I Knew She Was Mad
I knew she was mad. And I knew I was making her more mad. I just didn't know how mad she really was until I broke into the bathroom and found her with a bloody razor blade in her hand.
It was, as they say, a night like any other night. We'd had a fight and now we weren't speaking; which was a cruel irony because I believe the fight was about us not speaking.
"Everyone both communicates their needs and needs to communicate differently," I insisted.
"Well, I need to talk to you. And I need you to talk to me, too," she replied.
In other words, we needed to talk.
Whatever.
Fine, we'd talk. But I wasn't having any of her histrionics. We'd had this argument again and again, and each time she admitted that she wasn't really mad at me, but at herself, for one thing or another - drugs, money, drugs. Or she was mad at some situation - drugs, work, the weather. Or else she was mad at someone else - usually her mother or her father, more often both. She was carting around some heavy baggage, alright, and I was sick of being the bagman.
I'm sure that my taking things lightly didn't help to lighten her load any, but what was I to do? I'd tried being the concerned boyfriend. I'd attempted playing the shrink. I'd even tried the hardcore realize-your-potential-or-else approach, which, in the end, made both of us laugh. I tried candy, I tried flowers, I tried dinner and a movie, I tried drugs. We both tried drugs. A lot of drugs. Nothing worked for long.
This time I was going to try to tough love.
So I grabbed my novel-of-the-minute (funny, now that I think of it, I can't seem to remember what I was reading at the time) and imbedded myself into the couch.
I guess I should've called it tough luck.
I could hear her stare: How dare you just lie there? But I ignored it. She often tried to unnerve me with the ol' evil eye. I used to shoot one back at her. Now I just let it ricochet back on its own.
Then she left the room - Bam! - the door slamming at last an exclamatory end to the fight. This, too, was par for the course.
I figured she'd pout for awhile, fix-herself-up, go out and start all over again. But when the usual pouting-and-preening time had elapsed and elapsed by far, I got that sinking feeling.
I've read about it a lot - that sinking feeling. I've heard it spoken of, I've seen it painted and I've watched it unfold - on occasion - up on a big screen. So I knew what it was. I had even chided myself that I knew what it felt like - suspicion that tingles. After all, I'd been in danger before.
But it was nothing at all like this. When faced with danger I got a sense of forewarning, and could adjust myself accordingly. Something bad was about to happen, but I could influence it's outcome. This was different. This was foreboding, a sense not just of danger, but of tragedy. Something bad, real bad, had already happened and there wasn't a damn thing I could do about it.
I tip-toed into the kitchen and slipped a butter knife from the drawer: This was not a time to knock. The blade slid smoothly, silently into the archaic lock, a subtle turn to the left and click! I'm in.
She's expecting me. Mock surprise washes over her face as her arms dart behind her back. But she forgets about the blood on the floor. There wasn't much - more than a few drops, less than a puddle. Meaning obviously that even had her clumsy attempt to fool me worked, her clumsy attempt to kill herself didn't.
But still she spilled enough blood to give great good rise to mine.
"What the fuck are you doing!?!"
Silence. Shame.
"Oh, now who won't talk?"
Fear. Anger. Sarcasm.
"Are you fucking insane!?!"
Panic. Absurdity.
I quickly pull her hands from behind her. The blood doesn't hit me in the face, which is good. But there's a steady stream seeping from her wrist, which is bad. I wrap a towel around the wound and grab the phone.
"Don't call the cops," she says.
"I'm not calling the cops, you moron, I'm calling an ambulance!"
"The cops'll come."
She's right, of course. You can't just tell the emergency operator that your girlfriend just tried to kill herself and not expect the cops to come.
I hang up the phone.
But 911 is well-equipped for such an eventuality. The phone immediately rings back. If I don't answer, they'll surely come. And they'll come strong. Maybe I can stall 'em.
"Yes?"
"911 operator, do you have an emergency?"
"Yes, well, no, well kind of," - this is not the time to lose my gift for fast gab - "see, my girlfriend had an accidentÖ"
"What kind of accident?"
"Well, she cut herself."
"Where?"
"UhÖthe arm."
"The arm or the wrist?" -How does she know this?
"Well, it's, uh, near the wrist." - Idiot.
"Someone's on the way."
"Oh, that won't be necessary," I say. "We'll just grab a cab."
"Someone's on the way!"
Apparently suicide attempts are not to be attended-to by taxi service, what with the whole potential loss of life question and all.
"Shit! Fuck! Damn! Get dressed," I yell, "they're coming!"
I make a mad dash throughout the house, throwing drugs and paraphernalia into a paper bag. I'm gonna need these later, I think, so I open the window and put the sack on the outside ledge, just within reach. The blinds put it out of eyesight.
Have I missed anything? Frantically I check and re-check drawers, cubbyholes, books and jewelry boxes.Fuck! Her jewelry box! There's enough shit in there to send us both up the river. Bitch! Quickly and self-righteously I pour out a monster line for myself, snort it, then wrap and place the goods with the rest of the evidence.
The blade! Shit, it's got my fingerprints on it! Who knows what they'll do about that. I've been to jail over a girl before. I'm not going to do it again.
"Where's the fucking blade?" I yell.
Maybe it's the coke, but she's moving impossibly slow.
"Where the fuck is the blade?"
She shrugs. "The bathroom?"
Right, the bathroom. Fuck and double-fuck again. I had grabbed it from her hand. Now where was it?
I tear the bathroom apart, the mess I make looking for the blade kinda cleans-up the blood. It hides it anyway.
"Aha! Here it is! I got it!"
She doesn't respond.
Oh, shit! What now? She's not in the closet. She's not in the kitchen when I toss the blade out the window. And she doesn't answer when I scream "Where the fuck are you?"
Then I see her on the bed, pale and a bit pasty, but awake.
"You ok?" -Another brilliant question.
"I just tried to kill myself, otherwise I'm fine."
"Good line," I say. Then I laugh. Then she laughs, too. Then the knock.
Just like television. The knock is loud but the voice is louder.
"Police Officers, open up!"
I steel myself. They're not gonna like me. Cute girl + slashed wrist = bad guy. Fuck!
"Hello, officersÖ"
There's four of them. F-O-U-R. For some dame's wrist? No, there's four because of why the dame may have cut her wrist. Or more precisely, who.
Meaning me.
"UhÖ", I start to say.
"Would you step outside please?"
Two are escorting me out, while two others are entering in. I know they always separate the potential perps in order to see if their stories match up, so I'm not really worried.
"Can you stand up against the wall, please?"
Now, I'm worried.
The frisk is perfunctory but nonetheless thorough. Convinced I'm unarmed, the cops start going through my pockets.
"You don't have anything sharp on you do you? Like needles?"
"No, sir." -I'm a boy scout.
"Any drugs?"
"No, sir!" -I'm a minister.
"Have you been doing drugs?"
"Not at all, sir." -I'm a saint.
"What about your girlfriend?"
I'm in trouble.
Even if she doesn't say she's been doing drugs, it's obvious she's been doing drugs. Anyone alive can tell that. And if she admits to using drugs, the cops are gonna want to know if there are more and/or where they came from. The none-too-subtle implication being that she won't be charged if she rats-out someone - namely me. I'm not sure how mad she still is but I'm pretty sure she's not mad enough to have me arrested. And I haven't told her that I hid all the drugs - including hers - Bitch! - on the kitchen window's ledge, so they can't coerce that information out of her. If they find them, I'll say they're mine. I'm the more likely culprit, anyway.
One of the cops peeks his head out. I try to peek mine in. My girlfriend's eyes meet mine. She's scared. And sad. And furious with me for bringing the cops on the scene, however well-meaning the reason and inadvertent the act.
"Can I go inside?"
"No, I think it's best you stay out here."
Damn. What the fuck are they doing in there? I know that technically they can't search the apartment, but technicalities can only keep you from being sentenced; not arrested. I'm positive there tossing the place. I would. And what has she said to them? I'm not handcuffed, yet, but it's getting close.
One of the inside cops is conferring with one of the outside cops and both take turns glancing over at me. I'm trying desperately to read their body language, to find some telltale sign in their eyes, to make out a word on their lips. Nothing. Unless you call my sweaty nonchalance something.
Then a siren. The ambulance. Somehow it's been overlooked that this is first and foremost a rescue operation. There's a damsel in distress in there gentlemen. Let's save her!
The siren seems to spoil the cops' fun. These guys won't care about drugs; they're here to save someone. Little do they know, their arrival probably saves two someones.
I rise and walk in with the attendants. More dirty looks. Somehow I'm to blame. Go figure. But they can give me all the dirty looks they want; as long as we're on this side of the bars.
The mood shifts. Now the questions about drugs pertain only to her allergies and the boys in blue have stopped snooping around the house. But they've got bloodlust. They want someone; if not her, me. Otherwise they miss the overtime and their day's ruined.
I keep my fingers crossed and a constant chatter going with the rescue team. Somehow I know that if I can prevent a lull in the conversation I can keep out of jail. I follow the stretcher from the building, cops on my tail.
"Can I ride with her?" -The concerned boyfriend.
"Not a chance."
This not from the ambulance, but from far to my left. I look - it's a fucking sergeant. What the fuck's his problem?
"Then where are you taking her?" -The determined boyfriend.
"Jackson," comes a patrolman's reply.
"Jackson? Why? That's a million miles from here."
"Yep."
I glance at an attendant for confirmation; he looks down at his clipboard. They can't be taking her to Jackson. Not when there's a hospital nine blocks away.
Another cop: "You stay here. She'll call you when she can."
What? Now I can't even follow her?
But I'll agree to stand on my head in the stairwell and write I Will Not Cause My Girlfriend's Suicide 1000 times if it'll get them the hell out of here.
"Yes, sir. If you say so, sir." -I'm Dudley Do-Right.
The ambulance departs with one patrol car close behind. The other cops are milling around, still looking to nab somebody. I stand my ground for about a fraction of a second, utter an unobtrusive "thanks, officers", and attempt to walk innocently away, praying to the Gods of Cool that they don't change their singular mind.
Upstairs there's evidence to dispose of and I intend to make short shrift of the task. But before I do, feeling a bit selfish, I set aside some for my girl. They'll be keeping a close eye on her at the hospital and if she gets anything at all it'll be an ultra-mild sedative, if that; so I'm sure she'll want what I've got. Then again, maybe the drugs were a contributing factor to her rash act. Sounds sound to me. I do the rest myself and wait for the coast to clear. I've no other choice.
Stay tuned for the next I Knew She Was Mad
Note: This article was first published online in the now defunct Bully Magazine. Supplied with immense thanks to Ken Wohlrob.
