Conversation

He screams.

His voice is raw and battered and continues to worsen with every word. His fists are white with tension.

Anger flares behind his eyes, sparks that flicker inside of him – barely concealed. He lashes out, hissing as he slams his fist down on the table.

His voice echoes in the small space, ricocheting off the walls around him. Repeating. Mocking.

“I hate you!” he shouts.

         I hate you...
                   hate you...
                             you...
                                       ou...

But there is no one there to listen to his anguish beyond his own ears. He spins around in the bathroom, pacing from the shower to the door and back while cursing. Finally, he squeezes his eyes shut; he leans against the sink and sighs. He tries to suppress the fire inside – sweltering and ready to burn.

He burns, invisible flames scarring his insides.

Softly – so softly – he whispers so that the walls cannot hear him and mock him with their echoes.

He says:

I’ve given
         so much.
I’ve received
         so little.
And yet I keep give give giving
         you everything.
Everything.

Why must I suffer? Why must this happen here and now of all the places and times? Why must it be me?

Why won’t you answer me?

He shouts:

IT’S NOT MY FAULT!

And the walls answer:

IT’S NOT MY FAULT!
         NOT MY FAULT!
                   my fault!
                             fault!
                                       lt!

The only thing he hears is his own voice – as always. A sob.

The marble countertop and calcified walls lend little comfort in their hush hush whispers.

They always lie.