Why Live? | Breaking the Fence by Sharon McKenna

JUNE 1997
T H E RAVEN C H R O N I C L E S

`contents`

Breaking the Fence

Sharon McKenna

I. Blood

Being old when you're young helps. And vodka in your Monkees thermos, too. Lots of that. But a really nasty much-older boyfriend who paints cars at Miracle and plots your nightly breakdowns in between shiny coats (Miracle does three, that's their secret) is really the juice.

So when I hammered the glass into the pavement of an obnoxiously quiet cul-de-sac (it was asking for noise) I didn't stop to think about why I'd choose to live instead. That would have been like, should I have blue cheese or Italian?

That chunky glass didn't cut it though, not clean enough. Instead of veins, I hit nerves. The spanking new doctor reconnected the wormy things while a grumpy nurse held a book of instructions. Nothing to kill the pain, guess they figured I'd had my chance at that already. I heard my Dad, who never really left Belfast even though he'd never been there, out in the corridor saying I'll Kill You to my boyfriend and my sister screaming Motherfucker at Dad or maybe just someone walking by. I listened as I looked down at my right arm, the uncut one, bony white and numb in a worn leather restraint and I thought well, this is something. I would have hated to have missed this.

II. Sleep

The next time there's an itch around the whole thing, not a dilemma exactly but a shadow of one that's hard to shake. A couple more years on the good old earth and all of a sudden I feel like I've got some vague obligation to stick around and take up space. So I made a list of whys but when you're seventeen the page is pretty empty. I listed Mom and Dad, the chance of going to hell (60-40) and next week's Led Zepplin concert (I had some 714s and two really good seats lined up.) But it wasn't long enough, and another list, the one we all have in our heads even though we say we never think about it, well, that's the one I went shopping with.

A fistful of Dad's Dalmane and a few shots of Jim Beam later, I woke up choking on a respirator. I wanted to rip the damn thing out but those familiar leather restraints held my arms to my sides.

Then I looked up to see my entire family circling my steel-sided bed. There was Mom and Dad, my six hulking brothers and my insane sister, all staring at me like they were waiting for me to do a party trick. They all looked so stupid smiling down at me that I had to laugh (but I couldn't cause of that awful tube.)

Now that was a sight worth waking up for.

III. Air

This time I was really ready. Screw the list, I was eighteen and I knew what was what. So I walked off that window ledge into the air just like I was stepping off the diving board into the clear blue pool in our backyard.

Then there was wood and the sound of things breaking. I opened my eyes and even that hurt. A heap of boards that just seconds before was a fence crumpled beneath me. I splintered it like a lumberjack axing dry kindling.

I lay there in a dirty alley on a broken fence and waited for someone to look out the hotel window or come running but no one did. I pictured them up there in the room: "Oh, her? She jumped out the window. Got any more blow?"

Then I heard something. I looked up and behind me and a black face and lots of white teeth filled my view. I smelled booze and years of hard living; he smelled like me. He was laughing down at me, not in a mean way but in a truly fucking amazed way, like he couldn't believe anyone would brave something like that and then have to live through it. It was a roar of irony.

Then I started to laugh with him. I let go a deep belly-driven sound and sent it up to that black sky spiked with stars and it echoed back and fell all around me like cool rain. It was then that I figured I wasn't much good at this dying thing. I thought I'd try the other side for awhile.

IV. Sky

Like a lot of people before me, I've figured out why to live just in time to die. My list is longer than my life, if you figure one year of living equals at least one page of whys. So now its thirty-six pages but I'll just give you the highlights:

To be hungry and like it; I know what it's like to be full. To be forgiven by those least likely to. To forgive them back. To hear my dog howl at the absence of moons. To push a life out of me other than my own. And this right now. That's the big, big why. The biggest of them all.

So now when I imagine dying, I think it'll be a lot like breaking the fence. I'll fall without worry, land safely even though God knows I shouldn't, and once again, someone will be nearby, watching. We'll laugh together like before, and the crazy sound will spill out of me like light from a new moon into the deep black sky, only this time, it will stay there.

© The Raven Chronicles 1997

JUNE 1997		T H E RAVEN C H R O N I C L E S

`contents`		Breaking the Fence Sharon McKenna I. Blood Being old when you're young helps. And vodka in your Monkees thermos, too. Lots of that. But a really nasty much-older boyfriend who paints cars at Miracle and plots your nightly breakdowns in between shiny coats (Miracle does three, that's their secret) is really the juice. So when I hammered the glass into the pavement of an obnoxiously quiet cul-de-sac (it was asking for noise) I didn't stop to think about why I'd choose to live instead. That would have been like, should I have blue cheese or Italian? That chunky glass didn't cut it though, not clean enough. Instead of veins, I hit nerves. The spanking new doctor reconnected the wormy things while a grumpy nurse held a book of instructions. Nothing to kill the pain, guess they figured I'd had my chance at that already. I heard my Dad, who never really left Belfast even though he'd never been there, out in the corridor saying I'll Kill You to my boyfriend and my sister screaming Motherfucker at Dad or maybe just someone walking by. I listened as I looked down at my right arm, the uncut one, bony white and numb in a worn leather restraint and I thought well, this is something. I would have hated to have missed this. II. Sleep The next time there's an itch around the whole thing, not a dilemma exactly but a shadow of one that's hard to shake. A couple more years on the good old earth and all of a sudden I feel like I've got some vague obligation to stick around and take up space. So I made a list of whys but when you're seventeen the page is pretty empty. I listed Mom and Dad, the chance of going to hell (60-40) and next week's Led Zepplin concert (I had some 714s and two really good seats lined up.) But it wasn't long enough, and another list, the one we all have in our heads even though we say we never think about it, well, that's the one I went shopping with. A fistful of Dad's Dalmane and a few shots of Jim Beam later, I woke up choking on a respirator. I wanted to rip the damn thing out but those familiar leather restraints held my arms to my sides. Then I looked up to see my entire family circling my steel-sided bed. There was Mom and Dad, my six hulking brothers and my insane sister, all staring at me like they were waiting for me to do a party trick. They all looked so stupid smiling down at me that I had to laugh (but I couldn't cause of that awful tube.) Now that was a sight worth waking up for. III. Air This time I was really ready. Screw the list, I was eighteen and I knew what was what. So I walked off that window ledge into the air just like I was stepping off the diving board into the clear blue pool in our backyard. Then there was wood and the sound of things breaking. I opened my eyes and even that hurt. A heap of boards that just seconds before was a fence crumpled beneath me. I splintered it like a lumberjack axing dry kindling. I lay there in a dirty alley on a broken fence and waited for someone to look out the hotel window or come running but no one did. I pictured them up there in the room: "Oh, her? She jumped out the window. Got any more blow?" Then I heard something. I looked up and behind me and a black face and lots of white teeth filled my view. I smelled booze and years of hard living; he smelled like me. He was laughing down at me, not in a mean way but in a truly fucking amazed way, like he couldn't believe anyone would brave something like that and then have to live through it. It was a roar of irony. Then I started to laugh with him. I let go a deep belly-driven sound and sent it up to that black sky spiked with stars and it echoed back and fell all around me like cool rain. It was then that I figured I wasn't much good at this dying thing. I thought I'd try the other side for awhile. IV. Sky Like a lot of people before me, I've figured out why to live just in time to die. My list is longer than my life, if you figure one year of living equals at least one page of whys. So now its thirty-six pages but I'll just give you the highlights: To be hungry and like it; I know what it's like to be full. To be forgiven by those least likely to. To forgive them back. To hear my dog howl at the absence of moons. To push a life out of me other than my own. And this right now. That's the big, big why. The biggest of them all. So now when I imagine dying, I think it'll be a lot like breaking the fence. I'll fall without worry, land safely even though God knows I shouldn't, and once again, someone will be nearby, watching. We'll laugh together like before, and the crazy sound will spill out of me like light from a new moon into the deep black sky, only this time, it will stay there.
		© The Raven Chronicles 1997