confessions

Tears fell from his eyes, one by one, dripping onto the cold tile floor. Betrayal. He sat on the stairs, elbows on his knees, hands supporting his quivering face. Grief. The house was silent; the only noises uttered in the three story house were the sobs that uttered from his tear-stricken face. Heartache. He couldn’t control his emotions, they controlled him from head to toe, manipulating him like a puppeteer controls his doll. Slowly he stood up, tears sliding off his pale face and dropping to ground. He didn’t bother to wipe them, they wouldn’t stop flowing. Not for the first time he wished he owned a punching bag, his emotions told him he needed to hit something, anything. He walked over to a cramped room, body twitching from the cries emanating from the man’s face. Books stacked the room, piles and piles covering every nook and cranny. In the center of the room stood a small table, with a laptop sitting on the top of it. He sat on a small pile of books and turned the computer on. He brought his hands up and futilely wiped his tears from his red eyes. Suddenly his hand shot out and crashed into a pile of dusty books. The pile toppled over, yellow clouds forming in the small dark room. A mixture of the dust and tears clogged his throat, causing an repulsive sound to stem from the man. The coughs and sobs continued while a loading screen dominated the laptop. The man stood up from his makeshift seat and flung his arms into messy heaps of books. Soon the room was completely filled with the yellow dust. He had the urge to leave the room find a place where he could breathe properly, but that would mean the dust won. Slowly he sat back down onto his perch; his stubbornness wouldn’t let him leave. He knew it was ridiculous, but the dust would win if he left. He couldn’t do it, he needed to stay in the room, he couldn’t lose to something as trivial as dust. So he stayed in the room, the air becoming so clouded, it was as if it was solid. Stubbornly he stared at the computer, simply willing it to finish loading. In two minutes the black loading screen abruptly changed into a plain blue screen with one icon in the center. The blue W almost blended into the screen, but it was shades darker than the background. His finger traced along the sensor pad and clicked twice on the only icon. White dominated the screen, a black line blinking over and over again. A couple more coughs came from the man’s mouth, the noises echoing through the deserted house. Then he started to type. Black symbols appeared on the screen, line after line. Christopher didn’t own a punching bag, but he could make do with his writing. He never wrote anything in terms of a story, but he let out his emotions. All the emotions that he cooped up were set free, and flew through the pages like doves free in the sky. Sometimes all he wrote were words, and sometimes they were just letters, caused by the banging of his fingertips against the keys. The salty teardrops still poured down his face, but not as rapidly as before. He couldn’t say what he felt, he could only write it. And so he sat on a pile of books, typing away his problems, becoming calmer and calmer. Four hours into his routine he stopped. Twelve pages of meaningless words were set on the laptop. His pinky stretched over to the “Ctrl” button and pressed it down. His middle finger reached upward towards the “S” button and pressed it as well. Immediately a box popped up, and he titled the pages of his emotions as 132. He clicked on the save button, eyes glancing over the titles of his other works, ranging from 1 to 131. A state of calmness covered Christopher; he had let out his feelings. The tears no longer streamed from his eyes, although they were red. He sniffed a couple of times, his finger wiping across his nose. He moved from his seat to the floor, knees touching the cold slate. He rested his elbows on the small pile of books and interlocked his fingers. He closed his eyes and prayed. Prayed for his well-being and for control over himself.

“He just misunderstood, that’s all. I mean, I was hugging you for at least an hour.”
“Hugging? That was comforting! My mother died for Christ’s sake!”
“I know, but he misinterpreted it. He just took it the wrong way and needs me.”
“He takes everything the wrong way! He sees every situation as an excuse for you hating him. And you’re dating! I just don’t get the guy.”
“Well I do, and I intend to help him, whether you like it or not.”
“Hey, I didn’t mean anything personal, he is a cool guy, but maybe he should be taken to a psychiatrist.”
“You know how he’d react to that. It wouldn’t be good. He’s just overemotional. He overreacts to everything, but that’s not the worst fault a man could have.”
“Hey, he’s your boyfriend not mine.”

He grew used to sitting on hard surfaces, the books underneath him not causing any discomfort. He stood up, triggering the dust to spring into the air once more. Senses flooded back into him. His head turned, eyes focusing on the led clock. 5:32. Christopher cringed, his face grimacing. Most of the day had passed away, and he had accomplished nothing except mope for himself. He always realized that he wasted his time on sulking, but not until after he was done. The footsteps could be heard throughout the house, loud thunderclaps in the plains of silence. He started by walking, but his steps soon grew more rapid, and in a few seconds the disheveled man was running, running through his home. His trembling hand reached for the telephone, and started to dial the numbers out of memory, when his fingers stopped moving, and he hung up the phone.
“Why should I call her? She’s the one who’s supposed to apologize!” He thought. And the seed of thought took root in Christopher’s mind, growing and growing.
“She paid attention to Brian all night…okay so his mom did just die, but I said sorry to him just like everybody else. Why did she stay with him the whole night?” He walked away from the phone, he wasn’t going to call. Christopher’s arms hung limp at his side, things weren’t going as planned. He ambled aimlessly through his home, he wanted to bad to just talk with her, but he was right, so she should call him. His head lifted, the front door in front of him. He pulled it open, eyes yearning for the unknown outside. Frosty winds and hard rain greeted him, the wind rushing into the house, shaking tables and chairs. Quickly Christopher shut the door, slid to the ground, and curled up. Life wasn’t going to plan.

“That’s not going to help him.”
“What’s not going to help him?”
“You going over to him and comforting him. Will it really change anything? You’ll make him think that he’s right and you are supposed to apologize. It seems like the right thing to do, but you have to wait. If he can come around and realize that he’s the one at fault, then maybe he has a chance of getting better.”
“I can’t just let him wallow in his own misery, he’s waiting for me. Going to him is the right thing to do…right?”
“It’s your decision, but think about it. Going to him would be like spoiling a child. They’d think they could get away with more and more, and in his case, he’d think he’s right, and you should apologize every time you are doing anything with another guy.”
“What?”
“Here, think about it like this. He’s all sad because you are doing something with another guy. Not something bad, or that would be called cheating, but maybe hanging out with a guy. I think it’s perfectly acceptable for a girlfriend to hang out with another guy. Hopefully they’re not hanging out alone, but that depends on the relationship. Anyway, Christopher feels hurt, so he pouts at home for a couple hours. Then his mind clears and he tries to decide if he was right to be all moody, or if he was wrong and should go apologize. If you go over to him and comfort him, his brain tells him, “See! You were right!” But if you don’t go over there, he’ll eventually come out to you. So don’t spoil him, and wait.”

His eyes cracked open as if glue held them shut. The yellow lights of the house swamped his vision, causing him to wince and quickly shut his eyes closed again. Soon he chanced opening his eyes again, he could live through the pain. The sideways view down the hall was a view that Christopher had never seen of his house before. He lay on the ground in front of the door, eyes searching his sideways home for anything new. Slowly he righted his head and visions by standing up, filling his mind with the real look of his house, along with a rolling headache. Apparently he could sit on hard surfaces as much as he wanted, but sleeping was another matter. His body ached from lying on the hardwood floor. As he started to walk, he swerved around the hallway. He couldn’t walk straight; his body conformed to the aches in it. He dawdled into the kitchen and avoided the clock. He dreaded the moment he would lay eyes on the glowing clock, but thinking about it only lead him to quickly glance over at the clock, as if that would change anything. 7:57. The green numbers pulsated on the screen, as if taunting him. The day was almost over, and he had accomplished nothing. He got some good hours of moping in, but never actually completed anything useful or good. Finally Christopher made up his mind, and walked over to the telephone.
“Hello?”
“Sweetie? I am so sorry.”