Buried in Sunshine

By Matthew Fish

Copyright
©
2012 Matthew Fish

All Rights Reserved

I am fearful. I look up to a calendar full of
pictures of different exotic tropical locations that reads
7/13/2011
and realize that in exactly one month, I will be
turning twenty-three. I am afraid of growing older, growing up, and
worst of all—growing into nothing. I fear a life that has no
purpose. My name is Emma Hope Corbeau, although I tend to leave out
the ‘Hope’ part for I often find that I have none. When asked,
which is not a seldom occurrence given my self-imposed exile from
society, I tend to simply offer up the name Emma…Emma Corbeau. My
last name is often mispronounced—it’s “Coor-bough,” not “Corbeww,”
or even “Cardboard” as people sometimes mockingly say as I correct
their mistaken attempts to fumble the pronunciation. I suppose I
could be easier on them; after all, it is only a name and I so
easily cast aside Hope. However, I want it to be known. I want to
be acknowledged. I want to be someone.

I suppose that it should be enough that I am
still young—or so that is what I am often told. Just as I am told
that I am attractive. I have wheat blonde hair with bangs that hang
just above my cloudy blue eyes—eyes that look like an overcast
afternoon with faint lines of white that form a wavelike pattern
around the black of my iris. I have a sharp nose that I find
imperfect as it has a small bump across the bridge. I am very keen
on finding imperfections in myself. My lips are a pale pink that is
only slightly distinguishable in color from my honey colored skin.
I am skinny, I constantly skip meals. I am not very tall, short
some would say. In the past people have said that I was very
pretty—that I was sexy. I suppose, physically, the curves of my
body and its feminine form have not changed much…it is just how I
view myself that has changed in spades. I do not think myself ugly.
I just find nothing appealing about myself. I am perhaps too
ordinary to be any kind of actress or model—plus my fear of
speaking or being on display in front of a crowd easily squelches
that avenue for success. Then again, I do not know if that is what
I want to be known for. Despite my lack of hope, I do feel that I
have to be here for some purpose. Does God just make people who are
destined for absolute obscurity? …if so, why do they do it? Why
make something that is worthless? I know that it must seem like I
am being rather defeatist. But, as sad as it sounds, I feel I am
being more of a realist. After all, we can’t be the whole “anything
we want to be” we have been told so many times by our parents and
people on the television—hell, I can’t even seem to do anything
that makes my mother proud of me. I cannot even function in a way
that would allow me to be proud of myself.

My grandfather passed away when I was fifteen. I
felt bad because I spent most of the last year wanting to not exist
anymore, when all he wanted was more time. He wanted to continue to
live, and now I so desperately wanted it to end. I remember
something he said once, under heavy medication, that has stuck with
my every single day since they fumbled out from his slightly
incoherent lips—he said, “Emma… You live just long enough to see
everyone you care about pass away and all you dreams disappear into
dust. Living is a terrible thing but sometimes it is all we can
do.”

He died the next day at the age of ninety-one.
He had a pretty good run to be quite honest. I fear that I will
never make it to forty. When I think about what he said that day, I
wonder if it is a curse and eventuality afforded only to those who
have lived a long life. If I disappeared tomorrow, none of that
speech would apply to me. Then again, I already care for very
little and my dreams seem so unreachable that they might as well be
placed upon the moon and I’m trying to reach for them atop a
precariously positioned stepladder.

I know that I will fall someday. I feel as
though it is my destiny to fail. After all, my sister who was two
years younger than I…she killed herself in spring two years ago.
People around me say that I am in recovery—that my life is in a
state of stasis because the mental injury of her passing is far too
near and dear for me to move on. I suppose that is a reasonable
assumption to make. Her name was Alexis. She had blonde hair as
well and crystal clear, sparkling blue eyes. Her eyes always
carried a weight of happiness to them. They were the glittering sun
upon a lake to my cloudy overcast eyes. She always smiled. I hardly
ever smile, especially these days.

It was my mother who found Alexis. I was out. My
mother had just returned from clothes shopping—there was not much
in the two bags, although we have money—mom likes to live like we
are poor. She was headed towards her bedroom with two plastic bags
in hand as she passed the bathroom and noticed that the door was
ajar and the light was on. She caught a glimpse of something
swaying. As she placed the plastic bags to the floor she slowly
opened up the door and saw Alexis hanging from a bit of rope from
the shower rod. Alexis had removed the curtain and wrapped a length
of cord around the iron rod. She had stood at the edge of the claw
footed bathtub and simply jumped off. Alexis was a beautiful girl.
Perhaps, if she weighed a bit more she would have snapped the iron
rod. I would have never thought of going out that way. I would have
suspected that the rod would have broken or the joints holding it
into place would have given way and I would have just ended up
looking foolish. Alexis pulled it off. It could be said that
anything she put her mind to would be accomplished—even this final
act. I think about the reasons a lot, mostly because I did not see
it coming. I must be the worst sister ever. She was also so driven.
She was going to a four year college for a fine arts degree. She
wanted to be a graphic designer or some kind of commercial artist.
None of that matters now, not anymore.

Sometimes, I rationalize her decision as
something genetic. Everyone in my family has attempted or succeeded
suicide. My great grandfather committed suicide after he found out
that his eldest son was stealing from the company they both worked
at. He attempted to shoot himself in the head, he did not quite do
it right and ended up dying in the hospital three agonizing days
after. My aunt, in a fit of depression, threatened to leave her
family and drive their van into a lake. The police stopped her
before she reached any body of water. My grandfather died as a
result of severe liver damage that he sustained from taking too
many painkillers. It was the most painful way I had ever heard of
someone dying. I remember him just crying out in agony—he wanted it
to be over. I suppose, he had lived long enough that he felt he
needed to take matters into his own hands. His wife, my
grandmother, died nearly thirty years before he passed—she,
however, did not commit suicide. It was cancer that caused her
curtain call on the grand boring play that is life. My grandfather
never remarried; then again, I suppose it is hard to remarry at
sixty. Even my mother once attempted to drink herself to death
after one too many unsuccessful relationships. Instead, she just
ended up sick for a few weeks with a nasty case of alcohol
poisoning. To her credit, she was never a quitter—she still drinks
and still attempts to have relationships (even if they are mostly
of the one night variety these days.)

I do not know if my father ever attempted
suicide. I do not even know if he is alive. He left us when I was
around twelve years old. Aside from a few pictures of him, I have
no concrete idea of what he looks like currently. I can form images
in my mind of him holding my hand as we walk down the sidewalk when
I am young. I can remember him at birthdays, he always smiled. I
wonder if he still smiles. I do not know why he left. I always
imagine that he is somewhere out there in the world, sometimes I
think that he will come back for me and apologize in an attempt to
make it up to me in some way. I half expected to see him at
Alexis’s funeral. He did not show…of course. I suppose, I take
after my mother’s side of the family. I also suppose, you could say
that suicide runs in our family the same way that cancer is
hereditary in other families.

I have not attempted to remove myself from the
world. I cannot promise that it will always be that way. After all,
it seems to strike us at random ages—whether we are twenty-one or
ninety, it is probably an eventuality that I will have to face. I
wonder what will drive me to it. Would it just be random like
Alexis’s suicide? Sometimes I picture her waking up that day and
looking into the mirror and just seeing something completely
different than she had expected. Like she sees someone looking back
at her and she is not happy at all with it. So she does the only
thing she can to fix the issue—she hurries about the house looking
for a length of cord (Alexis always did things in a hurry) and
hangs herself. If she could not be happy with the person that she
was…what hope do I possibly have?

I remember sitting outdoors in the large field
of trees outside of our house after a few months after her death.
As I sat in the morning sun, thinking about nothing in particular—a
single newly formed leaf fell from an ash tree overhead. I watched
the leaf as it spiraled down to the ground and finally rested
against a fresh growth of spring grass. It made me think of her.
The leaf that falls in spring—that is what Alexis was. Unlike my
grandfather who was a shriveled brown leaf that was loosened by a
cold autumn wind, Alexis was a newly formed fresh emerald leaf that
had a long existence ahead of her but fell to the earth anyway. I
cannot tell if the comparison is poetic or banal. I would like to
think the former rather than the latter.

It is a Friday. My mother, whom I live with, is
out—she is always out. I lie with my back against an old couch, my
skinny knees resting against my stomach as I linger in a sunbeam. I
have heard that cats do this most of their days and I can see the
appeal. A filtered beam of light warms against my body. I am
wearing a short pair of cotton tight shorts and a comfortable slim
fitting black shirt. Feeling the hot sun against my body makes me
feel closer to those I have lost. Sometimes I wonder if every soul
gets shot out into space and absorbed by the sun. Although I hardly
get out anymore, I find comfort in this spot.

My mind flashes to an image of Alexis dangling
from her neck from the iron rod in the bathroom. Even though I was
not there to see it, my mind has reproduced an image so accurately
that I can say for certainty that it was exactly how it looked
right down to the color of the cord and the pitch of her lifeless
sway.

This image constantly haunts me. It torments me.
It leaves me feeling as though I cannot continue existing. I want
to be one with the sun like the others. However, I want to leave
something behind—some unremarkable lasting thing that states that I
once existed. I suppose I could carve my name in a rock somewhere.
However, I do not feel that it will be enough. I do not know why I
have this urge to be remembered. After all, Alexis, who had so much
talent, did not need this comfort. How did she find it so easily to
leave?

My mind is very random when it comes to
thoughts. I tend to trail off on different tangents for no
particular reason and possess no rhyme to my disorder. It is
something that people either find fascinating or terribly
frustrating, mostly the latter. I often find it very easy to admit
that I might just not be an all together likeable person.
Ultimately, I am alright with people disliking me.

I should be comforted that I have something that
does not allow me to follow in her Alexis’s footsteps. Without the
need to leave something behind, to be remembered—I probably would
not be here now. I do not know how I would go about removing myself
from the world of the living. Everything that I have encountered or
heard about in my life has either been too painful, messy, or slow.
I do not like the sight of my own blood. I do not like the idea of
being in pain. When I was about eighteen or so I had my appendix
removed forcibly by some doctors while I was drugged, asleep. The
following six months were the most painful and unpleasant memories
I carry in my life. There were days when I could not get to the
bathroom without feeling as though the pain was too overwhelming.
Some days I wish I could have just given up. I eventually
recovered, however a small j-shaped scar now resides upon the flat
smooth skin of my stomach—a lifelong reminder.

I live in a three story old Victorian style
house. It was the one thing my father left us with, well… that, and
a rather large savings account. He was a man who came from money
and had purchased the home outright. He spent his few years in its
residence fixing up the place. My mother says that the house was
built sometime in the mid 1800’s. It used to be a farmhouse, until
at one point, someone came in and allowed the three acres the house
is situated on to be reclaimed by nature. Now, a tall forest of
evergreens and oak and ash surround the house. From my spot on the
third floor, it is a daily occurrence to see some wild deer amongst
the leaves or to see a rabbit wander out from the tall brush. The
house has hardwood floors throughout and intricately carved wooden
doorways. Cold brass handles adorn the old creaky doors and a
spiraling staircase leads down the three floors. The top floor, my
room, is a small space with one large window that looks out and has
an attic like ceiling. My bed is a simple wooden frame, besides my
small couch and a painted white dresser with a cracked mirror, it
is the only real furniture I have in my room. My room is sparsely
decorated, it feels empty. An old bronze lamp that I found in the
basement sits on my dresser. I do not have any posters or paintings
or pictures up hanging around. I find it more comforting to stare
at the wooden grain of the wall—sometimes I see things. I read that
if you stare at a random pattern long enough that the mind tends to
create images within the visual noise. I have special spots that I
have nicknamed ‘angry bear,’ ‘man sailing,’ and ‘headless woman
having sex.’ To an outsider they would appear just natural
formations in the wood; however, to me… they mean something for I
have spent time with them and they have shown me what I want to
see.