we drank it. I thought it tasted funny because of the sucker I was eating and kept drinking it. Eventually someone noted the funny taste and the other agreed. She thought it was the sucker too. We eventually found out that it was sparkling water or some other form of alcohol that she left by the computer. We didn’t really think of it at the time.
She was the only one who could make me pee myself laughing, get cramps in my cheeks, and holding my sides to get them to stop hurting…
I remember the yelling, I don’t know who though. But yelling and slamming of doors. I’d curl up in my bed, covering my ears, and wish for sleep to take me. By then she was living with us. She spent a lot of time with my father too, but I didn’t think anything of that either. Maybe I should have.
One day I came home to another fight. But this one was different, and Father was kicking her out. I guess she tried to slit her wrists when no one was around. But my father found her. That was another sign I’d missed. I just thought about the blood and how beautiful the color, how artistically it slithers down flesh, and other morbid things. She ended up not leaving, and things just got worse from there.
She was no longer my friend, no longer my hero. The more obsessed she grew of my father, the more distant we became. They drank so much… It was the worst I’d ever seen my alcoholic father. He’d bruise my mother’s arms and throw pop cans. My mother took the majority of it, but I never knew. She hid it too well.
It wasn’t her only suicide attempt. She usually took pills, hoping to overdose, to pass out just a little, then have my father, a Fire Chief working at the Fire Department, come rescue her in the nick of time. Like some sick love story. She crashed her car and our starfish were destroyed, not that they mattered anymore. I knew those days were long, long since over.
She was no longer the person I knew, the big sister, the best friend. And during this time I just shut down. I didn’t know what to do; I didn’t know how I could fix it.
The last time I remember seeing her, she stumbled into my room at night, drunk, as I was sleeping. I don’t know what she said, nor did I care. She was on top of me, clinging on me desperately, her pants half pulled down. Her weight was crushing me, I was so scared. Just waking up with a fat woman on top of you is slightly frightening, even more so when she’s wasted. I finally crawled out from under her and ran to my mom. I remember my voice was so monotone. As if I didn’t care either way. My voice was like that a lot during those times. Even though tears cascaded down my face, I made no noise. No emotion. By this time she was on the floor crying and whispering to herself. Mom went to go take care of her whilst I locked myself in the bathroom and curled up on the dirty clothes pile with a towel around my shoulders. They yelled some, a lot about me, and she got in her car, blasted James Blunt, and sped off.
She ended up totaling her car, for about the fifth time, and that was the last I saw of her.
She ended up going back to live with her parents. We don’t talk about her anymore, and my father’s never been the same. He’s always drinking, always drunk. But I don’t know him any other way.
Sometimes she’s brought up in conversation, but then the subject is swiftly changed.
Sometimes, on rare days, we still get her mail. Always saying the same thing;
Rina