Juliet

Juliet sat on the cold bathroom floor, a razor blade in her right hand. Moments ago she had been sitting in her backyard with friends, a beer between her legs, watching the sky make way for the sunrise. The idea of killing herself had slipped easily into her mind with the oncoming day; she had bid her friends goodnight, gone upstairs, and broke a razor blade out of one of her father’s disposable razors. Now she sat cross-legged on the floor, cheerfully daring herself to use it. Her mood was one of cynical good humor, but her moods wavered these days, and sometimes bled together in runny streams.

(Benvolio was sitting on the front porch when Juliet and her father came out of the house. “What’s going on?” he asked. He had heard the screaming, figured Juliet’s parents were angered by her drunkenness. Her father walked past without a word to him. “Come on!” he roared. Juliet turned to Benvolio, smiling sickly, her left arm wrapped in a towel. “We’re going to the hospital,” she said. Benvolio jumped up: “Oh my fucking God!” The towel was soaked with blood.)

Things had been different when Romeo was around, but Romeo had been dead almost five months. Since his death Juliet’s life had been a whirlwind nightmare. She was never sure of how much of all that was happening around her was real. She found she didn’t care much anyway. Romeo had tried to slit his wrists too, she guessed. She had a letter from him written on the back of a blood-stained Dali poster. Obviously he didn’t do a very good job; he had lived for three more weeks before his roommate found him dangling over the stairs. She had never even seen a scar. The trick, she decided, was to close your eyes, plunge the blade in and pull down. She closed her eyes.

(At the hospital she got sick of explaining herself. “How did this happen?”/ “I cut myself.”/ “Why did you do this?”/ “My boyfriend killed himself in April.” Finally the doctor came in. “What happened?” he asked. “I fell down the stairs,” she smiled pleasantly. The doctor turned and left, calling for X-Ray. Her father had to chase after him to tell him the truth.)

She opened her eyes. Nothing! Puzzlement dissolved to laughter as she realized she had used the wrong side of the blade. Figures, she thought, shaking her head.

(Later, a nurse told her parents that she “wasn’t grounded in reality”. “She thinks her dead boyfriend told her to commit suicide,” she said. “She needs help.” Juliet disagreed. She wasn’t killing herself because Romeo had told her to. She was killing herself because he didn’t.)

She tried it out on the back of her arm, just to be sure. Bingo, she thought, as blood welled to the surface. “You didn’t think I’d do it, did you?” she whispered wildly. “Well watch this, Romeo.” She turned her arm over. She closed her eyes. Blood dripped onto her jeans.

(“I really have to go home soon,” Juliet said wearily. Her parents stood on one side of the hospital bed, Benvolio on the other side. “I have to work tonight.” The anesthetic in her arm made her feel tingly and throbbing. It was almost eleven in the morning, her head ached, and all she wanted to do was sleep. The doctor had given her nine stitches inside and eighteen outside—twenty seven in all. Blood seeped through the spaces between them. The room seemed to swell with silence. “What?” Juliet asked, looking around suspiciously. “You can’t leave,” the nurse said. “What?” Juliet repeated. “You won’t be going to work for a while,” her father said gently. She stared at them, realization dawning. “No,” she said, jumping out of the bed. “No! You can’t lock me up someplace! I’m a fucking grownup!” Benvolio reached out for her, and she lashed out, backing into the corner of the room, still screaming. “You can’t do this to me! Don’t you understand? I’m an adult now! I’m an honor student!” No one else moved. The room was silent but for her screams.)

When she opened her eyes her first thought was that it hadn’t worked again; impatiently she lifted the razor. Then the blood began to pour. She leapt up, startled. “Oh my god,” she said out loud. She looked around wildly, feeling as if she had just awakened from a dream. “Oh my god, Juliet, I think you just fucked up,” she told herself, arm positioned over the sink. She grabbed a towel and wrapped her arm in it, trying to think straight. “Benvolio!” she decided. “I’ll go ask Benvolio what to do!” She opened the bathroom door.

(They made her take an ambulance to the psychiatric ward. “Do I have to lie on the stretcher?” she asked. “Sorry love, it’s th’ rules,” one of the men replied. He was big and bald, yet gentle and soothing. He spoke with a heavy Scottish accent. “What made ya do this?” She lay back, resigned, muttering sleepily: “My boyfriend killed himself in April.” The next thing she knew, she was being wheeled through a new building. “This thing is so comfortable,” she whispered, struggling into wakefulness. The Scottish man laughed heartily. “Ya must be tired then, miss, ‘cause you’re th’ first I’ve heard say that before!”)

“Juliet, is that you?” her mother called sleepily. “What’s going on?” Juliet stopped outside the door. “Mom? I think I just fucked up. I-I think I just-cut my wrists.” She paused awkwardly as her mother leapt out of bed, adding hastily, “But I’ve changed my mind!”

(She cried so bitterly over the strip search that the nurse allowed her to put a robe on before taking her clothes off. But when she demanded her jewelry, Juliet refused to submit her nose ring. The nurse left and returned with a man. “I’m sorry,” he said amiably, “but its hospital policy. No one can wear jewelry in the intensive unit.” “Well,” she replied calmly, “we’ll just have to come to some sort of compromise.” The man approached her. “Here’s the compromise,” he said. “Either you give us the earring or we’ll hold you down and take it.” Some compromise, Juliet thought as she handed it over.)

Her mother took one look at the blood in the bathroom, staggered back to her bedroom and passed out. “Let me see,” her father said calmly. Juliet dizzily peeled back the towel. “Get your shoes on,” he said abruptly. “We’re going to the hospital.”

(Her mother and Benvolio showed up a short while later. “I brought you some clothes,” her mother said. “How you doing?” asked Benvolio. The both looked tired and scared, as tired and scared as Juliet felt. “Exhausted,” she said. “Yeah,” he agreed, “you’ve had a rough night.” They kissed her and left, and she collapsed on the bed, tears seeping through her closed eyes as the blood seeped around her stitches and stuck to the white bandage around her arm.)

The world started slipping to black. Juliet grasped at the banister and missed, falling to her knees at the top of the stairs. “So this is it,” she thought. “I’m really going to die.” Her father’s voice burst through the ringing in her ears: “Juliet, get the fuck up now!” and she thought, “I can’t die. My father won’t let me die.” Her skin tingled hot and cold as she struggled for consciousness. Romeo dangled behind her somewhere in the nightmare world she had come to inhabit. The Dali poster lay crumpled on the floor.

(Her arm lay on the bed before her, awkward and bandaged. As she drifted off, she felt Romeo touch her outstretched hand. “Romeo,” she thought sleepily, “look at what I’ve become. Did you ever think I’d come to this?” The tears slipped hot down her cheek onto the bed. He squeezed her hand tight and watched her as she slipped into unbroken sleep.)

1996