Freedom’s Child. Jax Miller

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       11

       Copper

      My name is Freedom and my blood is sand. That’s what it feels like when I get overhyped, when my head spins and I can’t stop it. It’s a side effect of trying to keep up with Earth as it spins on its axis, is all. Docs pass it off as mental illness. I call it eccentricity. There is nothing wrong with eccentricity. And I don’t need to take the stupid meds. I keep the pills. I go to the leftmost cabinet in my kitchen and grab my suicide jar.

      “Almost at the top.” I swallow hard and bite my lip until I taste pennies. “Maybe another day or two.” I screw the lid back on to the old mayo jar and hide it between the cans of peas and tuna fish.

      I force myself back down. I’m still too hungover from last night to drink right now, so instead I listen to Judy Garland’s “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.” That song makes my skin crawl and my stomach drop. It was my son’s favorite. I listen to it until I am on the brink of suicide. When my mind is there and I’m ready to grab a dull kitchen knife and trace the veins in my wrist, I’ll call Cal for the distraction. He’s used to it.

      What time is it? Twelve? After Carrie said I could go home, I had a small run-in with the Viper Boys, a few regulars who think they’re something to fear. All they did was suffocate everyone else in the establishment with Cuban cigar smoke and brag about their cars … Vipers. It’s the only thing that probably ever gets them laid. One of them bear-hugged me from behind and burned the back of my shoulder with a cigar in his teeth. Douchebag. Passion tried to jump in, but she knows I can take care of myself. I head-butted him with the back of my skull, so all is now forgiven. He’ll forget it by morning. I grab some Neosporin to put on the burn, but it’s just out of reach between my shoulder blades. I use the end of a toothbrush. That works.

      I’m back on the countertop with the phone still in the cabinet. Why aren’t you picking up, Cal? After a long day’s work I can smell myself. Cal’s not answering his phone and Judy Garland fails to bring me down to suicidal levels. What a bitch. I’ll just go for a stroll. Wait, can’t leave Johnnie Walker Red behind.

      I walk to my favorite spot, Sovereign Shore, for a bit of isolation and a chance to escape the carnival in my brain, as me and the voices in my head speak different languages. I walk under the streetlights and think of The Exorcist, and not even the “Tubular Bells” theme as I walk in the middle of the cold night is enough to bring my mind down to a more quiet and bearable level. Ha, look at the tree with the burned bark. Thank God it’s a different mailman now, I’d hate to look at him again.

      Anyway. The suicidal thoughts come and go as they please. I have no control over them I’ll have you know, it’s a full-time job. Mental illness, if that’s what you want to call it. I’m telling ya, Doc, I’m merely eccentric. It’s like constantly hosting a huge party for all these guests you really don’t care for. Truly. Those unwanted guests who want to eat all your food and don’t grasp the first million hints to get the hell out of your home. I think that’s the best way to describe it. I have reached my destination.

      The spray of the ocean is at its warmest this time of year, but the air is colder as I climb onto the craggy rocks in the pitch black underneath a moonless night. All that’s to be heard are the sounds of oxygenated bubbles rising to the bottom of the bottle and the crashes of salt below. The scotch burns, and so I cough it out into the gusts that knot up my red hair.

      * * *

      I think back to the day I knew I’d never see my kids again. That was twenty years ago. The word dismissed ricocheted around in my skull for two weeks after I was released from prison. Dismiss: verb. To order or allow to leave; to send away. Vanessa Delaney, the charge of second-degree murder against you is to be dismissed with prejudice.

      I sat in an office behind chambers in family court, not far from where I was charged with killing my husband two years prior. I waited for Sharon Goodwyn, a plump and pale woman with no nose, only holes in her face that made her look like a black-haired swine. She was the caseworker in charge of overseeing my children’s adoption after I was charged. And I hadn’t seen her since. But I remember her well, and I remember wishing that some homeless diseased freak would jump her in an alleyway for taking pride in a case that took away my children even though I was wrongfully accused.

      Back when I was brought before the judge, I said not one word, not even when he asked me to speak. It was pointless. Even if I thought it would have made one lick of difference, which, trust me, it wouldn’t have, I still kept my mouth shut as a big fat fuck-you to the system, leaving everyone in the court asking, “What goes on in that crazy woman’s head?”

      I had nothing nice to say. Not at all. My silence was perceived as an act of apathy, but it was more of a reaction to the constant voice in my head that said, Don’t do anything, because it will be stupid. That voice was right. I was ready to snap my good-for-nothing attorney’s neck and lick the blood off my fingers like I had just eaten the best southern fried chicken of my life. But no. Instead I stayed quiet. Quiet on the outside. People expected me to speak. My silence was a protest against them too, now that I think about it. Boy, do I remember the faces of my ex-in-laws, the Delaneys.

      “Hello, Ms Delaney,” said Ms Goodwyn when she entered, her briefcase bouncing off her gut. She didn’t make eye contact with me. I wouldn’t have either. Having to face the mother of the children you took knowing she’s innocent? I had to give it to her, she had a set of brass balls, though she probably ate them too.

      “I want my fucking children back,” I demanded. She looked at me like she was seven shades of offended.

      “Don’t use that tone with me,” she said as she opened her briefcase. I exhaled as deeply as I could and made sure she heard it. I wanted her to know my patience was as thin as paper. She started to jot notes in one of the hundred files.

      “Would you be so kind”—I crossed my hands and brought them to my chin with puppy-dog eyes—“as to give me my goddamn children back, Your Fucking Highness.”

      “Nessa, it’s not that simple.”

      “Why the hell not?”

      Sharon Goodwyn got short with me. “Because you gave up your parental rights.” She pointed her pen in my face and it took all that I had not to take it and ram it through that pig nose of hers.

      “They were taken from me because of the murder charge.”

      “There were other options …” She trailed off into her papers.

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