TRIGGER WARNING: SUICIDE
Ellen Harris hung her Burberry raincoat on the rack in the corner of the marbled vestibule, removed her heels, and replaced them with comfortable, cushiony pink slippers. She headed to her home office to put away her work bag, and she took out the documents she needed to finish working on tonight for a meeting first thing tomorrow morning and left them in the center of her desk to work on after dinner.
Upstairs in a room wallpapered with her award-winning artwork, tears fell from sixteen-year-old Violet's green eyes, who was getting sleepy. Before her eyes closed, the last thing she saw was the photo on her oak wood nightstand of herself as a young child with her parents at Walt Disney World. She whispered to them, “I’m sorry. I love you.”
Downstairs, Ellen wondered why the house was so quiet. Usually, when she got home from work, her husband of twenty years, Mark, was already home from his office and waiting for her with a drink, or her daughter Violet was blaring music that shook the large house down to its foundation.
But today, the house was eerily silent. Ellen listened to the one voicemail: Mark reported he’d come home late and to remember Violet remained punished for sneaking out the previous weekend.
So, Violet should be home. Ellen had a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. She slowly went up the stairs and knocked on Violet’s door.
“Sweetheart, are you home? Can I come in?” Ellen waited, but there was no response.
She slowly opened the door and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw Violet sleeping peacefully, her mass of black curls the only thing visible. Ellen didn’t notice the empty bottle of her sleeping pills on the bed until she bent to kiss her daughter’s forehead, which was unnaturally cold to the touch.
“Violet! Violet! Wake Up! Please, Violet!” Ellen shook her sixteen-year-old daughter with one hand, noticing the changes in Violet's face resulting from her death, and pulled her phone from her pocket with the other. She called 911, even though in her heart, she knew it was too late. Then she called her husband and told his secretary there was an emergency, and he needed to come home immediately.
Tears streaming down her face, Ellen crawled into Violet’s bed, cradled her daughter’s cold, lifeless body sobbing uncontrollably, and rocked her, begging Violet to come back to her as the sounds of the ambulance in the distance grew closer.
The Day Before
“Mom, everyone else is going. I’ll be the only loser not allowed to attend Elle Keating’s weekend graduation party! The kids already make fun of me for having a job; they don't understand why I have to work for extra money since they don't. I've repeatedly told you how often they come into the store, try everything on, leave the clothes on the floor of the dressing room for me to re-hang, and then sashay out, giggling, saying ‘the clothes were too cheap and tacky,’ and laughing as they watch me clean up after them as though I'm their servant!”
Ellen felt her heart melting. She, too, was bullied in school, but she held her head high and was proud of the woman she became. A successful real estate agent with her own company, she felt standing up to her bullies helped make her more resilient, but Violet was different - softer and more sensitive.
“Violet, your father and I aren't comfortable letting you go away for a weekend without any parental supervision because of your illness. We’ve already explained this to you, and we discussed it. You said you wouldn’t drink, but I was a teenager, and know you’ll drink. It's a given. Despite being underage, you know you can’t mix your meds with alcohol, as you already learned the hard way before. Do you want to end up in the hospital again?”
“I HATE YOU!” Violet ran up the stairs to her room, and seconds later, Ellen not only heard but felt Violet’s bedroom door slammed shut with all her force.
When Mark returned home from work later than usual, he found Ellen sitting at the hand-crafted kitchen table with a glass of red wine and the house vibrating to Violet’s heavy metal music. Mark smelled something savory cooking.
“Hi, babe. Dinner’s in the oven and should be ready soon.”
“Hang on a second, Ellen. Violet! Turn that down immediately,” Mark yelled from the bottom of the staircase. “If I have to come up there, there will be trouble, and you're already grounded! Do you want to make things worse for yourself?”
A few long seconds later, silence echoed through the house.
"Thank you,” Ellen said. “I’ve been trying to get her to turn it down since she ran to her room after we again fought about her going to Elle Keating’s party," as soon as she got home from school.”
“I thought we discussed that already,” said Mark, pouring himself a double scotch and adding a single ice cube. Leaning down, he kissed Ellen, then sat across from her at the table. Stretching out his long legs, he refilled Ellen’s glass with the bottle of wine on the table and held up his drink to offer a toast, “To surviving teenagers.” They clinked glasses, and Ellen let herself laugh despite her continuing sense of unease.
Mark laughed bitterly. “She’s sixteen. Get used to it. According to our mothers, it never ends."
"In the last three weeks, she’s thrown three temper tantrums over not being allowed to go and complained about how she hated hearing everyone talking about how much fun they'll have. Are we being too strict? I spoke to Carrie’s mom, who said Carrie’s not allowed to go either. But, according to Violet, that doesn’t matter because Carrie is ‘a loser like her,’ and is bullied by the same kids because she's overweight. However, according to her mother, Carrie doesn’t want to be accepted by her bullies and stays as far away from them as possible, unlike Violet, who is desperate for them to accept her. I asked her why she wanted to be friends with the same kids who bully her, but she told me I didn’t understand and slammed her door in my face.”
“What are you worried about most?” asked Mark, looking concerned.
“I’m worried she won’t take her meds or she'll mix them with alcohol, and something will happen to her. We’ve already gone through similar experiences with her, and none ended well. Honestly, I’m afraid the weekend will end with her in the hospital again. And, because she’s determined to impress her bullies, who knows what stupid things she'll do to gain their approval? You know how kids are, and you how Violet can get - like most sixteen-year-olds, she never thinks of the consequences of her actions.”
“She’s sixteen. What do you expect? Aside from her mental health issues, Violet’s no different than any other sixteen-year-old, and sixteen-year-olds never think about the consequences of their actions. They live only in the moment, and believe themselves invincible.”
“So, you think we should let her go?”
“Absolutely not! I’m just saying we acted no differently at Violet’s age. How many unchaperoned parties did your parents allow you to go to at her age?”
“None." Ellen closed her eyes and let out a long, resigned sigh.
“Ellen, we can’t treat her differently from other kids her age and stop her from enjoying life because of her illness. It’s part of who she is, and like everything else, we have to take that aspect of her life into account." Mark took a sip of his drink.
"Really? And how many of those other kids tried to kill themselves?” Ellen snapped at him.
“That happened when she first hit puberty, and her hormones combined badly with her medication. She hasn’t tried anything similar since.”
“You’re right. You’re always right,” said Ellen, smiling as she got up to lean over and hug her husband of twenty years.
“Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes if you want to wash up. Violet, come set the table!” Ellen yelled as she took the lasagna out of the oven, set it on the stove, and took the salad she had prepared earlier from the fridge. “Violet! Let’s go! Dinner’s almost ready!”
Seconds later, she heard Violet stomping down the stairs. She entered the kitchen, her eye makeup streaked from crying herself to sleep. “I hate you,” she spat at her mother as she entered the kitchen.
Mark was right behind Violet. “Then, you can go back up to your room. Speaking that way in this house is forbidden and will not be tolerated. We’ll treat you like an adult when you act like one. In the meantime, go upstairs, finish your homework, and prepare for bed. There will be no electronics tonight. "Give me your phone." Violent reluctantly pulled it from the pocket of her red hoodie, mumbling something about Instagram. "I'm trusting you not to use your iPad. Instead, read a book, or get a headstart on upcoming assignments."
“I HATE YOU BOTH! I WISH I WERE DEAD!” Violet ran up the stairs, and the house again vibrated as she slammed shut her bedroom door.
Ellen started to get up to go after her, but Mark stopped her. “You know she won’t do anything to prevent her minuscule chance to go to that party, and is likely upstairs scheming how to get us to allow her to go, or how to sneak out of the house. Let’s finish dinner, then we can try talking to her again. Bring her a piece of lasagna as a peace offering.” Mark smiled but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
They discussed their day as they ate dinner, and as they finished eating, Ellen reminded Mark, “Don’t forget Violet has a pedagogical day tomorrow and she'll be home alone. I have a meeting in the morning but can spend the rest of the day working from home. So, she'll only be home alone until lunch.”
“She’s sixteen Ellen, so chances are she’ll sleep all morning. Surely you're not worried about leaving her home alone to sleep?”
“I know I sound neurotically strange. But, I have a bad feeling."
“That sounds rather ominous. Could it be you're being overdramatic?"
Ellen kissed her husband. “You’re probably right. But, I’m a mother; it's part of my job to be neurotic. Like how tonight it's your job to wash the dishes. While you do that, I'm going to finish preparing for my meeting in the morning."
After washing the dinner dishes, Mark headed to Violet’s room and knocked on the door.
“Violet? Can I come in?”
He heard a grunt, which he took as permission, and opened the door to find Violet curled in the fetal position on her bed, crying. Her face and pillowcase were streaked with the black eyeliner and mascara she had cried off.
Mark sat on the edge of the bed next to Violet’s curled form.
“Sweetheart? Talk to me.”
“It’s…it’s…not…fair,” Violet hiccupped. “You never let me do anything. "I need to show those kids I’m not the loser they always make fun of me for being. When Elle invited me, she happily said you guys wouldn’t let me go, which was good because she didn't want any losers at her party.” She hiccupped again and burst into fresh tears. “Why am I such a loser? Why do I have to be sick while everyone else is normal? Why do I have to suffer? What did I do to deserve this?”
Mark felt his heart break. Here was the little girl he had held in his arms in awe at birth, marveled at her tiny fingers and toes, the little girl whose innumerable boo-boos he had kissed away, but at the moment he felt helpless. Here was the young woman who had sat between him and Ellen at the doctor’s office as the doctor explained her mental illness. Here was the bright young woman who had asked the doctor intelligent questions he and Ellen hadn't thought of. Passed on from his side of the family, he felt the iron weight of guilt weighing on him, the cause of his daughter’s sobs tearing apart his heart.
“Sweetheart, you’re not a loser. You’re beautiful and unique, and an incredibly talented painter. As the doctor explained, people with mental illnesses like yours are usually more artistic and creative than ‘normal’ people, and you’re proof of that. Just look around your room.” Mark gestured with his arm at the paintings adorning Violet’s room’s walls.
All mediums of paint were visible in the different paintings. Acrylics, oils, and watercolors caught the eye from every angle. Interspersed amongst the images were awards for her artwork.
“Look how talented you are! No one in your grade can call you a loser. How many awards have you won for your artwork - six? Seven?”
“Nine,” Violet mumbled.
“Has anyone else in your class won nine awards for their artwork?” Mark asked, gesturing around the room.
“No; but, it just makes me stand out more. When I was awarded ‘best oil painting’ this year, Lily Stone accused me of winning only because the teachers felt bad for me. After all, I was crazy and had no talent unlike her, and she should have won. Of course, her friends backed her up, as always. Elle laughed and said the painting matched my personality — weird dark splotches of color.”
“What the hell does that even mean?” Mark asked his daughter, perplexed.
She shrugged and began to cry again. “It was the painting I submitted for the assignment to paint our feelings. That's how I feel inside most of the time." Violet pointed above her bed, and Mark's eyes followed his daughter's extended finger. He stared at the kaleidoscope of mixed dark colors, each whirling shade emanating a visceral sense of sadness he could feel in the pit of his stomach.
"It doesn’t matter." Violet sniffled. "Elle’s right - I am a loser. No one wants me around.”
“Hey, hey!” Mark lifted his daughter’s chin and stared into her vivid green eyes, another trait she'd inherited from him. “We’ll have none of that type of talk. Remember what you’re learning in therapy - self-validation -and apply it. Instead of saying you’re a loser, what do you say?”
Violet muttered something into the pillow she was holding tightly.
“What was that? I couldn’t hear you.”
“I’m a good painter no matter what Lily Stone says and I deserved to win,” grumbled Violet, not believing her own words.
Mark smiled at his only child, unaware of her true feelings.“That’s my girl. You'll be ok. Maybe you and Carrie can get together the night of Elle's party; she's not going either. Think about it, at least." He got up from Violet's bed. "I brought you a piece of lasagna in case you were hungry. It’s on your dresser.”
“I’ll be fine. I always am since I’m never allowed to do anything the cool kids are allowed to do,” said Violet bitterly.
“Goodnight, sweetheart. You have a ped day tomorrow, so lucky you, you get to sleep in while the rest of us go to work. Hopefully, you’ll feel better tomorrow. Don't forget to take your meds.”
Violet rolled her eyes. “Goodnight, Daddy. I love you.”
He closed the door with a smile. Violet hadn’t called him Daddy in years, making him feel warm and tingly inside. She was his baby and always would be; he would give his life for her. He loved his wife with all his heart, but Violet washis heart, and it broke every time she had an episode. Mark said a quick prayer this wasn’t the start of another and joined Ellen in their room.
*****
The sirens grew louder as they approached, and Ellen felt her head vibrate. She clung fiercely to Violet’s lifeless body, and when the paramedics arrived, she refused to let go.
As they couldn’t bear to separate a grieving mother from her daughter, the paramedics compassionately waited for Mark to get home, watching over Ellen and feeling her pain from the doorway.
Tires squealing, Mark came around the corner and parked his black Lexus across from the emergency vehicles. Racing up the stairs, he was confronted by the sight of two paramedics and two police officers awkwardly standing around in front of Violet's room, watching his broken wife cradle their lifeless baby in her bedroom.
The authorities gave him space as he entered Violet's room, fell to his knees before Ellen, brushed his daughter's black curls away from her face softly, and kissed her cold forehead, noticing her lips had already begun to turn blue. Taking a deep breath, Mark gently disentangled Violet from Ellen’s arms and carried her to the gurney set up in the hall. He carefully laid her down before kissing her forehead one last time and turned his back on the paramedics as they prepared Violet’s body for transport to the morgue, and held Ellen.
"NO! Please don’t cover her face. Violet!” Ellen shrieked as Mark held her face pressed tightly against his chest so she wouldn’t see the paramedics preparing Violet's body for transport to the morgue. Mark began to cry as he heard the sound of a zipper and held his wife even tighter as Violet, their only child, whom they would never see again, was sealed in a body bag. Mark and Ellen clung to each other, both devasted and sobbing as the emergency personnel took away their only child.
Mark stared at the painting of dark whirls she painted to represent the dark feelings spinning inside her.
Now, all they had left were their memories of their only child and her artwork.
A Day Like No Other