Tales of Insanity

I suppose I'll never know why Rudy was always so afraid. I think he didn't really know, either. He was always talking about how no one on the planet really knew themself, ever. How they could write all the literature and make all the movies they wanted, and they still would not have any clue as to who they truly are. I always used to ask about the people who told you about yourself. He would get this faraway look in his eyes and say, "No, Nicky, don't listen to them. They're just as lost as you are."
Tonight, I sit on my balcony and stare out into the city. I imagine what life would be like now for Rudy if he hadn't....
I decide to let it go and focus on the freeway a couple miles out. The cars speed past one another, their lights different colors and hues. It's a little past 1 AM now, and I know I should head inside. But I don't. I continue to stare off into the abyss, not really thinking about anything but not really blank. An hour later, when I yawn, I force myself to get up off the cold balcony surface and go back inside. I quietly shut the sliding door and feel my way through the dark to my bed. It's unmade and small, but it is warm and feels familiar. Sliding through the thin sheets, I think about tomorrow. What will I wear who will I see which classes did I have homework in I wonder what dad's thinking about right now?
Which, I know, is probably nothing. Ever since Rudy's "accident", as he likes to refer to it as, he's become a sort of robot. He gets up mad early and shuffles to work, then comes home way late and goes to bed. I rarely see him, and when I do, he's usually planted on his bed, gazing out the window at the boring street we live on. I don't think I've heard him speak since Rudy...
But I digress.
When my frantic brain finally shuts down, I roll over and close my eyes.
I find it strange that with all that's happened, I still want to live.

Posted in Suicide Sunday(work in progress)

My father always told me that Rudy had a mental illness. Now, when I was younger, I used to think that meant that my brother's brain had some sort of cold, complete with runny nose and sore throat. Now, nine years later, I know that my father - and my seven year-old imagination - were wrong. Rudy wasn't sick. He was scared. Scared of life. Scared of the future. Scared of himself. The only thing he didn't fear was death.

Which is what killed him.

Posted in Suicide Sunday(work in progress)

The hospital lights were blinding. The cleanliness of the floor made me angry. Everything made me angry at this point. Papa rushed ahead of me, pulling on my hand. "Come on, come on," he would mutter every once in awhile. A nurse stopped us and whispered very long words to Papa. I tugged on his shirt. "Papa? What's she talking about?" He shushed me and continued to nod to the nurse. I sighed and looked around. Noticing that Papa was preoccupied, I decided to take a look around. I poked my head in the nearest room. A frail old man was lying on a bed, his face turned towards me. His lips began to part, as if he would say something, but then they fell and he gave up. I exited and tried the next room. A familiar face greeted me this time, one I had seen every day of my young life. "Rudy?" I whispered. I hurried to my brother's bed. His eyes were closed, and tubes were stuck in every entryway to his insides. I shook his arm. "Rudy!" I said louder. His eyelids fluttered, and he coughed. "R-rudy? Whatsamatter with you?" I asked. It was then that he started to cry. "I failed, I failed, I failed..." he said over and over again. I was confused. What did he fail? We didn't have any school today. It was Sunday! "Rudy, what did you fail?" I quizzed. But Rudy had given up. He was just staring at the ceiling, his mouth hanging open. I reached over and closed it for him. "You don't want flies in there..." I whispered. "Nicky!" I whirled at my father's voice. "You aren't supposed to be in here! I thought I told you to..." he stopped as his eyes reached Rudy. His mouth opened and closed, like a fish. "Nicky...let's...we have to...we're leaving, Nicky." And just like that, he left. No word of goodbye to his only son, no "I love you"s, none of the standard "Get well soon"s. Just a sigh and an empty doorway.
That was the first time my brother tried to kill himself.
But it wouldn't be the last.

Posted in Suicide Sunday(work in progress)