You wake up.
The sounds fade in. Disorientated doesn’t even begin to describe the feeling. You can’t tell if this is another dream. Or worse. This is how it all started in the first place.
I wake up.
Light is filtering through the blind over the window to the left of me. I can’t move my arms or legs, the problem is, I can’t tell whey they feel so numb. By any reasoning I can’t deduce why they’re immobile.
I wake up
The room smells like lemons, and there she is. Her face sways with her voice, but it’s so blurry. When she moves she leaves a trail of blurred her. I can’t focus my eyes on her. A sound floats from her direction, but I can’t make it out.
Pardon?
Can you tell me how it started?
Oh, sure.

I woke up.
Music was floating from somewhere to my left. It must have been a Wednesday; neither of my parents had woken me up.
I rolled over to turn off my alarm, missing it on my first attempt. I sat up and blinked. The TV was off in the living room; it can’t be a dream.
The shower was still cold when I stepped inside, but I didn’t care. I was still numb from the night before.
12 of those beautiful red pills?
The empty wrapper was left on the floor of the shower. Could and Cough pills; the generic kind you can pick up at the gas station that sits in my town across the street from the video store.
A way to cope. A way to forget.
The knob for the water in my shower creaks when you turn it off. I stepped out of the shower, fighting the light-headedness that came with it. The light that hangs above my sink swayed a little, or maybe that was just me.
Steam had escaped my bathroom while I was in the shower. As I opened the bathroom door it caught the breeze caused by the door and curled making mini waves in the air. The waves move to catch the disturbance in the air caused by me walking into my room. The towel I usually wrap around my waist is crumpled in the corner of my bathroom. There’s no one to see me naked, they aren’t here.
Their way of coping, their way of forgetting.
As I step outside to start the walk to school I have this nagging suspicion that I’m forgetting something. Maybe it’s me; maybe it’s the Dextramethorphan still in my system. I know I’m forgetting something.
It’s a two-mile walk to school; I make it there in half an hour. Class had just ended when I walked into my first period class. Mr. Rones starts clapping when I walk in.
“You actually came to class, in honor of this rare, and honored occasion, I made you a gift. All your work that you need to turn in if you want to get higher than an F.”
Leave it to the English teacher to use sarcasm in a reprimand. Too nice to be blunt, to scared to have me in his class again.
His defense mechanism. His way of coping.

I wake up.
An hour or so has passed. Intuition. She’s sitting there still. Her face a blur of peach and red. More noise comes from her.
Tell me about your sister.
I almost laugh.

Rebeckah. I never met the bitch. Technically, neither did my parents. She would be about ten months older then me, making her 27… ish
Their biggest mistake, well second biggest to yours truly. They were seventeen and eighteen, my dad being the elder. It was after their prom if my calculations are correct. Two months later they were being harassed by Christian groups as they walked to an abortion clinic. I’ll let you fill in the blank before this. After all, they are my parents.
For months later my mom started having these dreams. Violent dreams, from what her sister said once in an attempt to comfort me. Apparently her aborted fetus started harassing her, calling her a murderer.
Ashamed.
Instead of getting help, she took matters into her own hands. First she named it. Rebeckah, after our dead Grandma. Then she started saving. She took on a second job, nightshift at a local Dennys. Every damn penny she put away for 10 years. Then, she spent it all one thing.
A huge, gaudy, ugly tombstone.
Rebeckah. No dates, just the passage ‘taken before her time. We’ll miss you forever and see you in heaven.’
Every Wednesday they visit that tombstone and talk to Rebeckah. Over the years my parents have invented this whole life for her. Every Wednesday they giver her updates about her imaginary job. Imaginary family. They got so caught up in this life of hers that they slowly forgot about their real life. Or, more to the point, me.
It’s sad to think that a two-month mass of cells has more of my parent’s attention then me, their seventeen-year-old son. Not to mention it has a career as a doctor. A handsome husband. Two smart and nice, obedient children. White picket fence. A fucking golden retriever for crying out loud. They never mention her brother.
Their way of remembering. I call it selective awareness. Pay attention to what is pleasing. Ignore the bad. Forget I exist.
Their way to cope.

I wake up.
My legs and arms are tingling, but I can only move them a few inches. I feel so constrained.
A prick.
A sting.
They’re both the same.
Suddenly the room is spinning. The fan in the corner becomes louder then dies.
Blessed darkness.

Second period. Art class. This was my favorite class up until a month before.
I used to be real pissed about my parents ignoring me for Rebeckah. I’m talking angry, stereotypical teen aggression.
I had to go to the school councilor as a freshman after my PE teacher saw my arm. It was scarred and marked from my love of control; he thought I was suicidal.
I wasn’t either. It was the control that attracted me to it. Knowing that, for a second, I had my destiny in my hands. For a second I was god. I told this to my councilor.
He gave me a funny look and scheduled our next appointment.
The next time I arrived he was smiling smugly. In front of him, on the wooden coffee table between us is a paper bag. He nods to it.
“Go ahead, it’s a present, open it.”
So I do. Inside is a notebook, full of blank pages. Aloe inside the brown bag is a box of charcoal pencils.
“I’ve got this idea.”
He has this smug look on his face again.
“You feel empowered when you do that to yourself. How about this, next time you wanted power, try drawing something. On this pad you have control over EVERYTHING.
“Everything. Every damn line Circle. Dot. You are their god.”
He’s rolled up his sleeves in his excitement at saving me.
“So do you promise me that you’ll at least try the idea?”
Sure I say.
Right before I notice those tell tale lines on the crook of his arm.
“Great”. He says as he rubs his hands together excitedly. I can’t take my eyes off those lines.
They start to throb.
Pulse.
They’re literally jumping at me.
Suddenly they explode, sending yellowish fluid into the atmosphere.
He starts to laugh, as he laughs he leans his head back.
It falls off.

I wake up.
The room has become dark. For a second I’m back in my room, missing my alarm clock with my hand on that day I realized I was over. But that dream is quickly ruined when I can’t move my hand to turn it off.
My wrists and ankles are chaffing.
It’s so dark

Acrylic paints fumes greet me as I walked into the room. Everyone turns their head to notice me, I smile my appreciation.
Here, I am god. I took that pad home after the councilor gave it to me and I put his idea to practice. I drew my first picture. A doll, decapitated with a bottle of Vicitin poking out her neck, pills taking the place of her misplaced blood.
The councilor was right. Fuck endomorphins; I have ink. I have creativity. As long as I can fill the canvas I have control. As long as I can fill the piece of paper, I have an outlet. Don’t take those away.
I’m liable to crack.
I walked into class, that day we were allotted an hour of class time to work on our final project. Most kids have to prepare for this days in advance, not me. I was king of that class. The teacher would talk to me about what I was trying to say. She admired my work. The class liked me. I was god to my pen, and leader to those around me.
For an hour and a half, I have control.
I can affect things.
I am god.
Don’t take this away from me.
Who knows how I’ll cope?

I wake up.

It’s light again.
I’m alone, still.
The room is glowing in dawn’s glorious red. Streaming in through the window, it warms my hands. They’re so cold, but I still can’t move them.

Standing in front of the easel, my hands can’t move. They’ve been like this for half an hour, give or take fifteen minutes.
Blank is the canvas.
Empty are my emotions.
Since I started drawing I’ve been inspired by my family. Every birthday spent talking about Rebeckah manifested itself as a picture. Every teacher conference missed or forgotten because it fell on a Wednesday; inspiration for my next masterpiece.
My way of coping.
But now nothing is coming out. My inspiration has left me. I can’t comprehend what that means. Here I am, king of this small world, God is drawing a blank. I can’t feel anything. Three years of nirvana. Release. Three years of creativity. For three years I was god. And now this.


I wake up.
She is back. Her face is still burred.
A mass waiting for God to shape it. Maybe I could shape it.
Maybe this could be my chance for redemption.

“Something wrong?” She’s standing behind me. “You usually are the first to start, last to finish, and most creative of the class. But today, today you just stared at it.”
Thanks for rubbing it in.
No I say, I’m just a little tired.
Please let that be all.
Two months later I’m still standing in front of a blank canvas. I’m empty. No motivation.
Thinking about Rebeckah makes me laugh. My parents receive the same response. Their neglect; a smile. I’m no longer sad about life, but I’ve lost control over my world. I am no longer god. The respect I got from my peers and teacher has disappeared. Now I sit in the corner, alone. I’ve gone back to black. I’m no longer important.
I am nothing.
And once again it’s my parent’s fault. I can no longer feel; numb to the world. Lacking control. Ground zero, back to the beginning of this all. See where I’m going with this?
I hate it so much.
Every night I would sit at the dinner table, listening to my family.
Today Rob, Rebeckah’s imaginary husband, signed up to coach Roni’s soccer team. Mom and dad laughed over how it would bring the family together. How good it would be fore the well being of Roni. She was depressed nowadays; wasn’t talking to Rebeckah and Rob anymore.
They glance at me.
If you’re wondering why everyone’s name starts with an R, I don’t know. They thought it was some cute game to play. It took them two years to figure it out, and ever since they laugh at how clever they are.
Yesterday Roni came home with her first boyfriend. A nice kid that combs his hair, says yes please, no thank you.
They glance at me.
He held out his arm for Roni when he walked he to his mom’s minivan. Before that he stayed downstairs with Rebeckah and Rob letting them get to know their children’s new friend.
They glance at me and don’t look away.

I wake up
Noise. Static at first that takes shape as words. Sound can do it, but me, no, not anymore.
“Tell me about the night you did it.”
What is there to tell?
Everything.
Oh yea.

We’re sitting at the table; talking about Rebeckah.
Today is her birthday. They both took the day off from work to go to her monument. I had to come too; after all, she is family. I sat in the car.
School had been out for a week, my final grade in Art was a C, this came alongside the explanation of: ‘Stopped putting effort in his work as summer came… very disappointed.’ I got this news as I Opened my report card that came in the mail. I showed it to my parents and the sighed.
Roni would work until the very last day.
Roni would never let down her teachers.
Rebeckah was lucky to have a kid like Roni.
It’s pathetic to realize my parents just compared me to the potential of a future.
Compared to perfection.
Normally I would draw how I felt. I wouldn’t dwell on this. They’d become inspiration for my next picture. I had release for these emotions. These hypocrisies. These double standards.
My way to cope.
But not now. Now I can’t release. They just build up inside me. A walking time bomb that can’t let itself explode.
Back to the table.
“You know, you make us ashamed. Your sister never acted like this. Her kids never act like you do. You’re just some spoiled little brat who gets away with everything. You’re taking advantage of how easy we are on you after going through so many peaceful years with Rebeckah.”
I know.
“Why can’t you be normal?”
I don’t know.
I don’t know why I can’t draw anymore; I have things to draw, but no inspiration.
“She was so sweet and nice. You’re just stuck up. Strait A’s in every one of her classes. You’ve only gotten an A in one of your classes. Art. And now you can’t even do that.”
I’ve lost my ability to cope.
“Why can’t you be like Rebeckah?
I’ve lost control. And for the next few hours I become god again.
I sit back in my chair, holding the fork in my hand, watching my knuckles turn white. Maybe I have no inspiration because the control over my art only could please so much. Maybe it all boils down to the fact that in this house I am nothing. I have no influence. My input is the equivalent of spitting on a forest fire. Maybe I need to feel powerful to feel anything at all. Or maybe I’m just insane.
Either way, I sit there, smiling. Basking in the glow of enlightenment. Suddenly I am inspired. Not to draw. No, if that were the case things would be much different.
“Are you even paying attention? Rebeckah would have wrapped her concentration around every word. That is, if she were in trouble. But no, you couldn’t be like her even if you wanted.”
I now know how to cope. I have to take control. So I stand up.
Rebackah’s not real, and yet I’m supposed to be like her? How could you do that to me?
My dad comes to me and puts his hands on my shoulder to push me back down in the chair. It scares him when I defy him, so he knocks me down, sometimes literally. But here he is, putting all his weight on my shoulders, trying to push me down. His way of coping.
Not today dad.
Too late does he see the fork, flying at his throat. He tries to put his hand in the way but he’s to slow, the metal pushes against his flesh, then through. It sounds like cutting a watermelon.
As soon as the fork is in, red rushes out. It runs down the fork, and on to my hand. My mom is screaming, calling for Rebeckah.
I turn around and walk to her, noticing my dad crumple to the floor. She’s crying so hard. Her lips are nothing more then cocoons of mucus.
All she does is cry Rebeckah’s name.
Shh mom, it’ll be over soon.
Gently I wrap my fingers around her neck. Slowly I squeeze.
Quite calling for her, she’s not real. She can’t help you.
I’m now in control.
Now I’m god.
Five minutes later I take my hands off her neck.
Dad is gone.
Mom is gone.
Rebeckah is gone.
But I’m born again.
I have inspiration.
Once again, I can cope.

Wake up.