The catcher in the rye- Allie's death

1

I put my fist through the goddamn window then the next and the next. I don't know what the hell I was doing. I didn't want to think; I never wanted to think again— I just wanted to shatter into pieces like the damn windows. Blood trickled down my fists but I didn't care; I was going to break and punch those windows until it killed me; until it killed everything. In my fiery rage I didn't notice the crunching of my bones as they hit glass. I sort of went ballistic, acting like a mad man, but I couldn't stop. I struck as if each hit could bring Allie back. As if each hit could start his heart again. I was cryin', too; big giant tears running down my face. I didn't swat them away, I just let them trickle down my nose and onto the floor.

I was there when Allie died, in our old summer home. God, I hate that place, with its long empty hallways and haunting rooms, every inch of it reeked of death. It was late at night and the house was so dark, the shadows clawed at you from every corner making the setting even more morose. Allie was sitting there in his bed, with a bunch of wires and shit running through him, and he looked so damn sick and tired it almost killed me. I mean, just seeing him there made my heart ache. His whole body appeared to be disintegrating; his skin was yellowed and flaked away at the merest touch; his face was sunken and grey, and the few times he opened his eyes they were dull and crusted. Gone was the shine of boyhood innocence that once gleamed there. Boy, was he thin; he looked like one of the prisoners of war D.B. told me about from his years in the army. Even his hair was gone; it had all fallen out in mangled clumps. That's what made me the most depressed, seeing Allie without his red hair. He wasn't the same without it; his hair was half of his personality, reflecting his bright joyful nature. He was a husk of the person he once was. He reminded me of a deflated balloon, he looked so damned small and helpless as his body went through its ultimate malfunction. I could barely stand standing in that cramped room, watching as the little life left in him drained away. It made me so damn depressed. Part of me wanted to run away and hide, but I couldn't take my eyes away from him. It was like watching a car wreck; no matter how much it hurt to watch, you just couldn't stop. And I felt if I left it would be betraying him. No, I needed to be there for him. He was such a good kid, just a good, good, kid, and I couldn't stand it, watching him die right before my eyes. I couldn't stand it.

The room was silent for the amount of people shoved in it. No one moved, no one breathed. It was as if everything was frozen and all. It reminded me of the natural history museum, the melancholy stillness of everything, forever frozen in time. We were all there, Mom at the head of the bed, her hand firmly stationed in Allie's. Dad stood behind her, his hand on Mom's shoulder. D.B. stood on the other side of the bed, facing mom and dad. I stood at the end of the bed, my hand holding onto Allie's foot. I felt like an anchor and my hand was the only thing keeping him on earth. And as we all stood there connected by the dying boy, we forgot that our touch alone won't keep him alive. We were all there, except Phoebe, who was sound asleep in the room adjacent, oblivious to the heartbreak and pain happening in ours. Part of me wished I could just forget it all— that I was a 5 year old without a care in the world. I hated myself as soon as I thought that; I would never want to forget Allie.

We had been in the cramped room since 8 and the clock had just struck 2 in the morning. We were all zombified; exhausted by lack of sleep. It had to be at least a hundred degrees in that room. Even breathing felt like you were trying to breathe in fire. Mom was running her fingers through Allie's nonexistent hair. She had been doing this for about an hour or two, dad tried to stop her but she wouldn't let him. We were all waiting for the inevitable. We all knew he was going to die, but none of us wanted to believe it. That's why he was here in bed and not in the hospital, because Mom wanted him to die in the comfort of his own home. Dad wanted to disconnect him from all the wires but Mom wouldn't let him. She got real mad when he suggested this, telling him he had no faith or some crap. I couldn't even imagine him dying. I had this stupid idea that Allie was invincible and couldn't be killed by anything, so this whole thing seemed like a dream or an act of play believe, because part of me thought he was just pretending. At any moment he was going to jump and yell "surprise!", then I was going to punch the crap out of him for scaring me, that's what I was going to do.