Day Ninety-Two

“Ya’ stupid tree,” the television blares as I stare blankly at nothing. I’ve been crying. No idea for how long. All I know is that I don’t remember what happened. He’s gone and I don’t remember what I did.

I know not to think that I didn’t do anything. I know that I did, in fact, do something. It happens frequently. But he’s never left before. Never.

What the heck did I do?

My eyes flick over to the television. The stupidly happy cartoon. “I’m secretly a part of the Tree Inspection Association!” says an impossibly cheery animated tree. The other tree and the idiotic bright red car gasp in shock.

I throw my empty beer bottle at the television.

The bottle lodges itself into the screen and cracks spread from the point of contact. It doesn’t fall. I begin to laugh. I’m not sure why, but I laugh. I laugh so hard I fall to the ground, clutching my sides. It hurts so much. Tears stream down my contorted face, from laughing or crying I don't know. I let out an earsplitting wail.

An eternity passes before I can stand. I think I blacked out, but when I see my destroyed living room I realize I just had another fit. And again, I don’t remember what the heck I just did. My only clue – which is blatantly obvious – is the chaos around me.

I glance around, looking for John, then remember he’s gone. Tears well up in my eyes. Again. But instead of giving in to another fit, I resolve myself to find John. Even if he never wants to set eyes on me again, I will find him. I need to apologize for whatever I did that was terrible enough to drive him out.

After dressing I sprint out the door, leaving my apartment in shambles.

JohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohnJohn. His name fills my mind. Where would he have gone? Would it be somewhere I can find him? Would he be so angry that he would go somewhere that I can’t find him? What if he’s not angry? What if he’s scared of me? What if I hurt him? Where do I start? Questions that won’t be answered until I find him. I run faster. I make a quick decision and turn down the street towards his parents’ house. They live approximately six blocks away from me – and John.

They never trusted me, his parents, and that distrust transformed into hatred when John decided to move into my apartment with me. He had made the decision when I was officially diagnosed with schizophrenia.

We had served in the Army together for eight years – until we were in a car that drove over a land mine. We had almost died together, effectively tying the rest of our lives together.

It took us years to recover from the damage. In his case, lots of physical therapy for his shattered legs and ribs as well as psychological therapy for brain damage. It breaks my heart every time I see him hobbling around on his hand crutches, every time I hear the shuffling of legs that will never walk again.

As for me, I was in a coma for a year and a half. I recovered from various breaks in that time, and woke up with amnesia. John helped me to regain most of my memories. John came to see me every day that he could while I was in my coma. John held me back as I tried to sacrifice my sister during my first fit, and comforted me when the voices became too loud.

John was always the strong one.

I finally reach his parents’ house, a small flat on the edge of an expansive suburban neighborhood. I’m in such a panic that I crash into their door. Frantically, I ring the doorbell, my hand twitching with anxiety. After an agonizingly long minute, his mother answers, a petite woman with a scowl permanently plastered onto her face. It deepens when she sees me, sweaty and gasping, likely with an insane look in my eyes.

“Charles…” she begins, sighing.

“John,” I interrupt, panting. “Need. John. Where he?”

“Oh, Charles,” she says, her voice dripping with pity and disgust. “This is the third time you’ve come this week. Don’t you remember?”

What did I forget?

“John. Is. Dead.” She screams in my face, I’m sure not for the first time.

Oh, no…

“And do you know how, Charles?” she sneers.

Nononononononononononononononononononononononononononononononono

“You killed him.” She’s eerily calm, which is quite disconcerting given the circumstances.

No I didn’t I swear I couldn’t not John not John not John please not John

I moan inwardly, feeling it bubble up and erupt as a scream. I collapse to the ground, rocking and hitting my face into the pavement.

John’s mother crouches beside me. “It happened three months ago, Charles. Three months. And you’ve been running here every bloody day for those three months. I’ve told the story again and again, Charles, and I don’t enjoy it. You had a fit. You killed my son. GET IT INTO YOUR BLOODY SICK BRAIN!”

I moan and moan, smashing my face into the ground, leaving bloody smears. I briefly wonder if I’ve done this before. I could’ve responded in a multitude of ways, as I had been receiving the news in new, horrible ways every day for three months.

I don’t realize the police have come until they’re grabbing me and dragging me back to the prison disguised as an apartment.

. . .

I wake up, my face throbbing. Shakily, I stand and shuffle to the long mirror across from my bed. My face is swollen and purple, and my nose is broken. I wonder what happened to cause such damage.

“Hey, John,” I say, stepping into the living space,” Can you tell me what happened to my face?”

The living room is shockingly clean, and it looks like John purchased a new television set. And coffee table. And sofa.

Did I destroy the living room? That might explain the condition of my face.

John still hasn’t responded to my inquiry.

“John?”

I open his door and step into his room, which is across the living space from mine.

He’s gone.

“John?” Panic is rising in my voice.

Did I chase him away? Did I hurt him?

“John!” Tears are beginning to pool in my eyes. I’m frantically searching the apartment for any traces of him.

What the hell did I do?

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