Free at last

NOTE: This story includes themes of Substance abuse and self harm!!

I never thought this day would come, not this way, not like this. I wished for a life full of adventures, I yearned for it. Ever since I was a little boy, all I wanted was to see what’s out there, in this big world. This big beautiful world that drew me in, and swallowed me whole. I wish my mother could see how far I’ve come, how much I’ve seen, known the distances I’ve walked, known the freedom of the world.

I would Imagine her next to me. Her dark hair tied up in a ponytail, her feet dragging behind her, and her familiar voice complaining about the distance, but the moment we would reach the destination, she would be full of life and talk, and squeal of excitement. Now I can’t remember the sound of her voice. She walks silently next to me and smiles when I glance back.

She never got the chance to see the world, her injuries wouldn’t let her. When I was younger she would tell me stories of all these great travelers, and show me pictures of the most beautiful exotic places. Telling me to bring her there someday. I hope she knows I bring her everyday.

I take a short breath and glare at the boiling sun, remembering how my father would make sure I was protected. He would buy me sunglasses, sunscreen, clothes, gear, shoes, everything a traveler would need. I used to send him postcards wherever I would travel, in hope that he would reply, he never did, but I knew he’d see them. Every time I came home after an adventure, my cards would be framed and on the shelf in the living room. My picture would be in the middle, with my father to my right, my mom to my left, and my baby brother in my tiny arms. I’m holding him up proudly, with a big smile on my face. In the picture frame next to it, is a trophy for a marathon I won when I was 25 held up proudly too. I remember I felt so free that day, I felt as if nothing could stop me.

My father cheered me on the entire way, driving on the road next to the track, blowing horns with my brother, cheering and playing loud music. He would speed up sometimes, run out and hand me water before jumping back into the car and cheering just as loud. My father was my biggest supporter, and trainer. Even though he would never join me, he would help me train, and keep me on diet when I lived back home. Even when I went to collage, he would call and ask if I’d done my workouts. He would send me photos of the family along with a letter telling me how much they miss me. I hope they all know how much I miss them. I miss them everyday, every second, every minute, every hour. My post cards are buried six feet under, along with the body of my father. My father who couldn’t handle my mothers death.

I swallow my saliva, my mouth is so dry it hurts. My brother was a quiet person, the opposite of me. He would study, keep to himself, and draw. I remember when we were younger, he would always give me drawings. I had a wall dedicated to his drawings, and when I moved out, I had a whole room. From when he was 1 to when he was 31. Wall to wall covered, and in the middle of the room there’s a painting. He was 19 when he painted it, and I was 26. It was a colorful painting of a picture taken by my mother. Ribbons fly to each side of my body, my arm is raised up high, my legs in motion, and my smile bigger than ever. He painted me from the marathon I won, he added the trophy into my raised hand, even though it wasn’t in the picture. There’s splotches of color, green, yellow, blue, red, purple, around me. He was good at affecting my emotions in his drawings, every time I look at it I feel happy and encouraged.

He went on to become a big artist, selling paintings to famous people, he even had his own gallery in New York. It was named after him. William B. It stood in white fat letters outside. His pictures were hung with beautiful gold frames with a various of designs. He was in newspapers, he would go to fancy parties, his name would be on everyone’s lips. His paintings were auctioned away after his tragic death, I was lucky to keep the painting he had of me. flowers were laid outside his gallery after the car accident. I got a whole page dedicated to him in the weeks newspaper. I sometimes wonder where he would be today, what the next step would be, how much further he could have come. I guess I’ll never know.

I turn my 53 year old body slowly to the side, and see a glimpse of someone I never thought I would see again. Lorrie. Her dark hair flowing behind her, she’s cast like a shadow in front of the sun. Her body moving slowly toward me.

The first time I ever met her was in collage. It was after school, and everyone had gone home, or so I thought. It was hot that day too, and I was so distracted by the heat, and my running that I didn’t notice someone was standing in the tracks. Suddenly our bodies collapse together, and I fall onto her. She was so small, I was sure I broke something, but she lifted herself up with a slow grunt, and stretched out her hand. She lifted me up, and started running with me.

We started meeting after that, we would run, eat, see movies, drive around, and sometimes she would come over to my dorm and we would cook together. She was an amazing cook. I could feel the time and energy she put into it in every bite. The love too. I didn’t understand it at first, when everything was perfect, but when things started to go wrong I understood that I was madly in love with her.

Her mother died when we were still in collage, and she took a turn. I could see it in her eyes, on her body, in her words, that she was depressed. She stopped running, she stopped cooking, she turned quiet. Which wasn’t like her. She used to be so loud, that I had to cover her mouth sometimes just to save my ears a few more years. She used to be so full of energy, that she would jump on top of me if I brought her flowers, or even just showed up at her house unannounced, but when she changed, I changed too.

I tried desperately to cheer her up, to help her, to take care of her. It even got so bad that I had to give her baths, because she was too exhausted to do so. I cried a lot at that time. I would cry to my mother and father, asking god why this would happen to her. Why I couldn’t help her. After a few months I noticed one time when I was changing her clothes, that she had red prick marks on her arms. They were bruised too. I understood quickly. She was using. I cried so hard that day my nose started bleeding.

I talked to her, and finally got her into rehab. We kept contact, and when she got out, we moved in together. She was herself again, and we had the best time. We started traveling together, she would cheer me on, she stood by my mother when I won the marathon. She cooked meals with me again, we listened to music and danced around the kitchen. We puzzled together while watching late night TV, and when we got old enough we decided we wanted to start a family. We tried and we tried and we tried for months, until finally we succeeded. She was so happy she already started on the nursery after just a month, she learned lullabies, and made me practice the guitar so we could sing together to our daughter or son, but we cheered too soon. After three months, Lorrie suffered a severe miscarriage, and nearly lost her own life too. We both spiraled into depression, leaning on each other for support, but she couldn’t handle it.

After the miscarriage, we were told she was infertile. She lost herself completely, I found her several times on the floor in our babies room, crying, and singing lullabies to herself. I tried to lift her up, I tried to help her, I really tried, but she couldn’t handle it.

I found her there, in a pool of her own blood, cradling the stuffed bear we were supposed to gift our first child.

Now I’m laying in the warm sand, cradling a photo of all of them, and seeing things that aren’t real. Because she’s not really there. She’s dead. She died when we were 28, just a year after my mother passed away, and eight months after my father passed. Now they’re all here, appearing one after the other behind Lorrie. Looking down at my weak shriveled body. I knew this day would come, but I hoped it’d be sooner. I tried to change my fate, but it was as though I was meant to live a long life. A long lonely life. I try to reach out my weak hand, but it falls back onto the ground. I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, but it feels like eternity. I manage to flip on my stomach, I see the sand wrapped around her toes. I reach out again, and I want to tell her how much I love them, but it’s as if I have lost the ability to speak. My mouth is moving, but no sound is coming out. I groan and wheeze, hoping it’ll make out the words I’m trying to speak, but suddenly my arm drops back onto the crisp sand along with my heavy head.

The place I thought I felt the most free, turns to emptiness, but when I reach the other side with Lorrie’s arms wrapped around me, I truly know what free means.