You don't know me

When was there a day like today when the winter sky seized the smoke churning out from 24/7 shift factories? It puffed through the two o'clock Trenton air like a chain-smoker's atmosphere. Leaves scattered across cracked streets; weary in whirling windstorms, evading eachother as children playing tag. The setting cast a witch's brew of gloom upon the Martin Luther King Courthouse, where fourteen year-old Aiden James Zabarit's case had just ceased.

Aiden James' Point of View

Mrs. O'Conner walked up to the bench I was sitting on in the hallway outside of the courtroom and took a seat next to me, in that "we-need-to-talk" way. These social workers seem to think it was their job to analyze me from head to toe and try to slip me false comfort. Oh, yeah, along with the four therapists they tagged on that were given the impression I can be fixed with bottles of 32 Lithiums and 10 Valiums every month provided by the local CVS.

I stared down at the tiles, observing every flaw and design.

"You know, Aiden, this may be hard to believe now, but I was once a kid just like you, and I know how it feels. As a kid, I thought I always was the abnormal one. I would never fit in among the rest of the school population, much less at home. Now, mind you, the teenaged process of growth and developement is abstract and unique for each person. We may find ourselves; we may lose ourselves. Your body is going through the difficult stage of puberty and your brain is getting it's emotions sorted out. Teenagers' emotions tend to be wacky at times, but I thought my case was diferent. When I was your age, I even thought I was manic-depressive. I talked to my guidance counselor at school and found out that it was nothing more than teenaged strife and hardship. Believe me, Aiden, I've been there.

Now, I know know it's different in your case. Not just what's been happening in the courtroom for the past month, but your personal teenaged experience. From what I've read in your report, you were diagnosed bipolar at age eleven, a very tough age, may I say, and the 'get-go' for your teenaged years to follow. Your teachers at school had seen symptoms in your behavior. You were called into the guidance office several times and asked if everything was okay, which you agreed that everything was fine. Four days after you were called in last, you attempted suicide by mutilating your wrists. After you recovered in the hospital, you were taken to a mental institution where you were diagnosed as manic-depressive and prescribed several medications. Is this correct so far?"

A thick blanket of silence smothered the hallway. The way I wanted to smother her.

I was mesmerized by the black marble tile. As deep as my mother's coal-shaded grave. Black, like the wave of depression battling against my collage of emotions every hour; a splatter painting. You never know what you get until it comes at you full-force, like a head-on collison of an eighteen-wheeler and you, just wanting to cross the fucking side-walk. But happiness was usually swept away by the high tide; black was here to stay. At least, for this second.

"All I'm trying to say is that I've been there and done that. I've had m-"

"Your highest highs and lowest lows?" I said in a small voice. Fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck her. Fuck her...

"Exactly," Mrs. O'Conner agreed in this "you're-coming-around-kid" voice.

Go.

Fuck.

Yourself.

"So one minute you've thought that you're pretty good at something and the next you say to yourself 'I suck'?"

The social worker didn't clearly respond. I didn't care now; the tides were churning.

"And one second you almost like who you are and then suddenly you loathe yourself and you want to die with the pathetic little used rag you call a life?"

Without realizing it, I had risen out of my seat. People at the end of the hallway were turning to stare. I didn't mind, nothing new.

"Umm, no, not exactly," she hesitantly stated. I could see the uneasiness in her eyes.

"Well didn't you just state that we all go through our 'teenaged strife' and you know what I'm thinking?" My voice was rising and the bayliff was lookng at me like I was an exhibit in "The Museum of Naural History".

"Yes, I did, Aiden, but I didn't mean it quite that literally", she defended, trying to use "the three Cs of understanding: calm, cool, and collected."

"You have no fucking idea what it's like! I've lived in a broken home since before I was born. I never knew my father, and now my mother's gone. I wanted to end this three years ago, and you're not fucking stopping me now!"

I shouldn't have said that why the hell did I say that I'm so fucked up now can't think can't think can't think...........Bottle!



Grab
the                                        
        bottle
                                                                                                    in your
                                                          pocket

I ran, weaving in and out of the hallways like a hunted banshee, until I by chance reached the exit. I could hear Mrs. O'Conner's high heels clapping against the floor.  Paranoid phantasm or ill-fated illusion? Fuck it; run to the grave yard!

The graveyard where my mother was buried was just three blocks away from here. Energy soared through me and circulated throughout my body like a circuit; you never know when I‘ll blow a fuse. I could see a Red Taurus on the road, in a long line of trucks, waiting. She was there, on the prowl.

I saw the sign: Xavier Young Memorial Grave. Darting my eyes, I looked for signs as to where her grave was. Near a pink colored stone, I recalled, and seven brothers who all served in WWII. A cluster of American flags caught my eye, just as I felt in my heart a presence in the graveyard. There's no time now...

It was tradition to go on my Dad's death date, January 13, to his grave. Even the therapists granted me a day off. But when Mom committed suicide, on the same day, the government threw me into a mental institution. I couldn't visit them. They surely couldn't visit me. Life as I knew it turned once again like an endless cycle of tragic events my life had become.

"Precautious measures," they replied simply. What did they care? They were ignorant of everything I'd been through. They only knew two things: I was a minor with no parents and I was bipolar. Figuring I'm too dangerous for a foster home, they planted me in there like the worthless sack of garbage I am.

I sped to the flags, but soon realized there were three for people who had died in the 9/11 attack. Where else was it by? Think...think....think... Charlie Parklard! His grave was two away from hers and had a statue on it. White tides sloshed 'round my brain, mania clear at it's peak. I sped to the oldest looking peaked grave. Rosetta Zabarit's grave lie before me. I grasped the bottle with both hands and opened the cap, acutely aware of the pill sediments not completely dissolved, a morbid concoction of the mind-numbing prescriptions and water. The taste of death swirled within me.

"Aiden!" I heard as a started to choke and sputter. I could feel the tides starting to recede, creating a calm scene in the abyss I've come to know as my black, broken heart.  I could barely breathe, black pixels swirling before my eyes.  My ears were muted as if I was underwater and my hands were tingling.

Swirls aimlessly circled above, so close, yet so far away.  In the center stood a couple quite beautifully complimenting each other’s features by merely standing next to each other, holding hands.  The lady looked a queen with her silken raven hair.  She wore a simple black dress; not too revealing, though not old-fashioned, just like my mother’s…  The king stood mighty and proud in a black tuxedo, clean and sharp like the only picture I had of my father…

I wanted to reach out, to acknowledge their awe-inspiring charm like precious gems, but a failing attempt to do anything proved me immobilized.  I could barely keep a thought.  These were my famous last words, about to be history.

"Y-....you...do-...don...n't....know m...me."