When I hear Marcia in room thirty-seven killed herself, my first thought is good for her — she set a goal and followed through. She accomplished it despite the obstacles, despite everyone telling her what a stupid thing it’d be to throw her life away at seventeen. I’ve been trying to kill something for six weeks without any success other than cementing my status as pants-on-head crazy. I’m jealous of a dead girl, that’s my gut reaction. I’m jealous she’s succeeded where I failed.
“How’d she do it?”
Cynthia and Jamil stop talking, start staring at me. Belatedly I realize that I’m not actually part of this conversation. It’s just happening right in front of me. Also it’s been a few days since I actually said anything to anyone voluntarily. I haven’t exactly been cooperative. It’s no secret I don’t want to be here.
Cynthia twirls a finger into her fly-away dark curls. “Um, hey, Ethan. Didn’t … realize you were listening.”
I’m sure I’m not making this any less awkward for her with my emotionless staring, but I just want my question answered, I don’t want niceties. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here against my will, because I’m not crazy. I’m not bipolar or schizophrenic or suffering from an identity disorder. I know exactly who I am, what I am. I’m a necromancer. It’s not my fault that diagnosis isn’t in the manual.
“I think she OD’d,” Jamil says. “Hoarded pills under her mattress or something.”
Cynthia tugs on the fresh-twisted curl with a frown. “Oh, that’s kind of lame.”
Her disappointment matches mine. I already thought of an overdose, except I’m not sure it’d work. I’m not sure it’d be clean enough. It seems like it’d make a mess of things on the inside, at a molecular level, a chemical reaction to destroy vital organs that I probably need to keep functioning. I’m not sure what happens to a body in an overdose, and I can’t research it to find out the risk. I’m not allowed to use the internet anymore. I’m not allowed to use a lot of things, like shoelaces or a belt, even things like sharpened pencils or nail clippers.
The two of them keep talking with a modest effort to include me, even though I’m back to ignoring them. The book I’m reading is awful and boring. I’m not even reading it, I’m mostly just staring at the rows of printed letters.
Though I quit being cooperative pretty early on in this adventure, there’s still the rules I have to follow. My complicated world enforces order and security with omnipotent power I can’t contradict. Not when I’m supervised twenty-four seven. Sometimes my world requires me to abide by the limited possibilities presented. Medicine check is one of those times, or so I thought.
I haven’t figured out a way yet to get out of it, but it’s possible. Clearly it’s possible somehow to pass the nurse’s mouth check without swallowing the pill. I have no idea how. Being a necromancer doesn’t help me with that. Even if I don’t plan on overdosing, hoarding my medication rather than taking it would make this easier. I wouldn’t spend so much time staring at sentences without understanding them. More reasons to be jealous of a dead girl. She figured out a way around the rules.
Eventually I realize what’s just happened besides Marcia earning a gold star on her chart for self-actualization. I’m sure the psychiatrists wanted her to set a goal like go to college , but they can’t deny that she realized her potential as a teen suicide statistic.
“Marcia died.”
Quite the sudden announcement I make, considering the conversation’s moved on to pop music. We’re no longer discussing the dead girl. The novelty of it’s worn off on Cynthia and Jamil, who I’m pretty sure spend all this time talking in front of me because word got around I bat for the other team. I think Jamil has a crush on me, and Cynthia’s agreed to play matchmaker. Clearly Jamil deserves to be here, if he thinks a psychiatric hospital is a good place to pick up a boyfriend. I’m glad I make a cute crazy kid though. It’s kind of flattering, in a weird creepy way.
“Um, yeah.” Cynthia offers me a smile. “Yeah, Ethan. We told you that. Marcia died last night.”
It’s my favorite tone of voice, the I’m talking to a crazy person voice where all the answers are obvious, and it’s sad I can’t understand that.
“We don’t know if she’s dead. They took her to the hospital,” Jamil says.
“She looked dead,” Cynthia insists.
“You don’t know that.”
“Katie does, she swears to it. Girl was dead.”
The spiral of hair drops from Cynthia’s hand. Her mouth keeps shaping words, but I’m not listening. Something died near me. Finally, something died near me.
“Where’s her room?”
Both of them stare at me like they’re not sure how to answer, or maybe like they’re not going to answer. I’m fine with that, I’ll wait. Someone else will tell me, maybe one of the nurses. From where I’m sitting in the common area, there’s three staff in line of sight. I could also ask Katie, soon as I remember who she is. I can wait for that, too, it’ll come to me eventually. She might be the young nurse who says hey too much.
“Um.” Cynthia exchanges a side-eyed uncertainty with Jamil. “Ethan, did you know Marcia? I never saw you guys, like, talk… or anything.”
Again, not here to make friends. I’m not sure I should repeat the question. It’d be rude. I look down at the book in my hands instead, which is less rude and more my usual flavor of crazy.
I’m fine with crazy, minus being completely trapped, helpless, drugged into a stupor and separated from my demon. I am oddly fine with all that, and knowing it’s the drugs making me feel that way is less alarming than it should be. Probably because of the drugs.
“Her room is near mine,” Jamil says. “I could show you.”
Cynthia’s lit up, poorly-suppressed smile makes him nervous enough without me staring. I close the book and set it aside. Getting to my feet serves as my answer, even though I suspect this is a very strange first date. I wonder if explaining he’s not my type will be necessary. It wouldn’t be a lie either, even if it’s not the whole truth. I study his wide shoulders and thick waist as I follow him through the ward. He’s not bad-looking. He even has dark eyes.
Actually Cynthia’s a troublemaker and drags Jamil along with her most of the time. I bet between them I could get Jamil alone enough to try choking him. I’m not sure I could. He’s built like a linebacker, I might not survive the attempt. I’ve thought of saying it’s my kink. It might buy me enough time, if he thinks I’m that cute. Not that I especially want to murder Jamil. He seems like a nice kid.
My stomach sinks as I realize he’s taking me to the same dormitory wing as mine. Marcia died near me, but my head’s silent. No Cain, not one drop of snarky commentary. I left him behind. I went home. I woke to the sound of my mother saying my name. A scar on my lip, Aidan’s coma, the weeks I spent missing between the crash and being found unconscious in my room — all these unexplainable, impossible things. My complicated world can’t explain it, and I haven’t bothered to try. It’s gotten me stuck here, in the wrong kind of hospital for people dying.
Or so I thought, until today.
“This is her room,” Jamil says. A smile works a nervous line over his broad face.
I stare at the closed door. “Neat.”
It probably would have been less awkward for him if I’d said nothing. If a ghost or Cain or whatever else is listening though, I have to say something.
“Um, sure. Well, my room’s over here. If you wanted to see it.”
I don’t, especially. I’m sure it’s similar to mine. I let him take me there anyway. Two staff and three other patients are in line of sight of the hallway. If I go into the room with him the door stays open, and someone’s poking in to check on me with clockwork precision. I’m not allowed to do anything unsupervised for long, not even sleep.
“So, um. This is my room.” Jamil flaps a hand at the bed, nightstand, and dresser combination like they’re anything to remark over. It looks identical to my room, only with a messier bed.
“Neat.”
This probably counts as the most words we’ve ever exchanged, even if I’m repeating myself. Jamil’s uncertainty about where to take this next elicits genuine sympathy from me. I wonder if now would the appropriate time to explain he’s not my type, or if that would seem presumptuous. I don’t actually know if he likes me or not, despite the fact I’m pretty sure Cynthia’s teased him about it within earshot. It isn’t like I really pay attention to most of what they say in front of me, or most of what anyone says to me. I don’t want to be here. That’s no secret.
Cooperating might get me out of here. I’ve thought about it. I’ve thought about playing along. Trying to insist I’m not crazy doesn’t work when I can’t and won’t explain anything about what happened to me, where I went, how I got this scar. Dissociative fugue, I think that’s what explanation they came up with for my absence. I certainly wasn’t stupid enough to volunteer that I’d taken a sojourn through the dark, hellish depths of the Otherside in order to free a banished demon.
When Jamil offers, I sit on the bed next to him. I’ll give him credit, he makes a noble effort to remove the awkwardness from the situation. I stare between my knees while he attempts to flirt. I bet he’s wishing Cynthia was here to play wingman for him. I wonder if he’ll realize what a poor life choice he’s making by hitting on a crazy kid, no matter how cute.
One of the staff walks by to check on me, stands around in the doorway for a bit to observe. I’ll probably be asked about this later in therapy. I probably shouldn’t have popped off about being gay, even if it was amusing at the time. That was early in this, before the drugs ended my efforts at being actively uncooperative. Now I’ve switched to passive, apathetic disobedience. It’s somewhat intentional but mostly a consequence of circumstances.
Jamil keeps talking to me until it’s time for group therapy. We walk there together, and Cynthia meets us outside the room with waggling eyebrows and an eager giggle. I bet Jamil would be blushing, if his skin wasn’t so dark.
Group therapy gets followed by another hour in the common room, and then I’m off to my individual therapy. Lunch happens, dinner happens, lights out happens. More sitting and staring fills the time, occasional monosyllable responses or whatever other bare minimum I need to get through the day. I think a lot about how I might manage to kill someone and try not to be tempted by thoughts of killing myself instead.
It’s tempting. It’s so tempting, because suicide would be so much easier than murder. I couldn’t even kill a cat. I realize now that perhaps it would have been smarter to wait before trying to summon Cain. At first my parents were just happy to have me home — or, my mother, at least, expressed her relief and gratitude that I came home safe. I wonder if my father wouldn’t have preferred I stay a runaway, rather than return a certified lunatic who got caught trying to kill the neighbor’s cat.
A morbid fascination with death is part of my diagnosis, which sems grossly unfair. I’m a necromancer. Interacting with dead things is kinda my thing. I’m not a future serial killer, despite the mounting evidence to the contrary. In theory if I kill Jamil, no one’s even going to notice. Except maybe his parents. And Jamil, I guess.
Lying in bed that night, I stare at the ceiling and think about the dead girl. Sometimes I’ll whisper to myself at night. I’ll whisper to Cain, in case he’s listening. I don’t do it as much anymore. I did it a lot at first, enough I got caught a few times by the overnight staff responsible for ensuring I’m not in here murdering myself or anyone’s pet. Talking to myself gets me extra questions in therapy, so I try not to get caught.
I wonder if Cain’s ignoring me, if he’s decided to wait for a different necromancer. I didn’t exact meet expectations. I’m clearly not very good at this, despite putting in my best effort there at the end. I’m sure I removed the binding for him at least. I freed Cain, he’s free to come find me. Someone died near me. But I guess if he wants to ignore me that’s okay.
It’s not, none of this is okay, but the drugs make it okay. I don’t feel sad or scared anymore, I don’t worry very much about anything. I think about all these painful things, but it doesn’t hurt. I’m not sure I’m capable of feeling things deep enough for it to hurt. I don’t cry anymore, even when my mom comes to visit and starts weeping. I try to do nice things for her, like smile and talk, but it’s hard. I don’t want her thinking I’m mad at her for doing this to me. I understand she wants to help. She’s my mom, and she loves me, I get that. I’m sorry to do this to her, I really am.
I don’t like to think that maybe I really did make everything up, that maybe I really am so insane that I can’t discern reality from imagination. No one’s around to corroborate my story, after all. It’s only sometimes I start to doubt myself, but those are usually the days I spend the most time thinking about killing myself. I’d rather be dead than crazy. I don’t want everything that happened to be a lie. I don’t want Cain to only be a collection of thoughts and feelings I had.
I’m sorry I wasn’t a better necromancer for him. I’m sorry for a lot of things. It’s a sad, sorry life that I’m living. I guess this is what happens to necromancers in my world these days. I guess this is it for me. I guess this is how it is ends.
The next morning at breakfast I decide to go ahead and kill myself. Marcia’s plan seemed to work, so I’ll copy her. I’ll figure out how to hide the pill instead of swallowing. I’ll wait until I have a big pile hoarded. I bet even if someone comes to check on me, I might look like I’m sleeping instead of dying. I’ll roll to my side. I’ll sleep face-down, actually, that’s a good idea. I’ll start sleeping that way now, so it won’t look suspicious to do it later. Maybe I’ll vomit and aphixiate during the night. Looking on the bright side of things, that’s me, always an idealist.
A tray hits the empty table in front of me. I don’t bother to look up. Jamil and Cynthia sit across from me at breakfast. They do the same at lunch and dinner. They usually sit across from wherever I’m sitting.
A girl’s snippy, treble tone grates over the words. “Hey, sweetheart. Miss me?”
It’s not Cynthia. That’s unusual. I lift my gaze to stare at the girl. Mousy brown hair, thin lips, some freckles splattered across the scrunched-up annoyance of a sharp glare. I wonder if I stole this girl’s seat without meaning to. I don’t keep track of who sits where, I just sit at whatever table’s the emptiest.
“You look like shit,” the girl says. She kicks out the chair and slumps into it. The lazy sprawl seems strange to me, it’s a very strange way for a teenage girl to sit in a chair.
I have no idea who this person is. One of the other patients, that’s obvious, but I don’t recognize her from my group therapy or any other session. I’m not sure why she’s sitting with me. It isn’t like we know each other. I’m not here to make friends.
The girl’s frown slips. She leans forward onto her elbows and studies me closely, almost with a sloped look of concern. Her brows are as thin as her lips, they look like the kind that get drawn fuller with makeup, except makeup is on the list of restricted items. No point in looking pretty in a place like this, despite Jamil’s efforts to cruise. Although her eyes are pretty. The rest of her’s not, but her eyes are. They’re brown like her hair, a puppy-dog brown like Aidan’s. That must be why she’s reminding me of someone.
“They really did a number on you, princess.” Her fork waggles into the space between us. “How much of you is left in there?”
I have no idea what she wants with me, asking this kind of thing. What does that even mean? I’m not the only kid drugged like this, why is she picking on me? I turn my head to look at the rest of the cafeteria. I spot Cynthia and Jamil shuffling along the line with their trays. If I stare long enough, maybe one of them will come over here and chase this girl away.
“Hey. Hey, kid.” Her fingers snap. “Ethan.”
I whisk my head around. Tension slacks from her expression and leaves her looking worried again, like this whole exchange is supposed to be happening differently. I’m really not sure what she expected. It’s no secret I don’t want to be here, that I’m not putting any effort into my recovery. I’m the example of what not to do, how not to behave.
Cynthia and Jamil approach with their trays. The girl watches with a wary expression and grips her fork like this might turn into a sudden fight. I hope it does. I hope she stabs me with that fork. I could point out to her where my jugular is, see if she wants to go for it.
“Marcia?” Surprise shimmers over Cynthia’s bland expression. “You’re, uh. Not dead. That’s weir–”
Jamil catches her with an elbow. “That’s great,” he says. His tray goes beside mine. Apparently we’ve upgraded to sitting next to each other after our date. “I’m really glad you’re okay.”
“Sure,” says the girl. Marcia, her name’s Marcia. She’s the dead girl. Who didn’t die, despite rumors to the contrary, so really she’s a failure. I’m taking away her gold star.
Cynthia slides into the seat next across from Jamil. The not-dead girl glances over and then adjusts the way she’s sitting. Thighs together, ankles crossed, less of a sprawl to hog the entirety of available space and more of an demur agreement to take only as much space as needed. It’s such a strange, subtle shift.
Not subtle is the way Cynthia stares at the girl. “Are you friends with Ethan?” she asks. “He was asking about you yesterday.”
Marcia’s shoulders bob in a quick shrug. She chews a big shoved-in bite of toast and then takes another bite, rather than pause to respond. It’s clear she’s not going to. The shrug was her answer. It’s not the answer Cynthia wanted, but it’s the one she’s getting.
I know someone who never answers basic questions in a straightforward way. I know someone who likes to take up a lot of space. I remember a leaned-back smug sprawl in the dark backseat of a car.
“Ethan? You okay?” Jamil leans into my peripheral vision and keeps leaning, like that might change what I’m doing or redirect my attention.
Marcia doesn’t seem to mind that I’m staring at her with a big, dumb grin. She’s frowning across the table at me looking kind of annoyed, maybe amused. The expression’s all wrong in a thin, freckled face, but I know that look. I guess the dead girl gets her gold star back after all. Good for her.