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Sometimes
you're traveling
a highway, the only road
you've ever known,
and wham! A semi
comes from nowhere
and rolls right over you.
Sometimes
you don't wake up.
But if you happen
to, you know things
will never be
the same.
Sometimes
that's not
so bad.
Sometimes
lives intersect,
no rhyme, no reason,
except, perhaps,
for a passing semi.
Triad
Three
separate highways
intersect at a place
no reasonable person
would ever want to go.
Three
lives that would have
been cut short, if not
for hasty interventions
by loved ones. Or Fate.
Three
people, with nothing
at all in common
except age, proximity,
and a wish to die.
Three
tapestries, tattered
at the edges and come
unwoven to reveal
a single mutual thread.
The Thread
Wish
you could turn off
the questions, turn
off the voices,
turn off all sound.
Yearn
to close out
the ugliness, close
out the filthiness,
close out all light.
Long
to cast away
yesterday, cast
away memory,
cast away all jeopardy.
Pray
you could somehow stop
the uncertainty, somehow
stop the loathing,
somehow stop the pain.
Conner
Arrival
The glass doors swing open,
in perfect sync, precisely
timed so you don't have
to think. Just stroll right in.
I doubt it's quite as easy
to turn around and walk
back outside, retreat to
unstable ground. Home turf.
An orderly escorts me down
spit-shined corridors, past
tinted Plexiglas and closed,
unmarked doors. Mysteries.
One foot in front of the other,
counting tiles on the floor so
I don't have to focus the blur
of painted smiles, fake faces.
A mannequin in a tight blue
suit, with a too-short skirt
(and legs that can wear it),
in a Betty Boop voice halts us.
I'm Dr. Boston. Welcome to
Aspen Springs. I'll give you
the tour. Paul, please take his
things to the Redwood Room.
Aspen Springs. Redwood Room.
As if this place were a five-star
resort, instead of a lockdown
where crazies pace. Waiting.
At Least
It doesn't have a hospital
stink. Oh yes, it's all very
clean, from cafeteria chairs
to the bathroom sink. Spotless.
But the clean comes minus
the gag-me smell, steeping
every inch of that antiseptic
hell where they excised
the damnable bullet. I
wonder what Dad said when
he heard I tried to put myself
six feet under -- and failed.
I should have put the gun
to my head, worried less
about brain damage, more
about getting dead. Finis.
Instead, I decided a shot
through the heart would
make it stop beating, rip
it apart to bleed me out.
I couldn't even do that
right. The bullet hit bone,
left my heart in one piece.
In hindsight, luck wasn't
with me that day. Mom
found me too soon, or my
pitiful life might have ebbed
to the ground in arterial flow.
I thought she might die too,
at the sight of so much blood
and the thought of it staining
her white Armani blouse.
Conner, what have you done?
she said.Tell me this was just
an accident.She never heard
my reply, never shed a tear.
I Don't Remember
Much after that, except
for speed. Ghostly red lights,
spinning faster and faster,
as I began to recede from
consciousness. Floating
through the ER doors,
frenzied motion. A needle's
sting. But I do remember,
just before the black hole
swallowed me, seeing Mom's
face. Her furious eyes
followed me down into sleep.
It's a curious place, the
Land of Blood Loss and
Anesthesia, floating through it
like swimming in sand. Taxing.
After a while, you think you
should reach for the shimmering
surface. You can't hold your
breath, and even if you could,
it's dark and deep and bitter
cold, where nightmares and truth
collide, and you wonder if death
could unfold fear so real. Palpable.
So you grope your way up into
the light, to find you can't
move, with your arms strapped
tight and overflowing tubes.
And everything hits you like
a train at full speed. Voices.
Strange faces. A witches' stewpot
of smells. Pain. Most of all,
pain.
Tony
Just Saw
A new guy check in. Tall,
built, with a way fine face,
and acting too tough to tumble.
He's a nutshell asking to crack.
Wonder if he's ever let a guy
touch that pumped-up bod.
They gave him the Redwood
Room. It's right across
from mine -- the Pacific
Room. Pretty peaceful in
here most of the time, long
as my meds are on time.
Ha. Get it? Most of the time
,if my meds are on time. If you
don't get it, you've never
been in a place like this,
never hung tough from one
med call till the next.
Wasted. That's the only way
to get by in this "treatment
center." Nice name for a loony
bin. Everyone in here is crazy
one way or another. Everyone.
Even the so-called doctors.
Most of 'em are druggies.
Fucking loser meth freaks.
I mean, if you're gonna
purposely lose your mind,
you want to get it back some
day. Don't you? Okay, maybe not.
I Lost My Mind
A long time ago, but it
wasn't exactly my idea.
Shit happens, as they say,
and my shit literally hit
the fan. But enough sappy
crap. We were talking drugs.
I won't tell you I never tried
crystal, but it really wasn't
my thing. I saw enough
people, all wound up, drop
over the edge, that I guess
I decided not to take that leap.
I always preferred creeping
into a giant, deep hole where
no bad feelings could follow.
At least till I had to come up
for air. I diddled with pot first, but
that tasty green weed couldn't drag
me low enough. Which mostly
left downers, "borrowed" from
medicine cabinets and kitchen
cabinets and nightstands.
Wherever I could find them.
And once in a while -- not often,
because it was pricey and tough
to score -- once in a while, I
tumbled way low, took a ride
on the H train. Oh yeah,
that's what I'm talking about.
A hot shot clear to hell.
Copyright © 2007 by Ellen Hopkins
Excerpted from Impulse by Ellen Hopkins
All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
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