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3,909 Words

Short Story






“f***.” I said. “The world is chaotic and constantly tumbling onto me. But I can’t help and notice how beautiful you are. I’ll never hold on tight to anything, because tomorrow there will always be another night and it’ll be shaded in a different light. But here I go, holding on to make sure you never fall. I have to say, this is my favorite night.”

I can tell by his grin and the way he’s holding me that I’ve said everything he’s ever wanted to hear. Sometimes this is too easy. But please, boy, keep holding me closer so I know how needy you really are. His goodbye is long and heartfelt, and I use my chameleon persona to mimic the same authenticity of feelings. Like always and like all others, I know he will never catch on. I’m irrefutable.

The ride home is uneventful from his house. The steering wheel is cold and I keep my wipers on to shoo away the frost that decorates my window. I can’t help but replay the night over and over again. Boy meets girl, boy admires girl all night, and girl feeds off boy hoping his emotions will give her life. But it doesn’t matter the second I pull up to my driveway all hope is gone. I turn off my engine and open my car door with the stealth of a burglar keeping his existence a secret. My finger tips are frozen by winter’s bite before I even shut the door behind me with barley enough pressure for it to latch shut. I can tell by the void of lights inside the s*** colored brick house that everyone is in slumber. Then again it must be nearly 4am. I work up enough courage to start tip toeing my way to the white front door; with its white window counter-parts it gives the house in its entirety a perfect ginger bread look. Before I even touch the door knob, the dog is well aware of my presence and shares the word by bark. Luckily I fly into my room fast enough for minimal commotion and sleep through the next school day.

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f***. It’s another morning and the sun’s rays are spitting themselves into my face. The only words that seem to fill my head are the ones coming out of my father’s mouth to my mother’s ear during their conversation. “Does this go into darks or lights?” I must agree there’s no better time to do laundry than at 7am. The crust of sleep that has embedded itself into my eye ducts seems too much of an effort to peel away. I’m exhausted with only enough energy to fascinate over the stink of boy still on my skin. I finally pay more attention to myself; I’m saturated in sweat. I kick off the blankets and succumb to the cold morning draft making its way through my window. I wait a few minutes with futility, lying with nothing better to do than to watch my sweat evaporate. But with robot like pep, I make my way to another school day.

Neurology class isn’t worth coming a half hour early to, but better safe than in traffic. The only other student here is the black man, Abraham, who sits on the opposite side of the room from me. His robust body carries around a rack that makes mine want to crawl under a rock. I believe he said he was around 38 years old, no children, no wife; only a mother he lived with, in a Bronx apartment and a security job at Verizon to support his food addiction. His head is far too small for his body, and his voice is ridiculously feminine- closely related to Mini Mouse. But what I find most interesting and equally disturbing about him, is his oddly shaped fingers. The ape-like phalanges sit on a small and constantly sweaty palm. The knuckles always remain more erect than the tip of his fingers, which in turn leaves him with a curved hand that’s forever looking for something to hold onto. Judging by his looks, the deformity I assume is caused by the amount of masturbation he sins from. Why even take notice of such a sad character? I guess because of the way I always catch him nervously taking notice of me.

Class is out and if I don’t indulge in a hobby soon, there’s no doubt I’ll explode. I dial the name of the first that comes to mind and hit the golden word “call”. Sometimes I wish these numbers were worth memorizing.

“Boy, please see me. We’ll meet up by the pier where we can plan ways to make it to the moon.”

What takes him hours should only take minutes. He’s one of the only I have yet to figure out. But the one who will win this game of control feels so much more vulnerable, I can’t help but venture. So mysterious his life was to me, I could almost taste the fact he just didn’t care. His confidence was blossoming off of every word that left the tip of his tongue; I could hardly deny myself the engaging smells. But I learned better within the hour of each other’s company. Looking into his face was nothing less than looking into a mirror. His disease was the same as mine, and I knew he had nothing to offer. With the night still young, I left him with my boredom and excuses of departure. But why waste such a beautiful place? I stick around the populated strip a few blocks away from the pier. I lick the sugary rush of an ice cream cone and take in the world. The pavement matches the cloudy sky. This weather should make me depressed; I can even feel the earth move with despair from under my feet. But nevertheless, taking solace in this world of pain is the only way to see into deeper, truer beauty. Especially with this ice cream cone disappearing. I run my fingers across my phone and hit the golden word “call”.

“Breathing in this fresh air makes me miss you more. Come out and see me waiting a day to hangout is far too long.”

He was faster than his heartbeat I could hear pounding over the phone static. Now I feel alive. The emotional storm going on inside him was written all over his face. I wish I could understand what it feels like to be such a chaotic soul. I watch like a hungry hawk for every facial movement, every hand gesture and twitching eyebrow. The complexity is so liberating, till I solve his riddle of a life. Maybe his mother loved him too much, or maybe his father wasn’t there enough, but I knew what he needed was support and I’ve lost interest in hand feeding it to him anymore. It was sometime during the early AM hours we parted ways. I eagerly gave him my goodbyes and lost so much interest that I wouldn’t even be able to recall the amount of desperation he hugged my coming departure with.

The thought of home sickens me with every step closer I get to my car. I lunge myself back a few paces to a damp bench till the twist and turns of my guts loosen. Through a sketchy shop window, I see the unmistakable gigantic profile of Abraham. For reasons I can’t recognize, his disposition is completely different. I can’t put my finger on it till he shuts the shop’s door behind his massive back. He isn’t the least bit nervous, and only watching him from the corner of my eye, I can see he’s approaching me with some kind of swagger. Soon I hear his Mini Mouse voice turn into pubescent boy:

“Why up at this hour?”

“Abraham, Bench Police, I presume?” I snapped back with a cringe for being questioned.

“The sass in you pretty lady! I just bought a new gadget to help pass time. How about I return it and take you out for a night on the wild side?”

“Keep the gadget,” I muttered with my back to him as I walked back to my car. I don’t want to see the swagger master turn sour in the face. I’ll need all the practice for the looks and eye contact I’ll have to avoid from the opposite side of the room.

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Neurology class isn’t worth coming a half hour early to, but better safe than in traffic. I’m the only one in the room, and it stays that way for another fifteen minutes. Slowly, random classmates start to trickle in; but still no immense Abraham to enter. I sit arrogant to his whereabouts and await the cumbersome arrival. Class starts and it’s only a few minutes in that I set my goals on larger tasks. In fact, my focus becomes so aggressive to my studies, the fact others exist around me isn’t apparent till three officials of the college I have never even heard of before come into class with an announcement.

Abraham’s body was found with a bullet he put in his own head early that morning. I can’t help but chuckle one question to myself the second I hear the news; where was it I lost my humanity?

By the time class is over so is the shock. Well, sure, a death has happened; But not to me. I have no desire, no feeling but to sit still. I glance around at the various bench spots on the school’s balcony and choose the one closes in shade to the one I sat on during Abraham’s and I final words. I remember this benching area during spring; when the world’s beauty is in its most shameless glory. With just a little passion, I can feel it again even in this damp mildew of early winter. The world is surrounding me and I feel covered in its beauty. I’m as sticky as Earth’s most exotic flower’s pollen and I cling for hope on the bottom of a fuzzy honeybee’s feet. I look below at the Earth’s suffering and sacrifice to allow me to fly through her soul and I selfishly accept the charity. I demand more and higher, and soon I see her lost breath. The wind doesn’t feel as gracious anymore.

Winter’s wet kiss brings back my reality and my imagination leaves me with a bitter taste in my mouth. My senses are confirmed with a drizzle of freezing rain. I’m not myself to move just yet. Within seconds I see a worm pop out of its hole. So soggy, he throws his body from the ground to look for a solid home. I grin to myself and understand how he feels. But from the way things look up here, he has a far way to go.

“You’re crazy for being out here, let me take you inside.” I wasn’t sure if I should register the voice of compassion as real and I didn’t care enough to turn around and investigate its origin. I sat still with my back to the voice. Then I felt the warmth of his heart through his hand that he had placed onto my shoulder.

“Please, you look as unsatisfied as me knowing you’re out here.” I finally turn to his sweet words and see an equally as sweet face. He has two huge blue skies for eyes and wore all black. Nevertheless, he was quite gorgeous; but very familiar.

“I want you to follow me!” I let him lead me by my wrist to his car. It finally comes to me who he is. The boy with the mother who loved too much and the father who wasn’t around! I frantically reach for my phone and search for his name as I’m waiting for him to open and warm up the car.

“I’ve missed you!” he said. Anthony, that was his name! I barely remember his eyes being so alive, but maybe that’s because I was the dead one before this.

“You too.” I replied with such a shock and loss for words, I didn’t care if it didn’t make sense. For the rest of the five minutes I spent talking to him, I absorbed more and more. His anxiety ruled the chaos in his being and the stumble in his words every time I made eye contact. His motivation is as low as his testosterone. I felt voided of all estrogen next to him. He’s holding my knee and telling me how much he likes me or something like that. I’m instantly distracted by his hands; so sweaty and nervous, it was like touching Abraham’s fresh corpse. A sudden chill of guilt takes over my spine, but I still don’t care enough to listen to what he’s saying. I cut him off mid sentence and ask without even thinking:

“Why don’t we see each other more? You’re truly intriguing.” Flattery takes over his face and I try to convince myself it’s more cute than pathetic.

“Yes, tonight!” he replied. I didn’t feel like saying goodbye. I flashed him a reassuring smile and started walking back to my car.

The ride home was fifteen minutes, but something told me I’d need more than that. I detoured around town and I felt silly for even coming up with the idea. But I couldn’t help but think about Anthony. His emotions ran so wild; sometimes I felt he was curious of me and my lack of reaction to his obvious disorders. His mind plagued his heart and life with anxiety. It was quite easy to see he lacked nothing in life though. Twenty-five, he works ten hour work weeks at minimum wage at the local book store, lives at home, and doesn’t have a single bill that wasn’t already paid for him; he’s just far from what I imagine a twenty-five year old to be. Even with nothing broken he still wants to be fixed, to be constantly supported. This one I will rebuild to new, to save the world from another Abraham. Maybe Anthony doesn’t deserve this, but I do. Abraham’s tits might as well be resting on my shoulders with the pressure I’ve been feeling pushing me down. I will get my humanity out of Anthony, and he will get a set of balls from me.

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“I will be the pollen on your honeybee feet. I will not let you starve in winter’s snowfall. In springs floods I will become buoyant shoes to make sure you never drown.”

He always eats stuff like this up. I’ve been visiting him for nearly a month and I’ve well earned my PhD in psychiatry for it. The slightest dilemmas make him collapse. Almost like the answer is always to fail, that somehow success will be handed to him on a silver platter branded with the word “Humility”. For reasons beyond my knowledge, he went out and bleached his hair. His mother didn’t think it was attractive, his reaction to this? To sob for hours, leaving me to torment my ears with tales of his father and how he hated the way he dressed as a child. As annoyed as I was, I tried to find the extreme emotions as some sort of benefit to me. We sat together for hours, with his tear staining my shirt and the gloves I wore soaked up all his cry baby snot. I knew I wasn’t the cure to his bi-polar disorder, but I still felt like I owed myself something and he was the keeper of whatever that may be.

Despite his moods, he’s incredibly easy to keep tame. One day he said he was having a bad day during his usual three hour work shifts. To avoid the breakdown when he got home, I wrote a simple “I care” note and placed it on his windshield. So sad to think this is what he needs to take the next step in the day. My lungs cough up the pathetic he exhales. There is no other word but pathetic for him. His eyes were his only gift. Every f***ing story and late night filled with crying was put on the fault of simple life bumps. If it weren’t for the look of wild panic in his eyes to keep me awake, I would have aborted his mission weeks ago.

But there was my favorite part about him, when he tried to provoke me with anger or jealousy. He tells me tales of his last girlfriend and the abusive hands and words she came with. Eventually she left blaming his disorder; I suppose she was tired of mopping up tears night after night and punch after punch. She’s been gone six months without speaking a word to him since. Just by the tone he tells me the memories in I can tell there are still feelings. I’m here not for his love, but I think that’s what these relationships are supposed to lead to. As he spills his guts and stagnated black blood from the whole ordeal, I sit back and put on a face of concern and empathy; even an annoyed hair twirl for signs of jealousy.

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Two months in and I’m starting to get frustrated. He depends on me now, and has no desire to move any further than that. It’s almost like he’s okay with only being complete with another person to hold him up. The hectic that went on in his eyes just isn’t there anymore. He looks at me and I stare into him. What was beautiful and unsure is now bland and boring. He calls it love, I call it hate. He holds me in a different way now; not with the grip of embracing the unknown and exciting, but with secure and comfortable. If this is the face of humanity, I’d gladly spit venom at it. The best of people, the true and real of people will never be seen in this state of comfort. How can I care for a person if I’m only staring at a polished face? I will leave and turn a blind eye to him tonight. I make myself a cup of tea and wait with a sense of relief, maybe some disappointment.

He comes in from work and kisses me without hesitation, without anything but satisfaction in a routine of bland emotions. The security of his posture is enough to set me off without a second thought.

“This isn’t for me anymore. It’s time for me to expand myself by myself.”

His lips are trembling but I don’t see any sign of him trying to actually make out a word. But, my god, his eyes. I see them swell up and explode before me like two bursting blue water balloons. He collapses to his knees and buries his face into his palms like a scared ostrich. This is the most exciting way I’ve seen him in more than a month. I know I should leave, but I can’t help but kneel next to him and take in all the infinite displays of having loss. He grabs me and holds me closer in the most frantic state I’ve ever seen. I was starving till this feeding frenzy of emotional war. He begs me, and I deny him. He begs me more, and I deny harder. He begs me with the last raspier of a voice that has now been soaked down by tears and cries of pain, and I think twice. I can tell by his tone he’s coming into terms with my departure and I feel a rush of something I can’t recognize. It’s so ugly but it makes him seem so much more handsome; he almost has value behind those eyes. I bring my face closer to his. All I can think about is why I’m getting such a rush off committing this suicide.

I let a tear roll down my face and stare at his mouth to let him know I’m staying there. His tear covered hands sparkle like diamonds and I can feel light reflect off them and onto my face as he starts bringing his lips closer to mine for a kiss. He holds my face still with his grip, slicing me along every edge of those diamonds. I let him scar me; to show myself love and loss can co-exist with happiness. By the time I leave I’m still attached and baffled by the fact of how much of a fool I had inside myself.

Two months and two weeks in and every second more I feel my stomach go in twirls. I’m so sick of his company, but there has to be more to the totality of experience of existing as a human. Humanity can’t be as much of dissatisfaction as bland and familiar. But for now, I’m climbing into his bed after a long days work. The lights went out after a kiss goodnight and I would have never guessed the way he’d be able to turn the world upside down.

I woke up to his face buried into his phone. His jaw was dropped and I could swear I was watching his heart cave in. it was her, I could feel it. She messaged him for forgiveness and a chance to see him again. That was the last time I seen Anthony. I’m sure he’s somewhere beaten, but happy with her.

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This bench- it’s damp and cold and I embrace everything it has to offer. I lean back for its full support and look around at the cold, sad people. It’s amazing how much of the world we miss from simply walking by it. All our answers, hopes, and opportunities lay before us; but rarely do they stop passersby’s to be admired. I’m ashamed I lost my compassion for people. I don’t know where I lost my humanity, but sometimes I can still feel it when I stop to appreciate the cold of the wind. I think about the howls are whispered words telling me where to find myself again. The message will never be clear enough for me to understand.

I tried so hard to save him; put all my strength and courage to bring him out of the muck. I mistook him for a confused coward. I reached in, I dove in, and I covered myself in his muddy soul. I fought off his demons he kept constantly fed. I took him out of his swamp and brought him to shore. But that still wasn’t enough to keep him from throwing himself back.

I’m moving on now, just by sitting on this cold bench and letting humanity find me. The sky matches the pavement and the most noticeably beautiful thing around is a few scattered piles of crumbling dirt in the shape of footprints. I’m moving on now and cleaning this mud from my hands. All I can do is lean back on my bench and remind myself: I was only dreaming of the bumblebee when he found me staring at the worm.