My short stories are based on true stories. True experiences of being lost in “the system”, between group homes and foster homes. The story below was written three years ago for an assignment but it became therapeutic. This is still a work in progress but in the meantime, please enjoy or at least be entertained.
I stood in the doorway, thankful for the musty smell of mold growing behind the wood panel of our community TV room. The beautiful sight of the last floor model TV on earth was rewarding. Even the dusty orange tweed couch, which I am sure has bed bugs, invited me to find a comfortable spot and enjoy the privileges that had been withheld from me for the last two months for fighting.
It was a typical teenage girl fight, over a boy. Two against one. I won. When you are trapped in a detention center, the opposite sex or any compatible mate is a prize.
Now, not the fight nor the boy matters. I’ve missed seeing the trusting face of news anchor, Jim Kincaid, on channel 13 evening news. He is the only one that can deliver bad news and make it seem like there is still hope. I’ve waited to see his worried forehead wrinkles and inspiring smile for months. I found my usual spot on the couch. No one was there. It was glorious. Control over the TV with no arguments. It was too good to be true.
I was ten minutes deep into the current events when Jordan, the subject of the girl fight, came in with a strange grin and distant eyes. We have been dating for seven months. Not to brag, but he is the most attractive of the other boys. His looks, his money, his bad-ass attitude make him an ideal teen boyfriend- hence the jealous females.
He has his demons though. We all do, according to the state of Virginia. We are a menace to society. Good thing we are kept medicated, not allowed to feel and deal on our own. Speaking of zombies, Jordan looked as if he had just taken some of his coping pills.
He drunkenly plopped down beside me and kissed my cheek. I pushed away, not wanting to get caught by a counselor and lose my TV privileges. Right now, watching tv was more important than my teenage hormones. Besides, I just fought his fan club. I am not going through that again.
“Stop, Jordan,” l loudly whispered after he tried to kiss me again.
“Don’t push me away. Please.” His voice was shaky, and his eyes were teary.
Before I could ask what was wrong, he laid his sweaty head in my lap, his body in a fetal position. He broke down like a baby, crying and breathing heavily. I did not know if I should stand up and let him drop to the floor or be a friend, at the risk of missing The Simpsons later tonight.
I whispered in his ear to calm him down. I could feel his heart racing. But why? What is going on? I tried to get the answer, but I could not understand him through the drooling and tears. I rubbed his head and wiped his tears.
His breathing began to become normal. With his head still on my lap, he laid on his back. I ran my hand up and down his chest. His shirt was wet. It must be from his tears and sweat. He began to talk gibberish.
“Jordan, I can’t understand you. Just go to sleep.”
More gibberish came from his lips, irritating me as I tried to hear the latest breaking news on a shooting that occurred in my old neighborhood. I tuned out his whining and tried to capture the rest of the broadcast, even the weather.
I continued to rub his chest. Sleep will clear his head and we can talk later about what was bothering him after Jim Kincaid signs off. Jordan placed his hands over my hand, squeezed it, then fell asleep.
I let him lay there until Pat Sajak signaled the 7 o’clock hour. I removed my hand from Jordan’s still ones and rubbed his head, attempting to wake him up. After a few seconds of no response, I shook him gently and called his name. Then I looked at my hand. Red. His sweat is red. I gasped.
“Wake up, Jordan. You’re bleeding.” I shook him violently trying to wake him. “Don’t play. Wake up.”
I got from under his head and pulled him to the floor. I started CPR, calling for the counselors between chest compressions.
“Wake up for me. Please, baby. Wake up.”
The pounding of the counselors’ feet let me know that help was coming. When they came around the corner, I was tackled to the ground.
“I’m helping. Get off me! He’s bleeding. I’m helping. Jordan!”
I laid there with a counselor’s knee in my back, arms behind me. I watched as the overweight nurse walked with no urgency to Jordan’s limp body.
“Does he have a pulse?” she asked, standing over him, looking down.
“Yes, he does.” I could barely breathe while being restrained. “Do CPR. Please.”
One of the other counselors cut Jordan’s shirt and used it to clean off his chest. “His bleeding is from cuts on his chest. Pretty deep. It’s a T and a K.”
I collapsed into myself. TK. My initials.
Helpless, I watched them do nothing to start his heart. It was gone. He was gone.
L. Simpson 