Dead things

Author’s Note: This is work of fiction, inspired by a time when I worked with youth in a day treatment setting. The events and people are imaginary, but the feelings are very real.

Content Advisement: discussions of death, drug use, and incarceration.

I keep seeing dead things. And soon to be dead things. Flattened squirrels on pavement. A lost echidna that wasn't cut out for freedom. A bird with a broken wing, panicked and thrashing in the bushes it landed in. I can smell death everywhere, too. 

Portland in the fall smells like rotting fruit and gasoline. 

I also keep seeing men who look like my dad. And every time I ask my mom how she is, she only texts back “dizzy”. 

A boy at work ran away for a while and when he came back showed me the needle marks in his arm. 

“I can't believe I went there,” he said, rubbing his arm and not looking at me.

I ask him why he did it. “Because meth is awful to smoke”. 

I think about his age, his use history, and his trauma. My mind assesses the variables and produces a likely outcome. He tries to meet my eyes, perhaps for some kind of comfort or assurance, and I look away. 

I think about the last group activity I held before he ran. A kid named Eli, asked the group “How long do you think you'll live?”. He proceeded to immediately answer his own question, “I think I'll die at 23, but I'll already be famous and a father”. There was a pause, and I took the bait to keep things moving.

“Why a father?” I ask.

“Because I'm a genius and I'm gorgeous. I owe it to society to pass on my genes.”

His peer, a boy named Jackson, ignored the narcissism and replied, 

“I'm gonna die at 27, just like Tupac.”

I look over at the boy who would put a needle in his arm, Matthew, he just smirks and continues to ride his skateboard without answering. I ask the group if they've heard of the “27 Club”, and of course they haven't. They haven't heard of most of the members, either. Eli jumps on the opportunity to tell me that the “27 club” is just a statistical fluke and that you could pick any age and group together famous people who died at that age.

Like many of my conversations with Eli, he tells me things I already know but I smile at him and nod in response instead of arguing. 

Matthew runs away again, a week later. I'm told we won't take him back this time. Eli and Jackson don't ask me why, but they do ask me if he's ok. I can only reply, “I hope so,”.

When they leave my office I put my face in my hands. There's only a few students that I've shed tears for, and Matthew is now one of them. My mind flashes to one of the others, a boy named Clay with a broken brain, another one I couldn’t help. I decide to call him, he's in juvenile detention and will be for the foreseeable future. 

Our conversations are always short. He doesn't care much for talking. 

“Hi,”

“Hi,”

“How are you?”

“Good, I have a bigger cell. I can play basketball every day.”

“That's great!”

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“I miss you,” he says.

“I miss you, too,” I reply.

“Tell everyone else I miss them.”
“I will.” 

“Ok, bye.”

“Bye.

As the line goes dead, I sit and stare at my phone. Jackson appears at my door and asks if he can go to the group room to listen to music. I say yes and hand him my work phone, he opens SoundCloud and some kind of rap music I’m too old to recognize starts playing. Eli stops by again and tells me goodbye before he leaves for the day, something he normally doesn't do. I smile at him. On the way home, I see a dead crow.