He leaves his house dishevelled. His sister didn't sleep all night again because of her... sadness. He stayed up listening to her crying. Knowing that he couldn't make her stop.
He goes to school, the teachers speaking are background noise. They ask him a question, remark about how he should get his act together.
He wonders if his sister got out of bed this morning.
Did he see her in the kitchen?
Is she eating?
No, no. He doesn't think so.
She's been too frail.
And cries. She cries so much.
The teacher yells at him.
His tired eyes blink.
He doesn't have energy to speak.
His tired eyes blink.
He slowly falls asleep. He can sleep here.
She lays in bed shivering.
There aren't enough blankets to warm her up.
Her puffy cheeks are squished between several pillows and layers of sheets.
But she's still freezing.
Her alarm is still going off, but she doesn't have the strength to raise her arm and turn it off.
Why does she still set her alarm? She knows she wont respond to it.
Her stomach growls. When did she last eat?
She can't remember. Her memory is failing.
She starts crying. She doesn't like not being able to remember things.
She can't even remember her brother's face.
The last time she really saw him, he was starting to have a shadow of stubble.
She thinks.
Did he have stubble?
Her tiredness pulls her under.
Her breathing slows.
His classes go by slowly. A few of his friends knock his shoulder, call out and joke around beside him.
He feels his fatigue lift a bit.
He eats a sandwich he bought with his change.
He gets to joke and smile with his friends.
They ask about his day and make fun of their teachers.
He thinks about how they're people too.
He didn't like mocking teachers.
A teacher walked by and calls him aside.
The teacher asks what's going on with him.
The teacher says that his grades are plummeting.
He can't tell his teacher it's because he can't do his homework.
Because he has to go straight home.
If he stays at school to do it, his sister is alone.
But when he goes home, he has to clean the entire house.
When he goes home he has to make dinner and try to feed his sister.
Sometimes she eats.
But then she goes to the bathroom.
And sleeps.
Then she will wake up and cry.
He blinks at his teacher and apologizes.
He says that he just has more important things to do.
His teacher takes it as he's lazy and doesn't want an education.
He just wants his sister to be here to have a chance at an education.
He walks away from his teacher.
Her breathing stops.
He walks home slowly.
His limbs feel heavy.
He wonders if he would have time to take a nap on the couch.
As he gets to the front door, there's an energy shift.
Suddenly he is awake and alert.
His parents aren't home.
He takes out his phone and sees that they should've been home already.
He opens the door and sees that everyone's shoes are gone.
Even his sister's.
It's odd to think they all went out.
He goes to the fridge, but freezes.
He should check his sister.
He walks upstairs, and knocks on her door.
"Amalia?"
No answer.
He swears and walks in.
Her room is a mess.
There's a pungent smell.
The bed is empty.
He heads downstairs and opens a can of olives.
He takes out some chips.
Cheese.
He microwaves the nachos.
Just as he sits down he gets a phone call.
It's his dad.
His dad tells him what happened.
His dad says his mother and himself came home.
They checked on his sister.
She was cold.
Asleep.
Shallow breath.
They took her to the hospital.
Her organs have failed.
They're doing surgery.
But she's not healthy.
She isn't okay.
They don't think she will be.
He hangs up.
He pushes away from the nachos.
He's very tired.
He looks at the couch, and slowly, slowly, slowly walks to it.
He sits down, and slides to lay down.
His eyes close.
And he falls asleep.Sleep
Showing posts with label affection. Show all posts
Showing posts with label affection. Show all posts
Monday, 7 March 2016
Monday, 7 December 2015
Time
I walked hurriedly towards the bus stop, blowing my warm breath into my hands. The breaths twisted out of my mouth in smooth clouds, contrasting into the chilled winter air.
My runners crunched into the snow in a fast pace, and I made an effort to make it in time.
I did.
First period. I sit in my seat, Aria sits in front of me like usual. She turns around and smiles at me. It makes my heart stutter.
We chat while walking to our next class and she grabs my hand playfully. She kisses my cheek and flutters away to her classroom.
I'm happy.
Lunch time. My stomach growls. But mum spent all her paycheck on the apartment and on liquor. It's been a week and we still haven't had a proper meal.
Aria shares her ham sandwich with me.
It tastes really good.
I hop on the bus. The driver seems angry. He's yelling to move back. We can't, we are already suffocating in each others breaths.
I'm sweating.
I walk home, relieved it's so cold out. I feel refreshed and light. I get home when it's dark out, and notice the entire apartment building is dark.
My gut twists.
I have to climb the stairs because the elevators aren't working. I get to the 5th floor a bit winded, but I'm okay.
I open the door. Mum is sleeping on the couch with a piece of paper in her hand. Curiosity fills me and I pull it out.
In large, upper case letters, EVICTION NOTICE.
I put it back.
I wake up late again. Mum is watching the news. It's weird that she's up so early. I hear the newscaster say how the bombing in our country are getting more frequent as well as more intense.
I find an apple under a pile of rags.
I don't have time to wash it.
I run to the bus in the frosted air.
Aria sits down and talks to me about the bombings. I tell her not to worry. She smiles.
My heart stutters.
Lunch again. She splits her sandwich again.
And she gives me her granola bar. She tells me I need to eat more. When I say she should have it she says she needs to lose weight anyways.
I tell her that's far from the truth.
She asks if I'm okay.
I eat the granola bar and kiss her.
I get home and open the pantry. There's half a bottle of whiskey left. I wonder what my mum did with the other ones.
She's not on the couch.
I scrap some money together for a small pizza.
I keep an extra slice for lunch so Aria doesn't worry.
Mum is watching the news again. There's screaming on the television. I ask her if she had breakfast.
She doesn't hear me.
I ask again.
She slowly turns her head. Her blond hair is stringy and greasy. Her brown eyes are bloodshot. She slurs something.
I leave.
The bus didn't come today. I went to Aria's. Her bus didn't come either.
We lay in silence while listening to the radio.
They're saying our city is a target for the bombings.
She doesn't think I realize she's crying.
I stay the night.
We catch a ride to school. The principle says class isn't cancelled.
First period goes slowly. When Aria looks back at me it makes things better.
Second period comes, Aria and I part ways.
Aria gives me a piece of her sandwich. When I got home after staying at her house I found my slice of pizza was gone.
I thanked her.
She gave me her granola bar again.
I thanked her again.
We go out after school and grab coffee. She pays. I hug her for a long time.
Her hair smells like flowers.
She always smells like flowers.
I get home later. Mum is on the couch. She yells at me for eating all the food. I don't tell her she's the one who ate it, just to vomit it up.
Instead, I go to bed early.
I wake up late and run out the door. My shoes are slipping on the ground as I run.
I just make the bus.
A few people laugh at me.
I watch the scenery pass as we drive.
A lot of people are walking around with large bags filled with what seems to be basic necessities.
We get to school.
First period.
Aria isn't here today.
I walk to second period alone.
I find a spot to sit at lunch. My stomach growls.
I catch the bus home.
Mum isn't in her room or on the couch. Her bathroom door is shut.
When I knock there's no reply.
I try to open it.
It won't.
The doorknob must be jammed again.
I notice there's no more alcohol.
Maybe she stopped.
I leave early, mum wasn't watching the news. I didn't hear her come home last night.
I wonder if she's seeing someone.
The snow is melting into ice and it's even more slick. I'm glad I left early because it takes me twice as long to get to the stop.
First period, Aria arrives late.
She whispers to me that her brother was sick, and her mum couldn't stay home to take care of him.
Her dad is out of town again.
I give her her homework.
We have time in class to work together.
She turns her chair.
Her hair flows behind her back.
She blinks at me.
Everything goes silent.
Suddenly, a loud ringing stings my ears.
Aria's eyes are wide. They look like an endless void of fear.
Her hair is blowing to the side like in a photo shoot.
But the air is coming from the window.
The window that is shattering towards us.
Glass flies into our skin.
By the time that I see blood specking her face, everything is already black.
Everything is already pitch black.
My runners crunched into the snow in a fast pace, and I made an effort to make it in time.
I did.
First period. I sit in my seat, Aria sits in front of me like usual. She turns around and smiles at me. It makes my heart stutter.
We chat while walking to our next class and she grabs my hand playfully. She kisses my cheek and flutters away to her classroom.
I'm happy.
Lunch time. My stomach growls. But mum spent all her paycheck on the apartment and on liquor. It's been a week and we still haven't had a proper meal.
Aria shares her ham sandwich with me.
It tastes really good.
I hop on the bus. The driver seems angry. He's yelling to move back. We can't, we are already suffocating in each others breaths.
I'm sweating.
I walk home, relieved it's so cold out. I feel refreshed and light. I get home when it's dark out, and notice the entire apartment building is dark.
My gut twists.
I have to climb the stairs because the elevators aren't working. I get to the 5th floor a bit winded, but I'm okay.
I open the door. Mum is sleeping on the couch with a piece of paper in her hand. Curiosity fills me and I pull it out.
In large, upper case letters, EVICTION NOTICE.
I put it back.
I wake up late again. Mum is watching the news. It's weird that she's up so early. I hear the newscaster say how the bombing in our country are getting more frequent as well as more intense.
I find an apple under a pile of rags.
I don't have time to wash it.
I run to the bus in the frosted air.
Aria sits down and talks to me about the bombings. I tell her not to worry. She smiles.
My heart stutters.
Lunch again. She splits her sandwich again.
And she gives me her granola bar. She tells me I need to eat more. When I say she should have it she says she needs to lose weight anyways.
I tell her that's far from the truth.
She asks if I'm okay.
I eat the granola bar and kiss her.
I get home and open the pantry. There's half a bottle of whiskey left. I wonder what my mum did with the other ones.
She's not on the couch.
I scrap some money together for a small pizza.
I keep an extra slice for lunch so Aria doesn't worry.
Mum is watching the news again. There's screaming on the television. I ask her if she had breakfast.
She doesn't hear me.
I ask again.
She slowly turns her head. Her blond hair is stringy and greasy. Her brown eyes are bloodshot. She slurs something.
I leave.
The bus didn't come today. I went to Aria's. Her bus didn't come either.
We lay in silence while listening to the radio.
They're saying our city is a target for the bombings.
She doesn't think I realize she's crying.
I stay the night.
We catch a ride to school. The principle says class isn't cancelled.
First period goes slowly. When Aria looks back at me it makes things better.
Second period comes, Aria and I part ways.
Aria gives me a piece of her sandwich. When I got home after staying at her house I found my slice of pizza was gone.
I thanked her.
She gave me her granola bar again.
I thanked her again.
We go out after school and grab coffee. She pays. I hug her for a long time.
Her hair smells like flowers.
She always smells like flowers.
I get home later. Mum is on the couch. She yells at me for eating all the food. I don't tell her she's the one who ate it, just to vomit it up.
Instead, I go to bed early.
I wake up late and run out the door. My shoes are slipping on the ground as I run.
I just make the bus.
A few people laugh at me.
I watch the scenery pass as we drive.
A lot of people are walking around with large bags filled with what seems to be basic necessities.
We get to school.
First period.
Aria isn't here today.
I walk to second period alone.
I find a spot to sit at lunch. My stomach growls.
I catch the bus home.
Mum isn't in her room or on the couch. Her bathroom door is shut.
When I knock there's no reply.
I try to open it.
It won't.
The doorknob must be jammed again.
I notice there's no more alcohol.
Maybe she stopped.
I leave early, mum wasn't watching the news. I didn't hear her come home last night.
I wonder if she's seeing someone.
The snow is melting into ice and it's even more slick. I'm glad I left early because it takes me twice as long to get to the stop.
First period, Aria arrives late.
She whispers to me that her brother was sick, and her mum couldn't stay home to take care of him.
Her dad is out of town again.
I give her her homework.
We have time in class to work together.
She turns her chair.
Her hair flows behind her back.
She blinks at me.
Everything goes silent.
Suddenly, a loud ringing stings my ears.
Aria's eyes are wide. They look like an endless void of fear.
Her hair is blowing to the side like in a photo shoot.
But the air is coming from the window.
The window that is shattering towards us.
Glass flies into our skin.
By the time that I see blood specking her face, everything is already black.
Everything is already pitch black.
Friday, 15 May 2015
The Chapel
She walked through the doorway, a smile lingering on her her lips.
"You're late." His calm voice echoed through the empty house.
She stepped into the kitchen, gently folding her hands in front of her. She felt the soft fabric of her dress and inhaled the smell of the forest.
"At least I showered." She replied playfully.
The man walked into the light. His jet black hair was greased back, and even though he was wearing a suit, she could see the dirt stains on his hands. They watched each other for a moment before he rose his hand slowly, and closed the space between them.
In a fluid motion he brushed a stray curl away from her face, "You look lovely, Vi."
Her smile only widened, "Are you ready, Jackson?"
He didn't reply quickly, instead he stepped back and took her in.
Vi's smile began to falter, but before she could begin to doubt herself he grabbed her hands.
"I've been ready for a long time."
In the quiet house, they held still.
Jackson led her to the door, and they walked down to their small town car. He waited for her to get comfortable in her seat before he shut the door and moved to the driver's seat.
The drive was quite. Comfortable. Vi watched the trees soar past them as they made their way to the building. She tried to count how many trees they passed, but lost count almost right away.
They didn't turn on the radio, but instead listened to one another's heart beat.
It felt like a moment, but it took them half an hour to get there.
He pulled up and they sat there. Comfortable.
He then turned to her and leaned to kiss her cheek. He paused to inhale her perfume. It was a mix of lilacs and fresh, light air.
As he pulled away he muttered, "I'll see you soon, darling."
Jackson exited the car, only to stop to pull her door open to let her out. But she waited in the car for several moments until the man was inside the white marble building.
Vi squeezed her fingers, and let her right forefinger linger on the small, thin band that wrapped around her left ring-finger.
She smoothed out her dress and stood out, into the wind.
Vi pulled her little purse out in front of her, and pulled out a small, compact mirror. She rose it to her face and began fixing minor make-up mistakes. She smoothed out her kohl eye-liner, re-applied her deep red lipstick, and pinched her cheeks for a rush of red. Then she fixed any dark stray hairs by tucking them back against her head into the already made bun.
Then she walked into the hauntingly beautiful building, and saw the man with dark slicked back hair standing at the very end of the aisle, staring at her with a slim, silent smile.
By the time she took a step forward she understood.
She was never late.
"You're late." His calm voice echoed through the empty house.
She stepped into the kitchen, gently folding her hands in front of her. She felt the soft fabric of her dress and inhaled the smell of the forest.
"At least I showered." She replied playfully.
The man walked into the light. His jet black hair was greased back, and even though he was wearing a suit, she could see the dirt stains on his hands. They watched each other for a moment before he rose his hand slowly, and closed the space between them.
In a fluid motion he brushed a stray curl away from her face, "You look lovely, Vi."
Her smile only widened, "Are you ready, Jackson?"
He didn't reply quickly, instead he stepped back and took her in.
Vi's smile began to falter, but before she could begin to doubt herself he grabbed her hands.
"I've been ready for a long time."
In the quiet house, they held still.
Jackson led her to the door, and they walked down to their small town car. He waited for her to get comfortable in her seat before he shut the door and moved to the driver's seat.
The drive was quite. Comfortable. Vi watched the trees soar past them as they made their way to the building. She tried to count how many trees they passed, but lost count almost right away.
They didn't turn on the radio, but instead listened to one another's heart beat.
It felt like a moment, but it took them half an hour to get there.
He pulled up and they sat there. Comfortable.
He then turned to her and leaned to kiss her cheek. He paused to inhale her perfume. It was a mix of lilacs and fresh, light air.
As he pulled away he muttered, "I'll see you soon, darling."
Jackson exited the car, only to stop to pull her door open to let her out. But she waited in the car for several moments until the man was inside the white marble building.
Vi squeezed her fingers, and let her right forefinger linger on the small, thin band that wrapped around her left ring-finger.
She smoothed out her dress and stood out, into the wind.
Vi pulled her little purse out in front of her, and pulled out a small, compact mirror. She rose it to her face and began fixing minor make-up mistakes. She smoothed out her kohl eye-liner, re-applied her deep red lipstick, and pinched her cheeks for a rush of red. Then she fixed any dark stray hairs by tucking them back against her head into the already made bun.
Then she walked into the hauntingly beautiful building, and saw the man with dark slicked back hair standing at the very end of the aisle, staring at her with a slim, silent smile.
By the time she took a step forward she understood.
She was never late.
Wednesday, 13 May 2015
My Star
A year ago, I found you at the store
watching your little world explode out of the water.
Because I chose you, to start a life for
and now, I can only apologize.
For, I wish I had made your life a little better
rather than sticking you in a tank.
Oh, my little Luce.
People laughed at me for naming you such a thing.
"Lucifer, the angel fish."
For-- it was irony, you see.
Because Lucifer means 'Star'.
As in the stars in the sky
that reflect off the ocean, lakes and rivers.
Star is a beautiful twinkle that floods the milky way
and brings a sense of awe through even the most intelligent people.
You were a star that stood out to me
through your little glass captor.
You made it so far, Luce.
Such a beautiful name
for such a beautiful fish.
It was an honor to sing to you,
and thank you for listening to me play my instruments.
Thank you for letting me talk to you
and thank you for being there for me and your tank
in times of need.
I wish I could do more.
I'm sorry I couldn't do more.
watching your little world explode out of the water.
Because I chose you, to start a life for
and now, I can only apologize.
For, I wish I had made your life a little better
rather than sticking you in a tank.
Oh, my little Luce.
People laughed at me for naming you such a thing.
"Lucifer, the angel fish."
For-- it was irony, you see.
Because Lucifer means 'Star'.
As in the stars in the sky
that reflect off the ocean, lakes and rivers.
Star is a beautiful twinkle that floods the milky way
and brings a sense of awe through even the most intelligent people.
You were a star that stood out to me
through your little glass captor.
You made it so far, Luce.
Such a beautiful name
for such a beautiful fish.
It was an honor to sing to you,
and thank you for listening to me play my instruments.
Thank you for letting me talk to you
and thank you for being there for me and your tank
in times of need.
I wish I could do more.
I'm sorry I couldn't do more.
Tuesday, 12 May 2015
It Doesn't Always Start With a Bang
Flashing skies
Illuminated nights
But silence forever before.
Lilting laughs
Stained from grass
Crumbling to the floor.
Simple moments
Silents poets
Invisible memories to hold dear.
Exploding firecrackers
Shadowed afterwards
Crowd filled with content, not fear.
Dancing freely
Tongues like melee
Mountains being moved from emotion.
Walking on water
Chest feeling hotter
Able to control the ocean.
Dark nights
Faded lights
Glowing bright heart.
There was slow breeze
Gentle leaves
and the hurricane did start.
Illuminated nights
But silence forever before.
Lilting laughs
Stained from grass
Crumbling to the floor.
Simple moments
Silents poets
Invisible memories to hold dear.
Exploding firecrackers
Shadowed afterwards
Crowd filled with content, not fear.
Dancing freely
Tongues like melee
Mountains being moved from emotion.
Walking on water
Chest feeling hotter
Able to control the ocean.
Dark nights
Faded lights
Glowing bright heart.
There was slow breeze
Gentle leaves
and the hurricane did start.
Thursday, 26 February 2015
To My Mother
I don't know when I started to see you hurting so much.
I remember when I was younger, I would be downstairs with your best friend's daughters, and I don't remember you sitting with us.
I don't remember you coming downstairs smiling, in a soft t-shirt with a nice pair of jeans, nor do I remember you wanting to go out much.
But I remember your door being closed a lot, and when you'd come out you'd try to smile and pull my head to your lips.
I remember how you used to make me and my brother that hamburger helper almost every night because you couldn't cook.
I remember you gaining weight, then suddenly losing all of it.
I remember feeling the waves of sadness that you radiated, even though you would wear that red lipstick to emphasize your smiles.
But I didn't realize when I was younger that you were sad.
I was used to coming home to a babysitter, or staying at a friend's house.
I was used to not seeing you very often.
It felt normal.
And I wasn't mad at you for it.
When people asked me what was going on with my mum I would say
"She's sleepy, is all."
Or
"She's had a long few days."
But they weren't a few days.
They were years.
Mum, you've suffered for years.
And I didn't know when I was younger that you were depressed.
I didn't know until recently that you were sick.
I didn't know that it took you the majority of your living life to get the help you deserved.
And I am so, incredibly, terribly sorry that my younger self couldn't see.
I am so, incredibly sorry that even now I can't help you very much because we're trying to push each other up when we end up pushing each other down.
And I am so, terribly sorry that I make you worry.
I just--
God.
I just, I care so much that my heart hurts.
And I care so much that I can't not cry while I'm trying to explain what I've been wanting to say.
I remember,
when I was around fourteen or fifteen, when you told me about how depressed you got.
How you wanted to hang yourself.
But you couldn't because you know I would be the one to find you there, lifeless.
And you knew that would shatter me.
I remember,
when I told you about what happened
very recently,
and the fact that I had been living with the information for four-five years
and you began crying.
I remember so much, mum.
I am so sorry for so much.
And I 'm sorry for when I get such low energy, and such a low mood, that the few times we see each other,
I'm not really there.
It isn't you, mum.
It's my head.
It's my emotions.
It's the pressure in my chest.
That I've placed on myself.
That I inadvertently placed on myself.
I just need to say that I love you.
I love dad too... but I can't talk about him now.
Just like I can't talk about my brother.
Because we keep bruising each other,
whereas whenever my mood gets low around them,
it's like they're wearing a bullet proof vest, allowing my bullets to ricochet.
Our bullets don't ricochet.
I remember when I was younger, I would be downstairs with your best friend's daughters, and I don't remember you sitting with us.
I don't remember you coming downstairs smiling, in a soft t-shirt with a nice pair of jeans, nor do I remember you wanting to go out much.
But I remember your door being closed a lot, and when you'd come out you'd try to smile and pull my head to your lips.
I remember how you used to make me and my brother that hamburger helper almost every night because you couldn't cook.
I remember you gaining weight, then suddenly losing all of it.
I remember feeling the waves of sadness that you radiated, even though you would wear that red lipstick to emphasize your smiles.
But I didn't realize when I was younger that you were sad.
I was used to coming home to a babysitter, or staying at a friend's house.
I was used to not seeing you very often.
It felt normal.
And I wasn't mad at you for it.
When people asked me what was going on with my mum I would say
"She's sleepy, is all."
Or
"She's had a long few days."
But they weren't a few days.
They were years.
Mum, you've suffered for years.
And I didn't know when I was younger that you were depressed.
I didn't know until recently that you were sick.
I didn't know that it took you the majority of your living life to get the help you deserved.
And I am so, incredibly, terribly sorry that my younger self couldn't see.
I am so, incredibly sorry that even now I can't help you very much because we're trying to push each other up when we end up pushing each other down.
And I am so, terribly sorry that I make you worry.
I just--
God.
I just, I care so much that my heart hurts.
And I care so much that I can't not cry while I'm trying to explain what I've been wanting to say.
I remember,
when I was around fourteen or fifteen, when you told me about how depressed you got.
How you wanted to hang yourself.
But you couldn't because you know I would be the one to find you there, lifeless.
And you knew that would shatter me.
I remember,
when I told you about what happened
very recently,
and the fact that I had been living with the information for four-five years
and you began crying.
I remember so much, mum.
I am so sorry for so much.
And I 'm sorry for when I get such low energy, and such a low mood, that the few times we see each other,
I'm not really there.
It isn't you, mum.
It's my head.
It's my emotions.
It's the pressure in my chest.
That I've placed on myself.
That I inadvertently placed on myself.
I just need to say that I love you.
I love dad too... but I can't talk about him now.
Just like I can't talk about my brother.
Because we keep bruising each other,
whereas whenever my mood gets low around them,
it's like they're wearing a bullet proof vest, allowing my bullets to ricochet.
Our bullets don't ricochet.
Sunday, 8 February 2015
Calling
I thought I would try to write you a poem
because I could never explain how I felt
but my throat always tightens from sadness
at the cards that I’ve been dealt.
So I can’t tell you that my knees feel like they’ll give
or that my face is burning away
just because you acknowledge me
and leave me with nothing to say.
So I thought that I could try
to bring these to words
but I’m falling
but I’m falling
but I’m falling.
Your simple smile towards me
makes my heart jump into my throat
making my mind explode in euphoria
and escape from my emotional boat.
I get so shaky that I can’t tell if I’m cold
or if it’s just from passing you
and I think so quickly that I can’t see
I can’t see if the sky is blue.
So I need to feel your soul
I need you to hear
that I’m calling
that I’m calling
that I’m calling
you
Monday, 29 December 2014
To a Friend
The first time I saw my father, I was already a twenty-nine year old man with an ex wife and a daughter.
And hell, let me tell you, that wasn't no walk in the park either. It wasn't as though I strolled up to him on a sunny spring day saying, "Care for a smoke? Only the best for my paps."
Oh no. It was a bloodbath to say the least.
You see, I was adopted at a young fuckin' age. My mother died at birth, which my paps blamed me for. Don't get me wrong, I don't blame the guy, but that ain't no reason to shun out your kid like a sack of rotten Chinese food. Which is what he did. By the time I was six I was so fuckin' underweight that I literally blew away in the wind. Literally. I was out with some crack-birthed neighbour kids, and we was racin' down the block the some fanny guy's rank old yard. I chugged down that fuckin' hill like an unholy saint in a churchyard and when that wind picked up, fuck I was gone. They was howlin' though. Hell, I thought it was hilarious too.
When I was eight though, man was I fucked. And I knew it toos. See, my paps was a drinker. Hard core, always drunken drunk that was so accustomed to bein' drunk that he was always sober.
But that was no ex'use of beatin' a kid. A blood related one nonetheless. But that sore fucker did.
There was a night when I came home late-- the streetlights were on. That was m' curfew. And I had screwed the fuck up. I know that. I triggered him. Big whoop.
Or at least, I got a big whoop.
He unbuckled his belt, didn't bother spinning me around, and whipped me across my face, neck, shoulders, abdomen and thighs so many times with his fat, jiggly arms that I couldn't see anything but red on me. I couldn't see anything but red.
That night I bolted to the police station.
I was rushed to the ER of course, he was placed in handcuffs.
The drunken S.O.B wasn't upset though-- the only time he wasn't upset. He was laughing with anger.
"He's the fucken murd're! You should've seen m'girl Nancy! She was a pretty thang 'till he fucken came 'round!"
Nancy was my mother. I've only seen photos of her, but she was a pretty little thing. Short brown hair, large blue eyes. Medium build. She looked like a pixie.
My adoptive parents were sickly sweet though. They've course were them gooey type. Smilin' so big they always looked like them Asians. Fucken' Asians. They the type who sang the carols at christmas, and made you wear them stupid ugly fuckers. Y'know, the sweaters. Ughk. Ugly little fuckers.
Anyhow, as I grew up, I became bored with everything. In fact, by the time I was thirteen I sat in my new paps car with the windows up and engine on.
Of course, I got out before any damage was done.
Shame.
Fucken' shame.
Even as I grew up, I remembered that psycho. I didn't see no one, because that would've seemed weak to me. I need to emphasise it was weak to me to tell some'ne that I thought I had PTSD, because I was beaten so often when I showed even the slightest bit of weakness. It's just how my mind worked.
As the years dragged on, I was constantly bullied at school. I think I switched schools ev'ry year till highschool. That's kind of when things slowed. Because then I found art. HA. It sounds dumb of me to say, an' I know I ain't the best speaker, but art held my soul in ways I ain't ever had it held b'fore. Not the sketchy-type art, with pencil, but metal work and woodwork. I built everything I could've in those three short years. And I was fucken' glorious with 'em.
I got so many of them awards that it seemed almost like a chore to go accept 'em. Which sounds awful high 'n mighty of me, but I ain't tryin' to be.
Anyways, one of those award evenings, pro'ly in year twelve, I met this girl. It sounds so cheesy when I say this, but when I saw her it was like all the light focused in on her, and the rest of the gym was dimmed. She had this short wavy-type bob that framed her face as it seemed to meld into her skin. It was a light brown. Then her eyes, oh god. They were such a pale blue that they looked Gray. And she wasn't wearin' those tight black skirts like most of 'em other girls neither. No, she had on an elegant long sleeved dress that looked like the smoke that came out of people's chimneys.
And my god, when she was talkin' to her group of friends, she looked up under those thick light lashed and met my eyes. In an instant her cheeks grew crimson, and I felt like I won a million bucks. And then I felt like I gave all of those bucks to support fluffy bunnies who were homeless or some shit. I felt giddy.
Of course I didn't have the confidence to speak to her, so we just kind of shared glances to each other now and 'gain. It was like we already knew each other.
Next day at school she walked up to me. She said she was Lucy and that she loved my pieces I displayed the night b'fore.
And I never asked her out, we just kind of were together.
That may be the mistake we made, now that I think about it. I'd see her talkin' to some guy and I'd think she didn't like me any more.
But we loved each other.
We got married when we graduated. We had Lillian when we was a bit older though. We was twenty-four, twenty-five. But then Lucy kept gettin' sick. She had troubled with her white blood cells, so she got sick often and for long periods of time. But it got to the point where she didn't get better one day. Well I guess she did, because she wasn't sufferin' no more. Lily understood right away when I told her mama loved her, but had to be free of her pain. Lily didn't cry, she kissed my cheek with her plump scarlet lips and said sternly, "Daddy, we need to be happy that she's okay now."
Luckily she learned to speak proper b'fore Lucy passed. See, she was an English major, and she was not lettin' her baby suffer with the way I speak. I would smile, thank her, and kiss her.
She was twenty-eight when she died. Our little daughter turning five.
But something was naggin' me.
I would have nightmares about panic fillin' my chest. Then I'd wake with a sweat drenched bed. I'd fear for Lily. I'd run into her room and cradle her into my arms, and I'd fall back asleep in her bed.
I never hit Lily. If she done somethin' bad like runnin' out into the street full o' cars, I'd get upset. I'd yell at her to tell her she'd hurt herself if she did that. But I never hit her. I guess that's a lie. Sometimes, like with the car thing, if she kept doin' it, I had to spank her. No whips, no belts, but I had to get across that it was unsafe.
And I hated myself for that every day after.
I realised that I had to see my pap. I had to see where he was and know he wasn't comin' for me or Lily.
So I went to him.
I didn't mean to. I swear to God I didn't mean to.
I found where he lived. Some place in Oklahoma. I drove for a few days. I left Lily with a sitter.
I didn't want her to meet him. I didn't want him to know she existed. So I went up to the old, rotting door. And this stern looking man with white hair and a wrinkled face opened the door.
"I don't want the fucking paper, get the fuck outta here, boy." He waved his cane at me, and I ducked out of the way. Before I meant to I said,
"Jacob Merth! I'm Jacob Merth. Your son." He froze. Then a sick grin spread on his lips as he gestured inside, pulling the door open.
"Ahh.... I've been won'dren when your ass would show up."
I don't know why I went in. I shouldn't have. I know that now. But, it's too late.
All the furniture was torn at corners, and seemed clumped in places. The radio was on, but it was static, and the t.v was also on static.
He sat me down at the old wooden table and said bluntly, "Come here to apol'gize?" I felt shocked. Twenty-three years, and that's what he asks.
"What.. do you mean?"
"Apol-o-gize." His iron stare made me uneasy. Why did I come here? "For killin' my wife, and for getting me thrown in jail."
"I didn't know you went to jail. I was six and in pain. I didn't mean to kill mum, she was pregnant and I was being bor---"
His hands slammed on the table, "YOU KILLED MY FUCKING WIFE!"
It happened so quickly, he pulled a large silver gun out from under the table, and cocked it back. Suddenly I was scared for Lily. Would she be adopted now, too?
All the air breathed out of the house as we just stared at each other. And before I decided to, I jumped up and smacked the gun out of his hand. It went flying under the sofa, but as I lurched at it his cane came flying up and smacked the front of my head. I hear a crack on my face, and with the blood pouring into my mouth I think he broke my nose. He leaped onto me, grabbin' at my throat, but I stepped back against the wall, crushing him. With him loose, I scrambled for th' gun, frantically searchin' under the couch. My hand fell across the cool metal, and I pulled it out, aimed at him and shot without hesitation. The ringing in my ears dazed me, and I found I wasn't holding onto the gun an'more. I saw a thick red splatter on the wall, and his limp body crumpled by the table.
I was breathing quite shallow, and suddenly it felt like I wasn't gettin' no air, which made me panic. I got on my knees and felt vomit pour out of my mouth, onto his worn wooden floor. The realization that Lily wasn't going to have a father any more hurt more than an'thin' I could imagine. It hurt more than losin' Lucy. But I was going to jail. I couldn't cover this up, go home an' act like nothin' was wrong no more, because ev'ry thin' was wrong now. My conscious was wrong now.
I found the gun a few feet away, I think I tossed it out of my hands, makin' it seem like I ain't the one who shot him. But it was me.
I lifted the gun and opened my blood filled mouth, placing the hot end in between my teeth. I love you, Lucy, Lily. Please forgi------------------
And hell, let me tell you, that wasn't no walk in the park either. It wasn't as though I strolled up to him on a sunny spring day saying, "Care for a smoke? Only the best for my paps."
Oh no. It was a bloodbath to say the least.
You see, I was adopted at a young fuckin' age. My mother died at birth, which my paps blamed me for. Don't get me wrong, I don't blame the guy, but that ain't no reason to shun out your kid like a sack of rotten Chinese food. Which is what he did. By the time I was six I was so fuckin' underweight that I literally blew away in the wind. Literally. I was out with some crack-birthed neighbour kids, and we was racin' down the block the some fanny guy's rank old yard. I chugged down that fuckin' hill like an unholy saint in a churchyard and when that wind picked up, fuck I was gone. They was howlin' though. Hell, I thought it was hilarious too.
When I was eight though, man was I fucked. And I knew it toos. See, my paps was a drinker. Hard core, always drunken drunk that was so accustomed to bein' drunk that he was always sober.
But that was no ex'use of beatin' a kid. A blood related one nonetheless. But that sore fucker did.
There was a night when I came home late-- the streetlights were on. That was m' curfew. And I had screwed the fuck up. I know that. I triggered him. Big whoop.
Or at least, I got a big whoop.
He unbuckled his belt, didn't bother spinning me around, and whipped me across my face, neck, shoulders, abdomen and thighs so many times with his fat, jiggly arms that I couldn't see anything but red on me. I couldn't see anything but red.
That night I bolted to the police station.
I was rushed to the ER of course, he was placed in handcuffs.
The drunken S.O.B wasn't upset though-- the only time he wasn't upset. He was laughing with anger.
"He's the fucken murd're! You should've seen m'girl Nancy! She was a pretty thang 'till he fucken came 'round!"
Nancy was my mother. I've only seen photos of her, but she was a pretty little thing. Short brown hair, large blue eyes. Medium build. She looked like a pixie.
My adoptive parents were sickly sweet though. They've course were them gooey type. Smilin' so big they always looked like them Asians. Fucken' Asians. They the type who sang the carols at christmas, and made you wear them stupid ugly fuckers. Y'know, the sweaters. Ughk. Ugly little fuckers.
Anyhow, as I grew up, I became bored with everything. In fact, by the time I was thirteen I sat in my new paps car with the windows up and engine on.
Of course, I got out before any damage was done.
Shame.
Fucken' shame.
Even as I grew up, I remembered that psycho. I didn't see no one, because that would've seemed weak to me. I need to emphasise it was weak to me to tell some'ne that I thought I had PTSD, because I was beaten so often when I showed even the slightest bit of weakness. It's just how my mind worked.
As the years dragged on, I was constantly bullied at school. I think I switched schools ev'ry year till highschool. That's kind of when things slowed. Because then I found art. HA. It sounds dumb of me to say, an' I know I ain't the best speaker, but art held my soul in ways I ain't ever had it held b'fore. Not the sketchy-type art, with pencil, but metal work and woodwork. I built everything I could've in those three short years. And I was fucken' glorious with 'em.
I got so many of them awards that it seemed almost like a chore to go accept 'em. Which sounds awful high 'n mighty of me, but I ain't tryin' to be.
Anyways, one of those award evenings, pro'ly in year twelve, I met this girl. It sounds so cheesy when I say this, but when I saw her it was like all the light focused in on her, and the rest of the gym was dimmed. She had this short wavy-type bob that framed her face as it seemed to meld into her skin. It was a light brown. Then her eyes, oh god. They were such a pale blue that they looked Gray. And she wasn't wearin' those tight black skirts like most of 'em other girls neither. No, she had on an elegant long sleeved dress that looked like the smoke that came out of people's chimneys.
And my god, when she was talkin' to her group of friends, she looked up under those thick light lashed and met my eyes. In an instant her cheeks grew crimson, and I felt like I won a million bucks. And then I felt like I gave all of those bucks to support fluffy bunnies who were homeless or some shit. I felt giddy.
Of course I didn't have the confidence to speak to her, so we just kind of shared glances to each other now and 'gain. It was like we already knew each other.
Next day at school she walked up to me. She said she was Lucy and that she loved my pieces I displayed the night b'fore.
And I never asked her out, we just kind of were together.
That may be the mistake we made, now that I think about it. I'd see her talkin' to some guy and I'd think she didn't like me any more.
But we loved each other.
We got married when we graduated. We had Lillian when we was a bit older though. We was twenty-four, twenty-five. But then Lucy kept gettin' sick. She had troubled with her white blood cells, so she got sick often and for long periods of time. But it got to the point where she didn't get better one day. Well I guess she did, because she wasn't sufferin' no more. Lily understood right away when I told her mama loved her, but had to be free of her pain. Lily didn't cry, she kissed my cheek with her plump scarlet lips and said sternly, "Daddy, we need to be happy that she's okay now."
Luckily she learned to speak proper b'fore Lucy passed. See, she was an English major, and she was not lettin' her baby suffer with the way I speak. I would smile, thank her, and kiss her.
She was twenty-eight when she died. Our little daughter turning five.
But something was naggin' me.
I would have nightmares about panic fillin' my chest. Then I'd wake with a sweat drenched bed. I'd fear for Lily. I'd run into her room and cradle her into my arms, and I'd fall back asleep in her bed.
I never hit Lily. If she done somethin' bad like runnin' out into the street full o' cars, I'd get upset. I'd yell at her to tell her she'd hurt herself if she did that. But I never hit her. I guess that's a lie. Sometimes, like with the car thing, if she kept doin' it, I had to spank her. No whips, no belts, but I had to get across that it was unsafe.
And I hated myself for that every day after.
I realised that I had to see my pap. I had to see where he was and know he wasn't comin' for me or Lily.
So I went to him.
I didn't mean to. I swear to God I didn't mean to.
I found where he lived. Some place in Oklahoma. I drove for a few days. I left Lily with a sitter.
I didn't want her to meet him. I didn't want him to know she existed. So I went up to the old, rotting door. And this stern looking man with white hair and a wrinkled face opened the door.
"I don't want the fucking paper, get the fuck outta here, boy." He waved his cane at me, and I ducked out of the way. Before I meant to I said,
"Jacob Merth! I'm Jacob Merth. Your son." He froze. Then a sick grin spread on his lips as he gestured inside, pulling the door open.
"Ahh.... I've been won'dren when your ass would show up."
I don't know why I went in. I shouldn't have. I know that now. But, it's too late.
All the furniture was torn at corners, and seemed clumped in places. The radio was on, but it was static, and the t.v was also on static.
He sat me down at the old wooden table and said bluntly, "Come here to apol'gize?" I felt shocked. Twenty-three years, and that's what he asks.
"What.. do you mean?"
"Apol-o-gize." His iron stare made me uneasy. Why did I come here? "For killin' my wife, and for getting me thrown in jail."
"I didn't know you went to jail. I was six and in pain. I didn't mean to kill mum, she was pregnant and I was being bor---"
His hands slammed on the table, "YOU KILLED MY FUCKING WIFE!"
It happened so quickly, he pulled a large silver gun out from under the table, and cocked it back. Suddenly I was scared for Lily. Would she be adopted now, too?
All the air breathed out of the house as we just stared at each other. And before I decided to, I jumped up and smacked the gun out of his hand. It went flying under the sofa, but as I lurched at it his cane came flying up and smacked the front of my head. I hear a crack on my face, and with the blood pouring into my mouth I think he broke my nose. He leaped onto me, grabbin' at my throat, but I stepped back against the wall, crushing him. With him loose, I scrambled for th' gun, frantically searchin' under the couch. My hand fell across the cool metal, and I pulled it out, aimed at him and shot without hesitation. The ringing in my ears dazed me, and I found I wasn't holding onto the gun an'more. I saw a thick red splatter on the wall, and his limp body crumpled by the table.
I was breathing quite shallow, and suddenly it felt like I wasn't gettin' no air, which made me panic. I got on my knees and felt vomit pour out of my mouth, onto his worn wooden floor. The realization that Lily wasn't going to have a father any more hurt more than an'thin' I could imagine. It hurt more than losin' Lucy. But I was going to jail. I couldn't cover this up, go home an' act like nothin' was wrong no more, because ev'ry thin' was wrong now. My conscious was wrong now.
I found the gun a few feet away, I think I tossed it out of my hands, makin' it seem like I ain't the one who shot him. But it was me.
I lifted the gun and opened my blood filled mouth, placing the hot end in between my teeth. I love you, Lucy, Lily. Please forgi------------------
Monday, 3 November 2014
Evermore
I remember everything about him. His green eyes. His soulful fucking eyes. I hated them.
I hated how he would hold my hand so tenderly, as though he would break me.
I hated how he would brush his nose against my neck, making my knees become fuzzy and frail.
I hated how he would be talking so excitedly while walking ahead of me, and then he would turn his head over his shoulder, grinning crookedly at me.
I hated how when his life became so hectic he told me to let him sink.
______
"Vi?" His soft gaze tried to meet mine. But I refused to look at him with tears clouding my vision. He pulled his large hands around my small ones, "Please."
I forced myself to look at him. But I could only reach his shaggy brown hair.
"Let me drown." He was whispering. "Let me drown, and eventually I'll be able to swim to the surface and see you on the shore."
My teeth were clenching. "Let me help." He smiled sadly.
"This is something you can't help with."
"You haven't let me try!" I leaned forward, squeezing his hands desperately.
And then he brought his mouth to my forehead. And he rested there for several moments. Just before he pulled away he murmured, "I love you. I can't let you be hurt."
I sneered, "How ironic." I pushed away, whipping my hands out and away from him. And I rushed out of his flat, into the busy California streets. It was colder than usual, so I tugged my wind breaker tight around me, not knowing whether my trembling was from him or the wind.
And I walked away.
______
Years ago, when he and I had just met, we were sophomores at an uptight private school. We didn't have any classes together, but his and my lockers were right next to each other. So each day, we would be at our lockers and we would say hello. Every day. For the entire year.
I never thought of him as anything other than an acquaintance until he approached me during the first week of junior year. His hair was really long, licking the base of his jaw and swept up away from his eyes. It looked messily beautiful.
He leaned his hands against the outdoor table, an odd gleam in his eyes that matched the crooked grin plastered to his face.
"Violet, right?" He wore a deep red t-shirt with a high v-neck. But I couldn't stop staring at his eyes. They were such a clear, dark green. I had never seen something so amazing.
I nodded, stiff with surprise.
"We had lockers next to each other last year."
I nodded again.
He stood up straight, adjusting his shirt to fall against the rim of his navy black jeans. "Zaylen." He coughed slightly, a pink blush sweeping under his eyes.
I nodded, unsure what to say.
He cleared his throat, "Any ways, I was invited to this party," He waved his hand, "Or get together or something..." He caught himself, "And I thought, I dunno. If you wanted to come, I could introduce you to some people."
"Are you saying I don't know any one?" I spoke before my mind could stop myself. I winced at how mean I had sounded. He seemed unfazed as his grin returned.
"No- no, it's just..." He glanced to the side and leaned in, "Everyone talks about you, but I barely see you with anyone." His endless eyes stared into my own, "So you should meet everyone who is talking about you." Zaylen shrugged his hand into his front jean pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. As I opened my mouth in protest he unfolded the lined paper. "My phone number, the party's address and the password to enter." He moved the paper towards me like a bribe, "This Friday, ten o'clock. When you get in call me and I'll meet up with you."
"What if I'm busy this Friday?" I inquired as I rose my dirty blond eyebrows.
"Well you are." He tapped the paper, "You're coming to a party and you will hang out with me and you will have a great time." Before I could respond he began walking away, and that was the first time he looked over his shoulder grinning wildly, "See you Friday, Vi!"
______
I hated how when I met up with him he placed his hand flat against my shoulder blade.
I hated how coolly he introduced me to every one.
I hated how he brought me drinks with the cap sealed tightly and unopened.
I hated how he shoved some guy who was intoxicated off of me.
I hated how he didn't drink anything, and how he got me home safely.
I hated how when he stopped the car he leaned across the arm rest and brushed his lips so gently across my cheek that it felt like a rose petal.
I hated how he told me he'd call me so we could hang out again.
I hated how I nodded dumbly and said yes.
I hated how he made it seem like he cared about me.
______
Zaylen didn't formally ask me out until we had hung out a total of nine times. He explained to me, that proper etiquette was to wait until we had met up the same amount of times as his favourite number.
"For good luck." He said smiling.
I said yes. And we went to parties. And we stayed at his place. And we toured around Cali. We went to the beach almost everyday, running into the endless waves and falling back into the velvet sand.
There we lay one day, huffing and out of breath. We were on our backs, staring up at the pale pink setting sky. I turned my head and looked at him. God, I loved looking at him. He had tiny water droplets that lay on the tips of his thick black eyelashes. He blinked and turned to me. But there was something different. He looked at me, and it felt like he was placing a blanket around me. I felt secure. We had been together for almost a year. But it felt like I wasn't caring about him less, but intensely more.
"I'm in love with you." I didn't see his lips move, but his low voice echoed through my ears. He and I had told each other we loved one another a few months ago, but to hear that he was in love... I felt it.
Zaylen and I stared at each other, and he didn't give me a look as though he was expecting me to say it back. But I did. I said it so many times.
______
Senior year took us by surprise. College applications had to be going out, parents were fumbling and being melancholic about how they'll miss their kids. I had already said goodbye to my parents because Zaylen had convinced me to move in with him in a new apartment.
We went through school focused, but coming home to him gave me such euphoria, that I couldn't believe how much I loved him. I loved Zaylen so much that it physically hurt. My heart would race, my stomach would churn, and my legs were immobile.
But he was there to catch me.
He always caught me.
______
After a few months, he would get home and be quiet. He wasn't eating as much and sleeping more. He had permanent black lines under his eyes, and he never seemed energetic.
We still went on walks, but his excitement for life seemed drained.
We sat on the dock on a Sunday. I remember it being a Sunday because I pointed to the horizon, trying to cheer him up. "As the last bit of sun fades into the horizon, Sunday becomes Monday."
He tried to smile. He really did. But it seemed fractured. He kissed my temple.
When he got back to the apartment, he sat down on the love seat. As I was about to go to the bedroom he called me. "Vi." He sounded weak.
I remember freezing. I was scared suddenly. I knew something was happening.
"Can you come sit down, Vi?" Zaylen's voice cracked, and I hesitantly moved towards him.
I sat about a foot away from him, but he shuffled closer to me. His long hair strung in front of his eyes, and he seemed to fade out looking at the carpet. I pulled his hands onto my lap, and I brushed my thumb across the back of his hand. He squeezed my hand with reassurance, and looked up in response.
"I did what you asked." I blinked, not understanding what he was talking about. He nodded his head slightly, "Therapist." A wave of realization shot through me as he continued, "To try to feel better. It's kind of working. Sometimes. I don't know. They're going to be letting me try different medications." I was crying suddenly. I don't know why. To hear his pain was so hard. It felt like I was being torn apart. "There are times where I feel better, but then it gets worse for a bit. They said it's normal, but it's just hard." His green eyes looked at me.
______
I hated how he wouldn't let me try to help him.
I hated how I couldn't understand why he was sad.
I hated how he couldn't explain it.
I hated how helpless I felt. How I feel.
I hated how hopeless he was.
______
It was a few weeks after he told me he was seeing so many people about his struggles. He thought that we should get a dog. That maybe something love-able and cuddly would help. I agreed completely. She was a Finnish Spitz crossed with husky, and the tiniest pup you could imagine. She was the runt, but Azzy was the sweetest dog that we could have hoped for. She made Zaylen smile more. And he was willing to take her on walks. But the time with me was minimal. I would offer to come, or to take her for a walk alone, but he insisted differently.
After a few more weeks he became distant from Azzy as well. Our attempt was beginning to fail. That's when he sat me down again. And this time he told me he was leaving. That he needed an intensive therapy program where he would live for a few months.
I knew it was coming, but I didn't stop crying that night. I was also crying in my dreams.
______
I hated how he hugged me, and told me he loved me as he walked away with his suitcase.
I hated how he didn't want me to see him for several weeks.
I hated how the doctors and nurses didn't let me talk to him.
I hated how I got used to Zaylen not being in the apartment.
I hated how I felt abandoned, when he was the one struggling so terribly.
______
He was right when he said he'd be there for more than a few months. I finished school and began prepping for a University I got accepted to.
I began seeing my parents more, They lived in the same gray blue house, with the same beige carpet. As my mother handed me a teacup filled with steaming green tea, my stomach dropped into a pit of guilt.
She sat next to me on the large floral couch, resting her free hand on my knee as she held her own cup with the other. "Tell me, Vi, how have you been?"
And I talked to her. I told her about how painful it was without him. How he changed, and how I want him to get better. How I want my Zaylen back. We spoke for hours, tears emerged from both of us. Laughter bubbled from both of us. Daddy didn't get home until around dinner, so I stayed with them that night. A constant warm comfort stayed with me. Even as I strode up the staircase into my old bedroom, which was now the guest room. I was now a guest.
______
The first time I visited Zaylen, a dense silence filled the space between us. I didn't force him to speak. I didn't give idle chit chat. So we sat, studying each other. Finally he reached over to me, slowly placing his hand on top of my thigh.
His green eyes sparkled, "I'm going to be discharged in about a month, Violet." I wanted to smile, to hug him. To expel all the relief that had seized up inside of me. But that's what it did. It froze inside of me. And I couldn't tell him how my insides twisted with joy, how my heart began thumping as though it hadn't for the past four months. But he squeezed my thigh to tell me he understood. He always understood.
______
When he was released from the hospital, I ordered dinner so we could have a calm evening at home. We sat on the couch quietly, and I felt odd for a reason I couldn't pin point. And when we went to bed it felt odd to have him by my side.
When we got up in the morning it felt odd.
When we went out it felt odd.
And I couldn't figure out why.
______
When he told me to let him go, so he could fix himself, I did. And I didn't hate him for it. I hated myself.
Everything I hated about him, I only hated myself for enjoying it.
I hated myself because when Zaylen had gone away for the five months, I had gotten used to the creaking of the apartment. I had gotten used to cooking for one. I had gotten used to walking Azzy alone. I had gotten used to being alone.
And in that time, I had fallen out of love with him.
The boy I was head over heals in love with, the boy who stole my heart at fifteen, who was my first love, was just that. My first love.
And I hated that I had torn that love a part.
______
He knew. He could tell. And I saw the hurt in his eyes every day until I kissed him goodbye. I kissed Azzy goodbye.
And as I know now, the time I had with Zaylen was magical.
______
I remember everything about Zaylen. His hair, eyes, mouth, clothing, vocabulary, favourite food, favourite joke. Favourite everything.
______
I remember when he took me out on the roof and we lay and stared at the fireworks exploding and popping above us.
______
I remember how he blushed when he bumped his hand against my thigh for the first time.
______
I remember his tiny freckles at the base of his neck.
______
I remember, but I will not let these memories consume me. I loved him. I always will. And I love all the memories we had and made.
But I'm not in love with him anymore.
Even though I wish I was.
______
I don't know where he is anymore. We stayed in touch for a month or so. Then we kind of parted. Not in a negative way. In a way that said "I love you, and thank you." The beautiful thing about first loves, is that that is simply what they are. First. That doesn't mean the last. And as I, Violet Hatcher write this, I can tell you that I have fallen in love three times. One, with Zaylen Daniels. Two, with Azzy Daniels-Hatcher. Three, with the person I'm with now. Liam Adamson. And I don't know if he'll be my last, and I know I will not have the same memories as I did with Zaylen, but that's okay. It's okay because it makes every love unique. Every love is unique.
I hated how he would hold my hand so tenderly, as though he would break me.
I hated how he would brush his nose against my neck, making my knees become fuzzy and frail.
I hated how he would be talking so excitedly while walking ahead of me, and then he would turn his head over his shoulder, grinning crookedly at me.
I hated how when his life became so hectic he told me to let him sink.
______
"Vi?" His soft gaze tried to meet mine. But I refused to look at him with tears clouding my vision. He pulled his large hands around my small ones, "Please."
I forced myself to look at him. But I could only reach his shaggy brown hair.
"Let me drown." He was whispering. "Let me drown, and eventually I'll be able to swim to the surface and see you on the shore."
My teeth were clenching. "Let me help." He smiled sadly.
"This is something you can't help with."
"You haven't let me try!" I leaned forward, squeezing his hands desperately.
And then he brought his mouth to my forehead. And he rested there for several moments. Just before he pulled away he murmured, "I love you. I can't let you be hurt."
I sneered, "How ironic." I pushed away, whipping my hands out and away from him. And I rushed out of his flat, into the busy California streets. It was colder than usual, so I tugged my wind breaker tight around me, not knowing whether my trembling was from him or the wind.
And I walked away.
______
Years ago, when he and I had just met, we were sophomores at an uptight private school. We didn't have any classes together, but his and my lockers were right next to each other. So each day, we would be at our lockers and we would say hello. Every day. For the entire year.
I never thought of him as anything other than an acquaintance until he approached me during the first week of junior year. His hair was really long, licking the base of his jaw and swept up away from his eyes. It looked messily beautiful.
He leaned his hands against the outdoor table, an odd gleam in his eyes that matched the crooked grin plastered to his face.
"Violet, right?" He wore a deep red t-shirt with a high v-neck. But I couldn't stop staring at his eyes. They were such a clear, dark green. I had never seen something so amazing.
I nodded, stiff with surprise.
"We had lockers next to each other last year."
I nodded again.
He stood up straight, adjusting his shirt to fall against the rim of his navy black jeans. "Zaylen." He coughed slightly, a pink blush sweeping under his eyes.
I nodded, unsure what to say.
He cleared his throat, "Any ways, I was invited to this party," He waved his hand, "Or get together or something..." He caught himself, "And I thought, I dunno. If you wanted to come, I could introduce you to some people."
"Are you saying I don't know any one?" I spoke before my mind could stop myself. I winced at how mean I had sounded. He seemed unfazed as his grin returned.
"No- no, it's just..." He glanced to the side and leaned in, "Everyone talks about you, but I barely see you with anyone." His endless eyes stared into my own, "So you should meet everyone who is talking about you." Zaylen shrugged his hand into his front jean pocket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. As I opened my mouth in protest he unfolded the lined paper. "My phone number, the party's address and the password to enter." He moved the paper towards me like a bribe, "This Friday, ten o'clock. When you get in call me and I'll meet up with you."
"What if I'm busy this Friday?" I inquired as I rose my dirty blond eyebrows.
"Well you are." He tapped the paper, "You're coming to a party and you will hang out with me and you will have a great time." Before I could respond he began walking away, and that was the first time he looked over his shoulder grinning wildly, "See you Friday, Vi!"
______
I hated how when I met up with him he placed his hand flat against my shoulder blade.
I hated how coolly he introduced me to every one.
I hated how he brought me drinks with the cap sealed tightly and unopened.
I hated how he shoved some guy who was intoxicated off of me.
I hated how he didn't drink anything, and how he got me home safely.
I hated how when he stopped the car he leaned across the arm rest and brushed his lips so gently across my cheek that it felt like a rose petal.
I hated how he told me he'd call me so we could hang out again.
I hated how I nodded dumbly and said yes.
I hated how he made it seem like he cared about me.
______
Zaylen didn't formally ask me out until we had hung out a total of nine times. He explained to me, that proper etiquette was to wait until we had met up the same amount of times as his favourite number.
"For good luck." He said smiling.
I said yes. And we went to parties. And we stayed at his place. And we toured around Cali. We went to the beach almost everyday, running into the endless waves and falling back into the velvet sand.
There we lay one day, huffing and out of breath. We were on our backs, staring up at the pale pink setting sky. I turned my head and looked at him. God, I loved looking at him. He had tiny water droplets that lay on the tips of his thick black eyelashes. He blinked and turned to me. But there was something different. He looked at me, and it felt like he was placing a blanket around me. I felt secure. We had been together for almost a year. But it felt like I wasn't caring about him less, but intensely more.
"I'm in love with you." I didn't see his lips move, but his low voice echoed through my ears. He and I had told each other we loved one another a few months ago, but to hear that he was in love... I felt it.
Zaylen and I stared at each other, and he didn't give me a look as though he was expecting me to say it back. But I did. I said it so many times.
______
Senior year took us by surprise. College applications had to be going out, parents were fumbling and being melancholic about how they'll miss their kids. I had already said goodbye to my parents because Zaylen had convinced me to move in with him in a new apartment.
We went through school focused, but coming home to him gave me such euphoria, that I couldn't believe how much I loved him. I loved Zaylen so much that it physically hurt. My heart would race, my stomach would churn, and my legs were immobile.
But he was there to catch me.
He always caught me.
______
After a few months, he would get home and be quiet. He wasn't eating as much and sleeping more. He had permanent black lines under his eyes, and he never seemed energetic.
We still went on walks, but his excitement for life seemed drained.
We sat on the dock on a Sunday. I remember it being a Sunday because I pointed to the horizon, trying to cheer him up. "As the last bit of sun fades into the horizon, Sunday becomes Monday."
He tried to smile. He really did. But it seemed fractured. He kissed my temple.
When he got back to the apartment, he sat down on the love seat. As I was about to go to the bedroom he called me. "Vi." He sounded weak.
I remember freezing. I was scared suddenly. I knew something was happening.
"Can you come sit down, Vi?" Zaylen's voice cracked, and I hesitantly moved towards him.
I sat about a foot away from him, but he shuffled closer to me. His long hair strung in front of his eyes, and he seemed to fade out looking at the carpet. I pulled his hands onto my lap, and I brushed my thumb across the back of his hand. He squeezed my hand with reassurance, and looked up in response.
"I did what you asked." I blinked, not understanding what he was talking about. He nodded his head slightly, "Therapist." A wave of realization shot through me as he continued, "To try to feel better. It's kind of working. Sometimes. I don't know. They're going to be letting me try different medications." I was crying suddenly. I don't know why. To hear his pain was so hard. It felt like I was being torn apart. "There are times where I feel better, but then it gets worse for a bit. They said it's normal, but it's just hard." His green eyes looked at me.
______
I hated how he wouldn't let me try to help him.
I hated how I couldn't understand why he was sad.
I hated how he couldn't explain it.
I hated how helpless I felt. How I feel.
I hated how hopeless he was.
______
It was a few weeks after he told me he was seeing so many people about his struggles. He thought that we should get a dog. That maybe something love-able and cuddly would help. I agreed completely. She was a Finnish Spitz crossed with husky, and the tiniest pup you could imagine. She was the runt, but Azzy was the sweetest dog that we could have hoped for. She made Zaylen smile more. And he was willing to take her on walks. But the time with me was minimal. I would offer to come, or to take her for a walk alone, but he insisted differently.
After a few more weeks he became distant from Azzy as well. Our attempt was beginning to fail. That's when he sat me down again. And this time he told me he was leaving. That he needed an intensive therapy program where he would live for a few months.
I knew it was coming, but I didn't stop crying that night. I was also crying in my dreams.
______
I hated how he hugged me, and told me he loved me as he walked away with his suitcase.
I hated how he didn't want me to see him for several weeks.
I hated how the doctors and nurses didn't let me talk to him.
I hated how I got used to Zaylen not being in the apartment.
I hated how I felt abandoned, when he was the one struggling so terribly.
______
He was right when he said he'd be there for more than a few months. I finished school and began prepping for a University I got accepted to.
I began seeing my parents more, They lived in the same gray blue house, with the same beige carpet. As my mother handed me a teacup filled with steaming green tea, my stomach dropped into a pit of guilt.
She sat next to me on the large floral couch, resting her free hand on my knee as she held her own cup with the other. "Tell me, Vi, how have you been?"
And I talked to her. I told her about how painful it was without him. How he changed, and how I want him to get better. How I want my Zaylen back. We spoke for hours, tears emerged from both of us. Laughter bubbled from both of us. Daddy didn't get home until around dinner, so I stayed with them that night. A constant warm comfort stayed with me. Even as I strode up the staircase into my old bedroom, which was now the guest room. I was now a guest.
______
The first time I visited Zaylen, a dense silence filled the space between us. I didn't force him to speak. I didn't give idle chit chat. So we sat, studying each other. Finally he reached over to me, slowly placing his hand on top of my thigh.
His green eyes sparkled, "I'm going to be discharged in about a month, Violet." I wanted to smile, to hug him. To expel all the relief that had seized up inside of me. But that's what it did. It froze inside of me. And I couldn't tell him how my insides twisted with joy, how my heart began thumping as though it hadn't for the past four months. But he squeezed my thigh to tell me he understood. He always understood.
______
When he was released from the hospital, I ordered dinner so we could have a calm evening at home. We sat on the couch quietly, and I felt odd for a reason I couldn't pin point. And when we went to bed it felt odd to have him by my side.
When we got up in the morning it felt odd.
When we went out it felt odd.
And I couldn't figure out why.
______
When he told me to let him go, so he could fix himself, I did. And I didn't hate him for it. I hated myself.
Everything I hated about him, I only hated myself for enjoying it.
I hated myself because when Zaylen had gone away for the five months, I had gotten used to the creaking of the apartment. I had gotten used to cooking for one. I had gotten used to walking Azzy alone. I had gotten used to being alone.
And in that time, I had fallen out of love with him.
The boy I was head over heals in love with, the boy who stole my heart at fifteen, who was my first love, was just that. My first love.
And I hated that I had torn that love a part.
______
He knew. He could tell. And I saw the hurt in his eyes every day until I kissed him goodbye. I kissed Azzy goodbye.
And as I know now, the time I had with Zaylen was magical.
______
I remember everything about Zaylen. His hair, eyes, mouth, clothing, vocabulary, favourite food, favourite joke. Favourite everything.
______
I remember when he took me out on the roof and we lay and stared at the fireworks exploding and popping above us.
______
I remember how he blushed when he bumped his hand against my thigh for the first time.
______
I remember his tiny freckles at the base of his neck.
______
I remember, but I will not let these memories consume me. I loved him. I always will. And I love all the memories we had and made.
But I'm not in love with him anymore.
Even though I wish I was.
______
I don't know where he is anymore. We stayed in touch for a month or so. Then we kind of parted. Not in a negative way. In a way that said "I love you, and thank you." The beautiful thing about first loves, is that that is simply what they are. First. That doesn't mean the last. And as I, Violet Hatcher write this, I can tell you that I have fallen in love three times. One, with Zaylen Daniels. Two, with Azzy Daniels-Hatcher. Three, with the person I'm with now. Liam Adamson. And I don't know if he'll be my last, and I know I will not have the same memories as I did with Zaylen, but that's okay. It's okay because it makes every love unique. Every love is unique.
Saturday, 18 October 2014
Another Secret
She walked down the dim road, arm wrapped around the girl whom she was best of friends with.
Her friend held her waist, and they laughed about nothing as the last light shut its eyes.
As they walked, they spoke about the future. They spoke about the past.
And in a moment, the light from both of their eyes became solemn, and the girl let her arm drop off of her friends shoulders.
She tied her long curly red hair up into a bun, looking at her friend's deep brown eyes.
"Is it okay, that I don't tell you everything Sammy?"
Sammy brushed her black hair away from her face, letting the brisk air lick her cheeks pink.
After a few minutes, she nodded once. "I hope you don't tell me everything. Because if you did, you wouldn't have anything that was truly yours."
The red haired girl felt a wave of sadness slam into her gut, and she decided to simply sit on the cold cement sidewalk.
"I don't feel like anything is truly mine anyways." She sighed.
Sammy sat down across from her, bringing her gaze to her friend's. "You do. It may not seem like it, but you do. All the feelings you get when you see the boy you fancy? That's yours. The inhaling of icy air when you run? Yours. And the way you smile when you remember something that made you happy? Absolutely yours. Cris, you have so much that's yours."
Cris allowed doubt to cloud her eyes.
"It just seems that whatever I want doesn't matter. A tattoo? My mom promised it a year ago, it never happened and now she's getting one. My friend got one before me when I have been wanting one for seven years." She punched the ground, "Seven years, Sam." Her hands clenched into fists.
Sammy fiddled her hands, unknowing what to say.
"Your hair is unique." Sam ran her hand through Cris's icy red hair, pulling it out of the bun.
"It does nothing anymore." She brushed away her hand.
"Your eyes are stunning." Sammy was sounding exasperated now.
"They make me look placid." Cris snapped back.
Sammy stood up, ruffling her own hair. "Your clothes are so different and beautiful compared to others."
Cris stood up too, crossing her arms. "That doesn't mean anything. Everything I wear is baggy and black. I look like a murderer, but I can't wear other clothes that girls wear! Like crop tops, or skirts or dresses or shit like that!" Tears were pooling in her pale blue eyes now.
Sammy screamed now, shoving her friend's shoulders, "Well I can't tell you things you want to hear until you feel better, because you won't Cris! People can tell you you're beautiful, it doesn't make a difference! People can tell you you're talented in art, it won't help you feel better! I can't do that for you! I can't help, even though I wish I could! Do you think I like seeing you so sad that you can't hold conversations well? That you can't eat in front of people without feeling fat? That you can't stop comparing yourself to other people? I can't help that!" Sammy was sobbing now, "I can't help that."
Sammy hugged Cris tightly, crying into her shoulder.
Cris didn't speak.
Sammy whispered in her ear, "That's what you need to do. Somehow. Remember the little things that are yours. That make you happy. That will help. You can help you."
They were silent for a long time. Letting the cool air wrap around them.
Letting them give themselves each another moment that was truly theirs.
Her friend held her waist, and they laughed about nothing as the last light shut its eyes.
As they walked, they spoke about the future. They spoke about the past.
And in a moment, the light from both of their eyes became solemn, and the girl let her arm drop off of her friends shoulders.
She tied her long curly red hair up into a bun, looking at her friend's deep brown eyes.
"Is it okay, that I don't tell you everything Sammy?"
Sammy brushed her black hair away from her face, letting the brisk air lick her cheeks pink.
After a few minutes, she nodded once. "I hope you don't tell me everything. Because if you did, you wouldn't have anything that was truly yours."
The red haired girl felt a wave of sadness slam into her gut, and she decided to simply sit on the cold cement sidewalk.
"I don't feel like anything is truly mine anyways." She sighed.
Sammy sat down across from her, bringing her gaze to her friend's. "You do. It may not seem like it, but you do. All the feelings you get when you see the boy you fancy? That's yours. The inhaling of icy air when you run? Yours. And the way you smile when you remember something that made you happy? Absolutely yours. Cris, you have so much that's yours."
Cris allowed doubt to cloud her eyes.
"It just seems that whatever I want doesn't matter. A tattoo? My mom promised it a year ago, it never happened and now she's getting one. My friend got one before me when I have been wanting one for seven years." She punched the ground, "Seven years, Sam." Her hands clenched into fists.
Sammy fiddled her hands, unknowing what to say.
"Your hair is unique." Sam ran her hand through Cris's icy red hair, pulling it out of the bun.
"It does nothing anymore." She brushed away her hand.
"Your eyes are stunning." Sammy was sounding exasperated now.
"They make me look placid." Cris snapped back.
Sammy stood up, ruffling her own hair. "Your clothes are so different and beautiful compared to others."
Cris stood up too, crossing her arms. "That doesn't mean anything. Everything I wear is baggy and black. I look like a murderer, but I can't wear other clothes that girls wear! Like crop tops, or skirts or dresses or shit like that!" Tears were pooling in her pale blue eyes now.
Sammy screamed now, shoving her friend's shoulders, "Well I can't tell you things you want to hear until you feel better, because you won't Cris! People can tell you you're beautiful, it doesn't make a difference! People can tell you you're talented in art, it won't help you feel better! I can't do that for you! I can't help, even though I wish I could! Do you think I like seeing you so sad that you can't hold conversations well? That you can't eat in front of people without feeling fat? That you can't stop comparing yourself to other people? I can't help that!" Sammy was sobbing now, "I can't help that."
Sammy hugged Cris tightly, crying into her shoulder.
Cris didn't speak.
Sammy whispered in her ear, "That's what you need to do. Somehow. Remember the little things that are yours. That make you happy. That will help. You can help you."
They were silent for a long time. Letting the cool air wrap around them.
Letting them give themselves each another moment that was truly theirs.
Friday, 10 October 2014
My Sunset
I will watch the sun rise
with the faintest memory
of how my lungs became filled
of the scarlets before me
and how when the light
grew above the hill
and draped my eyes
as I felt my heart fill.
I shan't forget how your eyes crinkled
smiling at me as I passed.
Even though my heart is thudding
from the shadow you had cast.
And I'll keep walking
with confusion swelling
and I will keep my mouth shut
because with you, there is no telling
how long you will see me.
But just like you,
the sunrise will fade
into the sky thaw we will watch.
And my heart will trade
itself for a cloud
to make myself feel light.
Even though without the sun
nothing, oh nothing will be as bright.
with the faintest memory
of how my lungs became filled
of the scarlets before me
and how when the light
grew above the hill
and draped my eyes
as I felt my heart fill.
I shan't forget how your eyes crinkled
smiling at me as I passed.
Even though my heart is thudding
from the shadow you had cast.
And I'll keep walking
with confusion swelling
and I will keep my mouth shut
because with you, there is no telling
how long you will see me.
But just like you,
the sunrise will fade
into the sky thaw we will watch.
And my heart will trade
itself for a cloud
to make myself feel light.
Even though without the sun
nothing, oh nothing will be as bright.
Thursday, 9 October 2014
Matthew
I first met this boy when I was living in the tiny shack that my mum excused for a house. This house had one hallway when you open the sliding glass door to the very minimal space meant for a living room couch. I guess it was more like an in ground trailer.
The living room had somehow managed to fit an under stuffed deep red plaid couch that had frayed holes along the arms. And if you stood behind the couch, you were already one step from the kitchen. It held a mini fridge and a toaster oven. And that was how we cooked.
But of course I didn't care then. I was a six year old little girl who simply adored sprinting up and down the single hall way. The single hallway that lead to two rooms. As you walked down the narrow ply wood hall, to the left was the snug office. Surrounded by a book shelf that lined the entire room, and was stuffed with a book in every space. On the furthest side a desk was placed, taking up half the room. As well as an overly large plush leather swirly chair.
I used to play simple games on the computer that lay evenly on the desk.
And if you walked to the end of the hall, you would enter the bedroom. The single bedroom that held my mum and I. I slept with her for the longest time, because we only had the single queen bed. But as I grew old enough to be considered a woman, we sold the queen for two single beds.
I first met this boy when I was whirling in circles in the office. The computer had gone to sleep and as I spun around, making myself sickly ill, I caught a glimpse of a boy's hair behind me in the reflection. I tumbled out of the chair, toppling it over with fear. I became scared, paranoid of what I had seen. I hadn't truly seen someone, it was a trick of the light.
But as I fixed the chair and turned around, I practically ran into a boy who was a head taller than me, with sandy brown hair tousled in front of his hazel eyes. He grinned then, pulling me into a tight hug, sighing with relief as he smelled my hair. At that moment I couldn't figure out why someone would love the smell of apple so much, but today I could understand why.
He pulled away with me still in shock. From closer up I could see he was a few years older than me. He looked as though he was nine or ten years old. He was very lanky, no muscle anywhere. No fat either. And he had high cheekbones that lifted as he smiled.
"Danny!" His voice was still quite high, but excitement laced through my name as he stared in disbelief. I felt so confused as to who this boy was. A neighbour? A school chum I hadn't taken into consideration? "Oh Danny, I'm so glad to finally meet you." At this point fear struck through me that I didn't know him. And that I never did. I started to call for my mum, but as I did his eyes widened and he ran out of the room. I sprinted after him, down the single hall and into the living room. No door was open, nor window, so I knew he couldn't have left.
But as my mum came rushing in with soil on her knees and daisies in her grip, there was no sign of him. I told her what had happened, but she laughed and told me my imagination sure was wild.
But he was real. I knew because he came again.
I wasn't as frightened, but I was still fearful of who this boy was.
As he kept coming, we would go outside into the forest surrounding the trailer and pretend to be professional archers. Or we'd play hide and go seek until the stars shone our way. Every time we'd play together, he would never come into my house when my mum was making tea or serving a meal. He told me he didn't want to intrude because she seemed like such a lovely lady. Of what I told him about her. I told my mum everything, and finally she asked his name.
"Matthew." I would say proudly.
But my mom wouldn't smile at that. Instead she would frown dubiously, turn back to the kettle or onions she would satee, Never asking about him.
We became best friends as a few years went on. We both were growing, and soon I was in middle school. My mum didn't believe that this boy existed. Every time I would promise he would come over this time, he cancelled and ran home. We made a rule not to enter each others homes, that our home would be outside. Together.
As soon as I'd get home from school I'd drop my bag and sprint out to the backyard. There on the same chopped stump would sit Matty, and we would go off on our adventures.
It became ours.
As we grew older, Matthew became quite tall. He held the same shaggy hair that he had when I first met him, and the same stunning hazel eyes. He did get more muscular, but thinly so. I became jealous of his body as mine became curvier, but he would always reassure me it looked better than fine. That it was perfect. And not to take any crap from any girl or guy.
We didn't go to the same school. His parents home schooled him, he would say. And I was fine with that. We saw each other plenty.
But whenever I would bring home some friends, I would check the stump and he wouldn't be there. He wouldn't come out when I had company, he always said how he would be intruding. Wrecking something so beautiful.
I told him he wouldn't be wrecking something beautiful because he was beautiful.
And I remember as we sat under the canopy of trees, he stared at me with a melancholy laced in his iris's. It made me sad. It made me want to know what was wrong.
But he barely spoke of himself. He would let me talk about my petty issues with guys, and grades. Eventually it became normal that we didn't talk about him.
It was like I was the main character of his book.
But as high school ended, he asked me what I would do now.
And I told him about the boy who asked me to move away with him.
And I saw the pride grow like a fire in his smile.
And I felt his love as he pulled me into his arms.
And I felt heartbroken when he pulled away
and I saw something flicker.
Him.
He stared at me expectantly.
"Danielle," He started, "I didn't want to come over, but I think I should now. I think I should."
He gripped my hands almost as though he was pleading, but without hesitation I said of course. And we went into the tiny cramped living space. And as my mum came home with dirt on her face she smiled at me and sat so close to Matty that I thought she'd sit on him. I gasped, fearful for a moment, but Matthew turned and grinned.
"Don't worry Danny."
My mum leaned over and kissed my cheek, and I realised what was happening.
She was ignoring Matty.
But, she wasn't.
She didn't see Matty.
Terror sliced through me, and I stood up suddenly, rushing myself for air.
Matthew raced out after me, grabbing my arm to stop me.
"Danny, I'm sorry!" His eyes plead, waiting for me to say something.
"What's going on Matt, what the Hell was that?" He winced at my words, but I had given him what he wanted;
my voice.
I trembled as he spoke fluidly.
"I love you and your mother so very much, Danny. You need to know that. And I am so absolutely proud of you for how far you've come." His eyes were swelling with tears. "And I'm so glad to see your bright future. Please. Please remember you have a brilliant future." Confusion shuffled through me. "Danny," He took a deep breath, "I'm your brother." I was about to speak but he cut me off, "--Danny, mum had a miscarriage before she had you. Several years before she even wanted to try again. And daddy? He left when he thought mum wouldn't get pregnant. She found out she was with you three days after daddy left." His face was faltering, "I wanted to grow up with you, so I waited here for you. you have a life Danny." I was shaking, crying with upset. Disbelief.
"Matty, no. No no no." I was shaking my head aggressively, "No! You're real, I'm touching you now!" He looked down at his hands and he smiled sadly.
"That's because you saw me when we were so young. You got used to me. I'm so sorry Danny. But I love you so incredibly much. And I am so proud of you. I want to watch you get married and have children, but I can't." Pain flashed through his eyes, "Every moment I stay longer, it hurts Danny. It hurts so much."
He was fading, in and out. I hugged him tightly, feeling the fabric of his shirt disappear through my fingers.
"Matty, oh Matty I'm so proud of you too. I never thought I could love someone as I do you. You are the most incredible person I have met, and I owe so much to you. I won't let you down, Matty. I owe you so much. So... so much." My sobs were clouding my speech, and I shut my eyes tightly.
I don't know how long I sat there, but after a while I heard the door slide open, my mum coming over and rubbing my back.
"You okay, sweetie?" I nodded numbly.
I dream of him often. And I still love him as I hold my son in my arms. I still love him as I hold the hand of my husband. I still love him.
Matthew, I regret that we didn't get to have a life together, but every time I feel a pressure on my hand I want you to know that I think of you. I think of you watching me grow up and even though I'm still so much a child, I love you no matter what. I love you Matthew.
Friday, 3 October 2014
Their eyes were battling each other, the rage sent waves around the empty room,
with nothing in it except packed boxes.
He came home when she wasn't finished packing.
When she wasn't finished saying goodbye.
And he stared at her with anger flowing through his veins, "You've had enough time. Get out. Now."
He flicked his white cuffed wrist to the elevator door, venom dripping from his mouth
like a savage dog.
And she stared at him with disdain, tears flowing freely as her mumbled words made her sound as worthless as she felt. "I'm not ready yet."
This time he began shouting, feeling his heart welting with the frustration that filled his heart
every day
for the past
few
weeks.
"I don't want to see you, Anna! Get the fuck out, now!" He stepped closer to her now, taking in the deep brown hair. Instead of it being neatly pinned back, it was now wavy and full of frizz. Her once full eyes were empty and heartless. He felt heartless too.
She gripped the edge of one of the boxes, sputtering, "Please, I can't go yet. How do you know--"
He gripped her arm, dragging her to the elevator door. And with the press of the button, the elevator slowly drifted up to the suite.
She cried out, falling against him. Feeling deflated.
And he held this woman.
The woman who he felt in love with for the past seven years.
The woman who showed him the world.
Who showed him love.
True.
Love.
He held this woman, feeling her embrace one last time, before she would drift off like the ocean. Being free. Truly free.
She looked up at him, her hollow green eyes meeting his with heartbreak.
And he brushed his fingers down her face so gently,
she could've mistaken it for rain.
And then he tugged his finger against her lip, ever so slightly.
"But," her voice was hoarse, "How do you know when it's love?"
His eyes widened, with reality.
What was love?
Was this terror of a relationship not real?
A facade?
Her pleading eyes bore into his.
But his anger still boiled.
Her rage was still inflamed.
As so when the elevator dinged, he moved Anna into the metal box. And left before she could watch him as the doors shut.
And he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
And took it as a shot.
And as he curled up in bed
his face was burning hot
from the tears that stained his cheeks
and the pain from the weeks
he was now being torn
from what she said
about the confusion
how love felt dead
and when he woke
he had some gin
mumbling what she spoke
the chance of sleep was slim
each day carried out
little shut eye
many tears
one day
he couldn't try
so he took some pills
and lay his head
after downing some whiskey
his limbs like lead
and he wrote
I quote
"My dearest Anna,
love
is a fanatical word
because people have assumed
that it can sum up a mess
of emotions
but
do not use it in vain
do not
utter it
with uncertainty
I love you
and when I say love
I mean
you make my heart stop
when you look at me
even if you don't
it feels as though I'll vomit
and my shakiness is terrible
and won't stop for hours
even when
you're long
gone.
And I love you
because
when your name is said
my stomach
it flutters
but the problem is
I love you
to the point
where
it
physically
hurts
when I'm not around you
and when you see me
but don't speak to me
I'm getting torn a part inside
and I pray you don't see my corpse
lifeless
loveless
but
I need you to see this
because I was
angry
I still am
but it wasn't with you
it was with my pain capacity
I was broken
I am broken
and I
can't
be
fixed
because
I'll just crumble again
and Oh, Anna
dream well
live well
live free
of strain
and sadness
and anger
and restlessness
watch the ocean
I see it in your eyes
watch the ocean.
With more emotion than you could possibly comprehend,
yours,
but not yours,
Evan James Parker."
with nothing in it except packed boxes.
He came home when she wasn't finished packing.
When she wasn't finished saying goodbye.
And he stared at her with anger flowing through his veins, "You've had enough time. Get out. Now."
He flicked his white cuffed wrist to the elevator door, venom dripping from his mouth
like a savage dog.
And she stared at him with disdain, tears flowing freely as her mumbled words made her sound as worthless as she felt. "I'm not ready yet."
This time he began shouting, feeling his heart welting with the frustration that filled his heart
every day
for the past
few
weeks.
"I don't want to see you, Anna! Get the fuck out, now!" He stepped closer to her now, taking in the deep brown hair. Instead of it being neatly pinned back, it was now wavy and full of frizz. Her once full eyes were empty and heartless. He felt heartless too.
She gripped the edge of one of the boxes, sputtering, "Please, I can't go yet. How do you know--"
He gripped her arm, dragging her to the elevator door. And with the press of the button, the elevator slowly drifted up to the suite.
She cried out, falling against him. Feeling deflated.
And he held this woman.
The woman who he felt in love with for the past seven years.
The woman who showed him the world.
Who showed him love.
True.
Love.
He held this woman, feeling her embrace one last time, before she would drift off like the ocean. Being free. Truly free.
She looked up at him, her hollow green eyes meeting his with heartbreak.
And he brushed his fingers down her face so gently,
she could've mistaken it for rain.
And then he tugged his finger against her lip, ever so slightly.
"But," her voice was hoarse, "How do you know when it's love?"
His eyes widened, with reality.
What was love?
Was this terror of a relationship not real?
A facade?
Her pleading eyes bore into his.
But his anger still boiled.
Her rage was still inflamed.
As so when the elevator dinged, he moved Anna into the metal box. And left before she could watch him as the doors shut.
And he poured himself a glass of whiskey.
And took it as a shot.
And as he curled up in bed
his face was burning hot
from the tears that stained his cheeks
and the pain from the weeks
he was now being torn
from what she said
about the confusion
how love felt dead
and when he woke
he had some gin
mumbling what she spoke
the chance of sleep was slim
each day carried out
little shut eye
many tears
one day
he couldn't try
so he took some pills
and lay his head
after downing some whiskey
his limbs like lead
and he wrote
I quote
"My dearest Anna,
love
is a fanatical word
because people have assumed
that it can sum up a mess
of emotions
but
do not use it in vain
do not
utter it
with uncertainty
I love you
and when I say love
I mean
you make my heart stop
when you look at me
even if you don't
it feels as though I'll vomit
and my shakiness is terrible
and won't stop for hours
even when
you're long
gone.
And I love you
because
when your name is said
my stomach
it flutters
but the problem is
I love you
to the point
where
it
physically
hurts
when I'm not around you
and when you see me
but don't speak to me
I'm getting torn a part inside
and I pray you don't see my corpse
lifeless
loveless
but
I need you to see this
because I was
angry
I still am
but it wasn't with you
it was with my pain capacity
I was broken
I am broken
and I
can't
be
fixed
because
I'll just crumble again
and Oh, Anna
dream well
live well
live free
of strain
and sadness
and anger
and restlessness
watch the ocean
I see it in your eyes
watch the ocean.
With more emotion than you could possibly comprehend,
yours,
but not yours,
Evan James Parker."
Thursday, 25 September 2014
To a Pessimist
Her ashy
ringlets bobbed as she skipped her tiny legs across the sidewalk. Her little hands gripped the cottony rose
bag that held her school kits. As she
made her way by each brown house with the same muddy windows and deceased
grass, she hummed the new nursery rhyme she learned in school. She stepped on cue to each syllable,
giggling when she came across the tricky beat scheme. Her bright emerald eyes scanned the sky,
chasing the birds that glided through the air.
She gazed at the planes that carried hundreds of people, hoping each one
of them felt like a bird.
Her thoughts walked home with her, until
she reached the large wooden door with a brittle wreathe that hung melancholy. But her humming didn’t cease as she stepped
through the door. She slid off her
small black dress shoes, tucking them safely by the door. She turned, taking in the dust filled
cabinets and sheet of cat hair bunched throughout the laminate floor. Although she barely blinked as she hobbled
into the kitchen. Pots and filthy dishes
filled the sink and counter tops, mold brewed in a stale pot of tea, broken
glass was dotting the floor and the fridge was bare. All except for a rotten apple.
Her feet danced over the glass as she
pulled down an old box of cereal, popping a few dry pieces in her slim
lips. She spun into the living room,
holding her box of cereal affectionately as she sighed into the fraying, worn
couch. She sat there for a bit, listening
to the dead clock that hung on the wall.
The big hand stuck on three. She
imagined the clock ticking joyously, greeting her with every click. She crunched the cereal melodically, humming
as she kicked her feet. Her eyes
scraped the pattern on the curtains before her.
The damaged material wasn’t as pink as it used to be, instead a creamy
yellow filled the shades. She placed the
box on the floor of the couch and leapt to the stereo. She adjusted the antenna, flipping it to the
current eighties mix. She twirled and
jumped, sang and belted her heart out to Michael Jackson. But as she jumped against the ground, the
stereo silenced. Her cheeks flushed as
she attempted to fix it, but she simply pulled out her homework when it became
clear that the technology was fried.
Slight creaking sounded from the wooden
staircase, and she pulled herself to her feet as she padded to the base of the
stairs. A woman who looked older than
she was placed her frail hands against the railing. Her sunken green eyes met the little girl’s,
and a shaky smile formed on her mouth.
“Lynn dear, how was your day?” Her legs shook as she stepped down, but she
pulled the child into a weak hug. Lynn
smiled widely, pulling the woman’s hand to lead her excitingly into the living
room.
“Oh, mama I learned a new song today! And little Jimmy—the one down the road, he
tore my music sheet into confetti.” The
woman’s smile grew sad, but Lynn continued, “But don’t worry, mama. I used the confetti to throw into the
air. Everyone was having so much fun
with the tiny bits of paper that they tore theirs up too.” Her tiny lungs exhaled, waiting for the
woman’s response.
Her bony legs moved to the couch, as she
sat down the couch sunk with her. She
patted the cushion next to her, “Lynn that was terrible what that boy did. He ruined your song and didn’t apologize for
it.”
“But he did-“
“How could you know he meant it? No one means anything now a day. They’re all just a bunch of liars.” The woman pulled her fingers lovingly through
Lynn’s curls.
Lynn chuckled as she poked the woman’s
ribs. Her mother frowned
thoughtfully. They sat there with Lynn’s
head in her lap as the woman stared at the ragged curtains. Finally her mother spoke.
“Sweetie, I spoke to the doctor’s
today.”
Lynn jumped up with joy, twirling off the
couch. Her mother’s lips didn’t twitch
though.
“They told me I’m getting worse. We are going to have to find you a foster
home soon.” Lynn tilted her head.
“But did they tell you when you’d be at
your worst?” As her mother shook her
head Lynn gripped her hand affectionately, “It’s okay then mama, because we
still have time.” Her mother dropped
her head, the room filled with echoed sobs.
But Lynn still gripped her hand tightly, “Mama.” She spoke firmly, “I know you’re dying. I know we won’t be together for much longer,
but with the time we do have… we can
make everything special.” Her eyes
glowed as her mother raised her head to look at Lynn. Her face was solemn. The wrinkles creased around her eyes and
mouth as she parted her cracked lips. Lynn’s mother took in her daughter. She furrowed her eyebrows as Lynn watched her
curiously. Usually when her mother
spoke, she couldn’t stop listing off everything negative. She expected her mother to say something
about there not being a point to do anything if she was about to die
anyways. But instead, her mother lifted
herself slowly off the couch, her legs shaking with all the effort. She shuffled down the hallway, her feet never
fully leaving the cold ground. Finally,
she reached the door. With all her
strength she pulled the door open. She
lifted the wreath carefully, allowing no more pines to break off. As she turned back into the house, her eyes
caught Lynn’s. Lynn watched her mother
move more than she had in the past six months.
She watched her mother limp into the kitchen, open the garbage bin and
place the wreath in it thoughtfully.
And then she smiled at Lynn. Ever so slightly.
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