Everything
is
slipping
away
through my
fingertips;

Time,
Hope,
Life.

Just like sand.

Just like sand.

The days are counting down
The clock is changing hands
The sand is running.

Somewhere,
Someone is crying.

Mal nourishment.

Walking into that old building, everything was humid and disgusting. I didn't remember it ever being that bad, and so I was thankful to be moved to the Senior High for my sophomore year. I'm back here because it's an orientation for upcoming freshman, like my brother. I went only because I knew I would see Mr. Z and Mr. C there, at least I hoped I would. I didn't know what to expect, and if I didn't find them, I figured I would hangout with Dana and Nikki during the time being.

We get in, get papers, etc etc etc. Nikki points out Mr. Z and I leave her for him. I catch up to find out he's giving tours. I go around the school once, until I enter lower B hall, biology hall. I noticed that Mr. C's door was open and got excited. I left the tour and walked into Mr. C's room. The AC was on and he was explaining the curriculum, giving out summer work, and all that boring teacher stuff.

Mr. C : Advanced biology?

Me : shakes head no

Mr. C : Regular biology?

Me : shakes head no

Mr. C: just staring at my face ..Dianne..?

Me : smile. Surprise.

Mr. C: What happened to your hair?! You look so different, but I knew you looked familiar.

Me : Heh..

Parents and upcoming freshman kept streaming in through the doors, and he kept repeating himself more and more every time, same words, sentences and everything. I felt bad for him, he must've hated it. I got sick of it eventually, and at some points there would be too many people so I got up and walked around the school some more. I caught up to Mr. Z a couple of times, but he was doing the same thing, only with tours. God, these things must be a real pain in the ass. Eventually I left him too and sat in Mr. C's room some more. More parents and students, and I left again.

I did this for a while, until one point I found Mr. Z in the hall by himself, not giving out tours to anyone. I walked up to him nervously. I was shaking, I could feel it. He looked at me and said, "Your hair." He smiled at me. "Let us walk."

We walked down the hallway into his classroom, which was, thankfully, air conditioned. I think I would have died of a heat stroke or suffocation if it wasn't. He asked me how I was doing, and I told him the truth. Horrible.

We sat and talked about this and that and this and that. I told him how I've been screwing up, making mistakes all over, ruining my own life, and getting help and things like that. He kept trying to encourage me, but it wasn't working. He tried doing so by bringing up future scenarios of me moving out and going to college. He said if I screw up now, it won't happen and I'll be stuck home.

Mr. Z : What are you going to do after high school, huh?

Me : Die. Just kidding. I don't know.

Mr. Z : Looking straight at me. Don't die.

The conversation went on like that. He told me that I needed to take care of myself and exercise and not skip lunch. He told me I could be feeling bad because of mal nourishment, could you believe that? He kept pursuing that topic and telling me I needed to eat and stuff. I knew chemical imbalances could happen in the brain due to a lack of nourishment in your body, but it didn't phase me. I always had crappy eating anyway. He already knew that. So I don't know why he kept being really harsh and focused on that single topic.

He kept talking to me, trying to bring me up while I was dragging myself down. Trying to bring me up out of the hole I put myself in before it got too deep. He said some things that still are floating around the fractured walls of my skull.

Mr. Z : If I could. I would turn back time and making my parents treat me even shittier than they already did if it meant your parents would be less shitty and you could be happier, then I would. I really would if I could, but I can't. I just can't do that. The best I can do is help you now. and I mean, the last time I checked up on you in November, you said everything was doing great. You know, I was doing better, and staying stronger knowing that, but now I'm not so sure. Remember what you wrote to me? "Be strong for me, I'll be strong for you." You didn't think I would throw that away, did you? I'm being strong for you, so please be strong for me.

It really got to him. His eyes were watering an red and his nose was running. He grabbed my hand and held it tightly and kept talking. His held my hand tightly in his with a tight grip, but not full of anger and malice or handled roughly, but with tenderness an kindness and caution. Every time he held my hand like that I felt so goddamn safe. Whenever he was holding my hand like that, I didn't feel so alone. I felt like he would protect me from all the bad things and keep them away from me the best he could. Even if he couldn't successfully keep them away, his genuine effort in doing so was more than enough compensation to make up for it and I would be okay. I wouldn't be mad or upset with him. I would tell him it would be alright and thank you, and that was all.

"You're not gonna give up are you? Please don't give up. Promise me. Dianne, if you give up on me now, it'll be so much harder for me to get by. You can't give up. Please, please don't give up."

And he wrapped his pinky finger around mine, and made me promise not to give up. Not yet. His pinky held the same strong yet tender grip. I wish I could've stayed like that forever. I looked out the window and back at him, and he looked at me with deep concern and care, and.. love? 

I told him I him I was near giving up, and I didn't know if I could keep going. But I still promised him I would. I said I'd try because it's just so goddamn hard lately. He said there was no try and tried more phrases of encouragement.

His eyes were getting redder and redder, and water was spilling over the brims, and his nose was turning rosy while I could hear him stifling the mucus that wished to pour out.

That damn near broke my heart. I felt guilty for even saying the truth.

But since the last time he's seen me, I probably look really sick and all now. From seeing me nearly everyday for 3 years, with the changes in my physical and emotional development, he had already a strong mental image of me in his head. Dark hair, round face, skinny. Now he sees me seldom once or even twice a year during football season, and everything changed since them. My bones protruding all over the place, my once chubby legs now even thinner than they ever were, barely even touching each other, bruised knees and tired eyes with dark shades of purple circling them and things like that. And my dark hair that he liked so much was gone. It was all probably a real big kick in the head and all. To see me look so different than what image he had already in his head. I looked even thinner now as a 16 year old sophomore in high school, than I ever was as a 6th, 7th, and 8th grader in middle school. My drastic 180 change in physical appearance and mental/emotional state together probably was  too much for him to take in at once. I felt guilty even being me.

We finally had to stop talking eventually. Of course, all good things come to an end. I found my brother and father sitting out on the front steps of the school and he walked me out. He held my hand another time and told me it'll be okay. We argued about, he tried to bring me up again, but I wasn't feeling it. He walked back inside and I walked in front of my father and brother. They said, "Let's go?" But my feet said no. I took off into the hallway, sprinting back to Mr. C's room. 

Only one parent and two students were left. I was still shaken from my previous chat with Mr. Z. I took a seat up on the counter. It was cool on my legs and felt good. This mom won't shut up. And he's still explaining the same things. I felt so bad for him. Finally, they stopped and I got a chance to talk to him. I told him how I've been doing bad lately, but we didn't get too in depth into what was going on. I liked that about him. He was always positive too, trying to steer away the negativity out of my direction. He played around and said he should smack me in the head with a ruler and straighten up my priorities and grades. I laughed. Being around him always seemed to bring out good vibes. I told him I had to get going, and he hugged me and told me to come visit him again soon. I told him I would. We chatted a couple more minutes about my emotional state. He said teen angst and I laughed and joked with him, "It's my frontal lobe. That's what they always tell me. From it not being fully developed and all. And won't be until I'm twenty something." I got a real kick talking to him about stuff like that. He told me he was double developed because he was in his fourties. He told me he'd try to go to football games, which made me sorta happy. If he didn't, then he didn't. But at least he had the sense to make it seem like he would. and that he ate lunch with Ms. Z. He thought she was nice. I finally said I had to go, and we hugged again. He wished the best of luck and wishes for me to get better. He told me he didn't get rid of my pictures and drawings and they were still hanging in the back. That made me happy. I miss him a lot, and I'm glad I had the chance to talk to him one on one, even if it was just for a few minutes.

Nostalgia is bursting through my blue veins, through my cold blood, and echoing through my fractured skull.

Doctor, doctor, patient.

I set myself up

an appointment with myself

unknowingly in my head.

I asked myself,

"What's wrong here?"

My broken teeth gave no answer,

but only looked 

into my glossy eyes

and saw that I 

was begging 

to be 

saved.

Screams
echo in my ears

I think
my skull might burst

Blood will splatter
along the walls
my eyes will fall out
blood will drip through my nose
and I will swallow my tongue

But instead
the screams
are on replay
in these ears of mine
in this mind of mine

I can't pause them
I can't stop them
I can't erase them

Resounding
and bouncing

Echoing
throughout my mind

Patient

In class, we learned how to do emergency first-aid from CPR, tying slings for broken arms, bandaging fractured ankles and elbows, supporting fractures and broken bones, covering head wounds, neck wounds and even eye, nose and ear injuries. I volunteered to play patient and received most of the first-aid. 

As I sat across the soft-white-thin sheets of the patient bed in the cool air of the room with a neck brace, arm in sling, eye taped down, head bandage, splinted knee, and soft baby-blue booties—the class had told me I really did look hurt.

As the class continued with first aid on others, I thought about how it must feel to be in a real hospital with its beeps an busy feet moving across sterile floors, really injured and surrounded by others who were injured, hoping to live, or just waiting to die. I thought long and hard about it, and I thought that maybe that’s where I should belong—laying in white sheets of a hospital bed in a cold room with the smell if sterile sadness and false hopes in the air, holding onto unwanted life and waiting for cold, cold death.

Although the injuries I bear to have are fake, and class has been ended over hours ago, I do not wish to remove any of the bandages and wraps that hold me together. At this point, the bandages and slings feel right on this body.

My peripherals are now limited to only one eye due to my “eye injury.” Having bad eyesight already as it is, my sight is almost useless to me at this point.  The left arm that I use to eat and do two-handed tasks with now lays lifelessly limp in a sling of white wrapped around my neck. Only one arm and a hand held close to my body is left to accomplish whatever tasks I need done. 

It’s sick, I know, but it feels right. Maybe I really should be stuck somewhere as a patient for thinking of things like this.

It feels like this is the way I should be.