Sailing Away

On. Slide. Four character passcode. Plug into speakers. Play.

Electronic, techo sounding tapping. Two or three notes played simultaneously, over and over. Chris thumbs through his closet, searching for the beige-ish coloured garment bag that contains his good suit and tie.

A sound, like an error message. The sound of strings, or maybe keys, or most probably some odd hybrid of the two made on a computer begin to play a quick, trotting melody. The error message blur again, the melody again, an endless loop. His hands find the bag and pull it from the closet. He sets it on his bed, unzipping it. Inside is a pressed black suit and crisp white shirt. A silk black and red diagonally striped tie is loosely fit around the top of the hanger. A chorus of “ooh” and the crash of a symbol join the song as Chris begins to remove the suit.

Sail!

The electronic beat continues. He strips down to his boxers, feeling the cold of the winter afternoon, but not paying it any mind. He pulls on the soft black pants, noting how loose they’ve gotten since he last wore the suit. He’s hardly eaten for months.

This is how I show my love. I made it in my mind because… blame it on my A.D.D. baby.

Chris’s face darkened. He had struggled with A.D.D. since he was a child. Diagnosed at age four, he had been on a countless string of medications that had made him hyper focused and sick to his stomach. For twelve years the doctors had tried to find the right combination. They were still searching. All the while, Chris was bullied in school. Teased, taunted, called stupid, glared at when he had to ask the teacher to repeat a question or some vital information because he had zoned out again. His teachers called him intelligent, bright, full of potential, and then proceeded to fail him. His mother punished and pleaded with him, trying tutors and special programs, while his father just yelled at him and told him to stop being lazy. He tried, god did he try, but he never seemed to get it right. It wasn’t long before he started to believe he was stupid, and lazy, and would never amount to anything. He gave up trying.

This is how an angel cries. I blame it on my own surprise. Blame it on my A.D.D. baby… Sail!

Chris belted his pants and buttoned up his shirt, his pale hands shaking as he watched himself in the mirror. He looked every bit a Botticelli angel. Whispy, slightly long blonde hair with bangs that ended just above bright blue eyes. A thin face with red cheeks, long fingers and all his limbs perfectly in proportion, with a smile that used to charm adults and girls alike. Chris hadn’t smiled that smile for a long time. He tried, watching his face closely in the mirror. It looked like a painful grimace, as if his face had forgotten how to work. He let it drop, his eyes on a small chip on the front most left tooth, as the memory of one of the last times he had smiled that charming smile flooded his mind. That had been the start of this downward spiral.

Sail!

He had been on his way to yet another tutoring session when a girl he knew from his math class, Cecile, rounded the hallway corner. Chris thought she was simply stunning. Curly red hair and dark green eyes, she looked like an Irish goddess. He caught her eye and smiled his special smile. He saw her blush and look down, her own cute lips tilting upwards. He paused to flirt with her for a bit, enjoying the attention she gave him, and simply enjoying being around her. He loved women and girls, and he wanted them to know it. He spoke kindly, even threw in a few innuendos, teasing her lightly. She left a few minutes later, after they exchanged numbers. Chris walked on, feeling proud and confident.

Sail!

The next day, Cecile’s senior year wrestling team hulk of a girlfriend cornered Chris in the subway station outside of school and punched him so hard that his front tooth chipped. She called Chris a homewrecking dick, a typical male jerk assuming he can get any girl he wanted, and she threatened to crack his neck open if he ever flirted with her girlfriend again.

Sail!

Now, Chris wasn’t out of shape. He fenced and rode horseback, both at near professional levels, but the girl from the wresting team, who he later found out was named Kathy, had more bulk muscles than him. He was lean, quick on his feet. He could have outrun Kathy any day. But in a test of brute force, she had the upper hand.

Of course, all anyone said was that Chris had been beaten up by a girl.

Sail!

The people Chris had thought were his friends mocked him, called him a loser, an idiot, a sissy. He knew it was all in jest, ribbing a friend for their missteps wasn’t uncommon, but the words had burrowed deep into Chris’s mind and messed with him. How could he get beat up by a girl? How did he not know Cecile was a “dyke”? Chris winced at the word, finding it tasteless. His close friend Emily, who also happened to like girls, often described herself as a dyke in a positive way, but he still didn’t like it.

Maybe I should cry for help.

Chris gave a wry, humorless chuckle, finishing up the last few buttons on the shirt and straightening the collar. He had cried for help. He had cried and reached out to everyone he knew, and no one heard him. His parents said it was a phase, hormones, that it would pass. His guy friends told him to suck it up, his female friends offered support and kind words but seemed more concerned with their boyfriend or girlfriend troubles and homework than Chris. He had even mentioned something to a teacher about feeling depressed, and she recommended the guidance counselor. The counselor was a neurotic 30-something year old man that Chris couldn’t open up to about anything. Everyone had better things to do and assumed Chris would get past the typical teenage depression any day now. He was still waiting for that day.

Maybe I should kill myself. Blame it on my A.D.D. baby.

His eyes filled with tears. He glanced up to his ceiling where a length of rope he had stolen off his father’s fishing boat hung off an exposed rafter. He prayed to god his little sister Marie wouldn’t be the one to find him. She was the one person who had tried to really help him. So young, at the tender age of seven, but still so wise. She hugged and kissed him every night and told him he’d feel happy in the morning. She always knew when he was having a particularly bad day, and would try to cheer him up some by playing games with him. When he didn’t move or snapped at her, she would sit down next to him and hold his hand, handing him tissues when he cried. He felt awful about what this would do to her.

Maybe I’m a different breed. Maybe I’m not listening. So blame it on my A.D.D. baby. Sail!

As the depression got worse, he began to feel more alien in his own skin. Food and drinks had lost their taste. School seemed pointless, so when he did go he paid little to no attention. It’s not that his mind was on other things either, it was just blank, constantly dull and empty, as if it had broken down. When people spoke, he didn’t understand them. His body moved without him telling it to, and it could only do the most basic things, like dress and walk and blink and breathe. His mouth never wanted to form words, his stomach never grew hungry, and his lips had forgotten how to smile. He was always in pain, internal and external, and a life that had once been full of vivid memories, activity and excellent conversation had deteriorated into a blur of meaningless colours, movements and gibberish. His horse at the stables didn’t seem to know him, and the foil he knew so well had turned into a long stick that he had no use for anymore. He had stopped feeling human.

A string of melodic “la’s” over the synthetic music. That was his life now, meaningless words over fake noise. His friends had stopped hanging out with him, stopped contacting him. His teachers never called on him in class, and he never spoke up. His parents saw him off to school, saw him at dinner and then when he said goodnight, but they never spoke much or spent time together like they used to. He hardly had spoken to Marie for the past two weeks, and it seemed that even she was beginning to give up on him. He tied his tie.

If only he had been smarter, focused more. He would have been passing school, his parents would be proud. If only he had been better at fencing or horseback, he could have left school and pursued a career in one of those fields, a successful and rich athlete. If only Cecile had been into boys. If only Kathy hadn’t been so violent. If only his friends has been kinder about the rejection from Cecile and the beating by Kathy. If only someone had listened. If only someone had cared.

But no one had.

Sail!

He pulled on the coat, buttoning it. He looked at himself in the mirror. The suit had become baggy on his thinned frame, but it stilled looked good on him. Sitting on the edge of his bed, he stuffed his feet into silk socks and black dress shoes.

Sail!

He took out his letter, in which he apologized to everyone and explained his actions. He asked to be cremated as well, tired of feeling trapped in this alien body of his. He set it on his bed, the white paper standing out nicely against the blue sheets.

Sail!

He pulled over his desk chair, scraping it along the carpeted floor until it was just under the rope.

Sail!

He stepped up, draping the rope around his neck and tightening the noose. The material felt hot and irritated his freshly shaven skin. His eyes filled with tears. He took a final gulp of air as his body began to shake, the hot salt water leaking from the corners of his eyes. Electronic music, devoid of any sung words, played through the speakers. He gave a whispered good-bye and shut his eyes tight, his entire body shaking so hard he could hardly control it.

He kicked the chair out from under him.

Sail!