The catcher in the rye- Allie's death

6

"D. B., where's Mom?" I asked D. B., who was hunched over his breakfast, not touching it. He looked up, bleary eyed. He had big circles under his eyes I don't think he's slept at all.
"Holden, Mom isn't doing too well," he sighs and leans back in his chair, "she hasn't left her room for the last 2 days. I think she just needs time to cope." I didn't know how to react to that; although I didn't really know how to react to any of this. Mom, the woman who knew the answer to everything, not knowing how to cope? 

I went in and peeked into my parents' room. Dad was at work, but Mom was just lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. She looked so much like Allie then it killed me.

I spent the rest of the day lying on my bed and just wishing to disappear, because I honestly had no idea what else to do. At about 12:00 I got a phone call from this girl from school named Shirley. I didn't want to talk to her— hell, I didn't want to talk to anyone— but D. B. said I should, so I picked up the phone.

"Hey Holden," she said in such a sickeningly sweet voice it made me want to throw up. And you could tell she was chewing gum and all. God girls can be dumb.

"Hi Shirley."

"Sorry to hear about your brother and all, it's really a bummer, but my mom said it was all in God's plan." Boy did that make me mad. I don't know what happened but I just started yelling at her and telling her how I don't care what her bitch mother thinks then I hung up. I'd been fixing for a fight for a while, but once I got it all out I felt so drained that I felt like I was going to pass out. It was a weariness so deep I couldn't stand it. All I knew was that I needed to get out of this damned apartment.

I decided to sneak into my dad's office and get a pack of cigarettes and the bottle of whiskey he kept in a drawer under his desk. Dad's office was never locked; I don't know if that was out of trust or laziness, but it was all the same to me. I put the pack of cigarettes, and bottle of whiskey into my backpack, and then I snuck out and rode my bike all the way to the lagoon in Central Park where Allie and I would ice skate in the winter and watch the ducks. When I got there I just started smoking and drinking. I smoked cigarette after cigarette and when it made my throat dry I washed it down with the whiskey. I went on and on like this and I think I started crying again, but I can't remember. It didn't make me feel better, but it didn't really make me feel that much worse so I kept at it. I liked to watch the smoke from the cigarettes as it floated over the lake; it looked almost pretty, almost. The ducks were out but they didn't seem to notice me, which made me almost feel more sad. Even the ducks didn't care. 

I finished the whole damn pack of cigarettes in less than 2 hours, and the whiskey bottle was depressingly empty too. I didn't know what to do next. I reckon I was pretty buzzed, so I wasn't thinking straight. I was so fried I felt like my hair was falling out— I mean hell, it was already turning grey. In my tipsy state I thought it would be a good idea to ride my bike home. I tried to get on my bike, but I fell off and nearly broke my damned back. All the air left my lungs. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. I tried to get up from the ground, but I just threw up all the whiskey. It hurt twice as much coming up as it did going down, and I kept retching up bile. It was the most horrible thing I ever experienced; I was stuck on my back like a flipped turtle, covered in my own sick, and the world was spinning and I couldn't get it to stop. I couldn't get any of it to stop.

I don't know how long I laid there, my bike on top of me, covered in my own puke, too broken and defeated to get up, but it must have been at least an hour or two. I just lay there, looking at the sky and the ducks upside down. It would've almost been peaceful if it wasn't for the smell of my own barf. Hardly anyone knew about the lagoon so no one saw me. The longer I lay there, the more panicked I got. I kept thinking how no one was going to find me and I was just gonna lay here until my body rotted away, forgotten by the world. The more I thought about this the more I accepted my fate. It didn't make me sad; it didn't make me feel anything. It was just what I thought was my reality, and I couldn't help but wonder if this was how Allie felt, stuck on that bed as his body slowly killed itself.

Someone did come, eventually, as they always do. No matter what you think, it takes a lot more effort than falling over to be forgotten by the world. D. B. came, and he helped me up. He didn't even flinch when I wrapped my arms around him, getting puke on his shirt.

"He's gone. Allie's really gone," I sob out, even though I promised myself to stop crying.

"I know, I know." D.B. sighed, a deep, heart-aching sigh. D.B. looked down and noticed the cigarette case and whiskey bottle and frowned, looking real disappointed and crap, but instead of scolding me he started talking about the war.

"You know, when I was in the war I knew people... people who didn't make it to the end. These guys were people's brothers, and fathers, and sons. And it was so damn heartbreaking, Holden, living everyday with this constant death around you. It drove me mad, especially since I knew I wasn't going to be the one dying. It was just the pain of seeing the ones that got letters saying so-and-so died, and seeing the hopelessness on their faces and not being able to do anything to fix it. I 'fought' in the damned war, Holden, but I sure as hell wasn't out there, saving Uncle Sam's kid brother's ass."

"I thought you hated the guys in the army." D. B. laughs at this and ruffles my hair.

"I sure did, they were all bastards, but I never wanted them to die. Jesus I didn't want to watch them cry as they get the news that their brothers were dead. The whole point I was trying to make is that I just thought once the war was over I was safe, I was out, that I was never going to hafta deal with any of this crap the rest of my life. But here I am again, back in the fucking war," D. B. takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it. Hell, we both were a mess.
"Come on, let's get you home," He picks up my bike and hoists it over is shoulder and we go home. I've been going home a lot lately, but it never feels like home; not anymore.