Page 2 of Glad You're Here

At the time, my wrath towards her burned with the hormonal fury of a thousand suns, but I also secretly admired her steely strength. I got over never meeting my grandparents or my father, but I never stopped thinking about death. I quietly shouldered the weight of my mother’s and spent too much time wondering about my own.

Why did death hold so much fascination anyway? Why did some of us crave it and some of us fear it? Why were some deaths acceptable and others unthinkable? And was it the only true equalizer in life?

Turning into a macabre little weirdo was unintentional, but here I sat, twenty-nine years old with deep purple hair, black painted fingernails, and a Google Drive account filled with fake suicide letters.

I pushed back from my desk and wandered into my kitchen to make some chamomile tea. I was a macabre little weirdo who liked chamomile tea. I even drank it out of a bright yellow mug. It helped me sleep. Cute, huh?

I flew too close to the sun and sipped my tea before it had cooled, instantly burning my tongue. “Ow!” I yelled to no one. I needed to get a black cat or something, someone to share these stupid little moments with.

The Pablo Picasso Blue Period calendar on my fridge confirmed that today was Friday. I easily forgot what day it was when I existed in a haze of pain. The fibromyalgia part of my suicide letter was true, too. That son of a bitch showed up in my late teens, sending unexplained and incurable pain coursing through my body at random. Some days were manageable. On those days, I painted and spoke to other humans. On the bad days, though, days like today, I took some edibles and curled up in the fetal position until the pain subsided.

Then, when the pain passed, I wrote suicide letters to appease my inner demons.

I wouldn’t actually do it.

Maybe.

I glanced at the calendar again. Tuesday was four days away. Four days could be enough time to do everything I wanted to do in life. The list wasn’t long. Honestly, I didn’t have a list at all. I didn’t want to do anything cheesy like skydiving or seeing the Grand Canyon. I didn’t want to do anything ridiculous like fall “in love.” In my humble opinion, the only thing left to do was paint my final masterpiece.

It would be some epic painting that completely embodied my warped perspective on life. It would be raw, and I wouldn’t hold anything back as I do in my commissioned pieces.

After that, I could leave this life— unless I found another reason to keep grinding.

two

Brigham

“Brigham, read D&C 89 verses 5-7 and 18-21. Then tell the class what the Lord means by strong drink and what blessings we’ll receive if we abstain.” Brother Hansen, my Sunday school teacher, peered at me over the top of his glasses while I quietly read the scripture verses.

I cleared my throat and met his quizzical gaze, shifting in the uncomfortable metal folding chair. “Um, strong drink is alcohol, and if we never drink it, we’ll be strong, and the destroying angel will pass over us.” I wanted to ask if Heavenly Father would really send a destroying angel for His beloved children, but I kept quiet. I knew better than to ask questions at church.

Brother Hansen smiled. “Excellent, Brigham. Young men and women, it is imperative to your salvation that you never touch a single drop of alcohol.”

I gazed up at the “house of sin” before me and audibly gulped, trying to shake away the memory from my youth Sunday school days. The bar was called The Station, and it showed up first in my internet search when I decided it was time to taste Satan’s juice.

The Station appeared unimpressive from the outside—a two-story brick building with a very average-looking, black front door. It had a peaked roof and a normal number of windows. Even the signage looked simple, in a standard black font, all caps. There were no neon lights or leering strangers. No one fornicated in the alley or threw punches in the parking lot.

It didn’t look like the story of sin and misery that I’d been sold as a child.

At thirty-three years old, I learned that not much of the real world resembled what I’d been taught. Growing up in a strict Mormon family was a trip like no other, but I traveled a new path now, one separate from the church and all of its toxicity.

It would be much easier to leave the church behind if I could get it out of my head.

I snapped my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose, willing the memory invading my mind to disappear. The flashbacks were intense tonight, and I couldn’t stop them.

My oldest sister, Emma, sobbed on our front porch in the dead of winter. Her rapid breaths came out in little white puffs. “Daddy! It’s not mine! It’s Cici’s!”

“I will not let you defile our home with this pure evil!” Our father clenched his jaw and fists, and the rage rolled off him in tangible waves. He gripped Emma’s long blonde ponytail and yanked her head back with his teeth bared. I wondered for a moment if he would rip her throat out like a rabid dog, but instead, he growled, “Go inside, Emma Hale Thompson. You better be on your knees all night praying for forgiveness.”

As Emma shoved past me and our four other siblings standing in the doorway, our father yelled after her, “Bishop Graves will be hearing about this!” He then slammed the door in the faces of his children.

My two older brothers wandered away from the train wreck, having already lost interest in their wayward sister’s plight, but my two younger sisters and I watched from the living room window as our father picked up the six-pack of beers. He carefully pulled a beer from the cardboard, letting the amber bottle rest in his palm. Then, without warning, he hurled it against the closed garage door. Shards of glass flew through the air, glittering like Christmas under the glow of the porch lights.

After all six bottles were shattered, their contents already beginning to freeze in the frigid air, he sank to his knees to pray.

“You comin’ in, darlin’?” An older woman with bleached blonde hair and leopard skin leggings gave me a toothy smile and held the door of The Station open for me.

“Oh. Um, yeah. Yes, I am.” I nodded, resolved to go to hell, and followed her through the open door. She gestured for me to go ahead of her and gave my butt a blatant appreciative stare. I guessed she was close to my mother’s age and fought not to shudder visibly. I had recently joined the single crowd, but that didn’t mean I wanted to visit Cougar Town any time soon.