A shot into the air to calm my nerves a bit/knowing this could be my last day of freedom/I wait/the cold steel trigger pressed against my finger/like cold cement with my head pressed down/hands around my throat choking my face to a deep purple/ignorant words pressing into my head until eardrums explode/until blood-puddles form beneath me.
I reload/recalling the time you said I will always be nothing/too lazy to be a running back/too stupid to understand fundamental mathematics/one could safely say yours will be a future of peril/like a helpless Haitian child/ adopted for government money.
Headlights beam from the bottom of the hill/stretching far into the night sky/as if signaling for some kind of hero/as the car climbs the lights shrink down into the street/I now lay silently behind the hedges/sweating from heat/crying from nerves/an old Ford truck pulls into the driveway/the motor screaming for a tune-up/the chipped brown paint running from the noise/a motion sensor turns on the porch light prompting an army of moths to fly in/making its glow barely visible/the truck is off/and he is getting something out of the back/I stood and whispered to him:
You've got to ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya punk?
He turned to a 12-gauge in his stomach/frightened at first/then arrogant:
That's what I used to say before I whooped your ass.
I chuckled at him/he chuckled back:
You don't have the sack to pull that trigger. You never could defend yourself
This was true/I never could:
I was seven
At that/he chuckled again/his nostrils flaring/a smile broken from years of bar violence/i pulled a Marlboro red from behind my ear/lit it/took a drag/chuckled once more
I lowered the gun and shot his leg/ meat flying as he fell to the ground/he lay on the cold cement/his head pressed down/ one hand around the throat/slowly choking him to a disgusting shade of purple:
You're fucking crazy
The words were forced from his mouth/barely audible/but i picked them up/my free hand shoved the barrel onto his temple:
You're God damn right
He flinched/I took another drag/and sprayed his brains all over the driveway:
now who can't do fundamental mathematics, mother fucker?
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Only in Skin
When we walk only in skin,
Our secrets seep like acid,
dripping though the pores
on the tongue of a teenager.
It stays with you forever.
The secrets are a poison, hell-bent
on bringing an end to anything
of promise.
He walked only in skin,
he thought his secret was concealed,
hidden in a shoe box, buried in the closet,
oblivious to the scarlet letter across
his chest, spelling out his sins for the
world to see.
Only in skin, as he makes his way back home.
Church bells explode in the distance, 2 am,
his wife would surely be asleep.
He walked only in skin, up a darkened,
dead-end street.
His house is now in view; to his surprise,
light pours from the windows as if Heaven
were pulled down into the neighborhood.
Only in skin, he walks through the open door.
The living room is in the kitchen,
and the kitchen is on top of the living room.
and everything is covered in piss.
He is sick with worry; was his wife okay?
Only in skin, he makes his way up stairs.
He calls out to her, screaming her full name,
To no avail.
He goes to the bedroom, and everything is
GONE.
Her clothes, her jewelry, even their bed.
In place of her jewelry box, a note.
The secrets had embalmed his marriage.
Only in skin, for the whole world to see,
He is alone.
Trying to fight back tears, he puts on
some clothes. He goes to the liquor
cabinet and drinks until he cannot
feel feelings.
Our secrets seep like acid,
dripping though the pores
on the tongue of a teenager.
It stays with you forever.
The secrets are a poison, hell-bent
on bringing an end to anything
of promise.
He walked only in skin,
he thought his secret was concealed,
hidden in a shoe box, buried in the closet,
oblivious to the scarlet letter across
his chest, spelling out his sins for the
world to see.
Only in skin, as he makes his way back home.
Church bells explode in the distance, 2 am,
his wife would surely be asleep.
He walked only in skin, up a darkened,
dead-end street.
His house is now in view; to his surprise,
light pours from the windows as if Heaven
were pulled down into the neighborhood.
Only in skin, he walks through the open door.
The living room is in the kitchen,
and the kitchen is on top of the living room.
and everything is covered in piss.
He is sick with worry; was his wife okay?
Only in skin, he makes his way up stairs.
He calls out to her, screaming her full name,
To no avail.
He goes to the bedroom, and everything is
GONE.
Her clothes, her jewelry, even their bed.
In place of her jewelry box, a note.
The secrets had embalmed his marriage.
Only in skin, for the whole world to see,
He is alone.
Trying to fight back tears, he puts on
some clothes. He goes to the liquor
cabinet and drinks until he cannot
feel feelings.
The Bus Stop
The bus screeched to a halt as it pulled up to its final stop in Milton Creek. I stood and walked a few rows up to retrieve my backpack which had moved during the stop, and throwing it over my shoulder, I walked off the bus eager to find who I was looking for. I stopped on the sidewalk and looked around. What I was looking at was a whole lot of nothing; except for the main road, the town consists of a simple series of intertwining dirt paths with wooden street signs and barricades of old, dying fruit trees on either side. On the far end of town was the Ocella River, which flows from Southwest Pennsylvania in a windy, southwest pattern that eventually leads to the Gulf of Mexico. Not very many people live here, as the steel mills have packed up and moved to other parts of the country, as I had done not so long ago. To Hell with that though, it’s not important. What’s important is that I am here, and I have to find this bastard before the next bus comes through.
I pick up my backpack and head down Blossom Street towards the tiny business district of town. On the way, I’ve only seen a few people, and none of them seemed familiar. I found what I was looking for a block down from the grocery store—I stopped at a bench to light up a Marlboro when I was suddenly pushed over, and at once, underneath the boot of a very large man.
“Wh... What the fuck is wrong with you?” I blurted from under the boot. I could barely breathe and when I could, the breaths crept into my lungs like a drunken 15-year-old trying to sneak home. “What about the deal?”
“What about the deal? You have a fucking gun,” said the fat bastard that was standing over me. “And when I’m finished with you, you’ll wish you hadn’t broken our agreement.” My chest was starting to hurt badly; I could feel my ribcage starting to buckle, so I got desperate.
“GET OFF OF ME!” I managed to scream at him lightly. He heard me, and after removing the gun and holster from my belt, he listened. I pushed my way up from the dirt and punched him in the chest. Only then did I realize his true size. I meant to punch him in the mouth, but he was a lot taller than I anticipated, and as for the fat bastard comment, I take that back. He was solid. And now, he was pissed.
“Do you really think that hurt?” he asked with a cocky grin forming on his face.
“Well sir, I was hoping...” I said with a sudden respect. The punch didn’t even cause his big toe to curl. I was in trouble. “I was hoping just to startle you. Then I could run away. You’re stronger than me, I could never hurt you.” He was narcissistic, and I’ve found the best way to deal with those types is to feed their ego.
“You’re damn straight I’m stronger. That’s why you brought a gun. It takes no muscle, takes no skill.” He looked me dead in the eye as he said this. At some point, he had reached out and grabbed my collar. The truth was, he was a very intelligent man. After the last murder, he ran off to this tiny, fenced-in town. There is no media here. There is no technology. The grocery store doesn’t even have a calculator, let alone a cash register. I grew up here, and it was perfect refuge for anyone trying to escape from a life in prison. The location was perfect, right along the Ocella. Occasionally a small boat would pass, delivering textiles to towns in Ohio, but there was no tourism here. It was a trip to nowhere and I knew that and my team knew that, but I had to make the call. Here I am.
At the crime scene, he left a letter:
Dearest Kevin,
If you’re reading this, you have found my latest victim. It’s sad she had to die the way she did, but you couldn’t stop pressuring me. You couldn’t let us be together. You chased and chased, and it took a lot out of me. In public, I am afraid of being exposed. I am afraid, and all I want is for this to end. I want a fresh start, a passport and enough money to get to Mexico. I know at this point, you find this a stupid thing for me to ask, seeing as how I’ve butchered 16 Barbie’s and a couple of Ken’s that got in the way. But Kevin, I wouldn’t say no just yet.
You see Kevin, your daughter was near that crime scene shortly after I left. She has been there every Wednesday for the past 3 months. That’s right, you have no need to worry. I’ve been keeping an eye on her for you, as you have been too busy to do so. You shouldn’t treat your daughter like that Kevin, she’s quite precious. I’ve been taking care of her for the last few hours. She misses you though. I’m not sure, do you want to see her again?
Now it has come full circle. If you want your daughter to live, you’ll follow my requests. I am now headed to your old home town, Mill Creek, and that’s where we will meet. You can find me in the market, as nobody knows my face here. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt anyone just yet, but remember, that’s up to you.
I want you to travel by bus, alone and unarmed. I want the requested items placed in a plain black backpack. I want a boat waiting for me on the river directly after the transaction. You hand me the backpack, I’ll give you a slip of paper with directions that will lead you to your daughter. After you find her, don’t even think of following me. I have another surprise that will not be revealed until I am well across the border. You have 24 hours, then I’ll be gone. I hope you can make it Kevin.
Your friend,
Raf
“You’re right, you are stronger. That’s why I accepted the deal. I just want Hannah back.” I was unarmed now, and he could call off the deal at any minute. If that happens, Hannah and I would both die for sure. I had to figure something out. “You can keep the gun too. A consolation prize.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t take off. You’re lucky I didn’t leave your daughter to suffer and starve to death. You were just in time. I was getting on the next bus if you didn’t show up.”
“I figured that. It’s the only way in and out of here, really. And you know we can’t tell anyone about you yet.”
“Don’t want to cause a panic, huh?”
“Exactly. Can I please have my daughter?”
“Let me see the backpack.” I handed it to him. He unzipped it about halfway and reached in. After fumbling around for a few seconds, he looked back up, “Is all the cash here?”
“Yes, I assure you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper and some sort of remote. He pressed a button, producing a small click, and placing the paper in my hand, he whispered:
“You have 5 minutes to find her. She will suffocate not long after that.” With that, he turned and walked towards the river. “Which boat is it?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Blue 16-footer,” I said. Then, I unfolded the paper and scanned it frantically. Five minutes? That wasn’t part of the deal. Left onto Oak. Right onto Lilac. About 30 feet down the road, go left and run into the woods. “She’s in Chapman’s cave.”
Chapman’s was a place I used to go as a kid. It was situated just 20 yards into the woods, but not many people knew about it. To find it, you had to think like a child. They seem to have a knack for trap doors and the like, and this cave was all but nonexistent. The opening had always been completely screened by small, close-growing trees and shrubs of varying shapes and sizes, and unless you ventured between them you wouldn’t find it. Somehow he did.
It had been 2 minutes and I was making the turn from Lilac into the woods. I leapt over a log and tripped, resulting in a painful roll down the hill. Two minutes to go. I get up and run again in a small circle at first as I try to regain my sense of direction. I do, and darting, I make my way to the creek. From here, I can see the small maze of trees that guard the cave. One more minute.
I jump the creek and land on a moss-covered rock. I twist my ankle but retain balance. I now run with a limp, and with 30 seconds to go, I start to plunge through the trees. I can hear muffled screaming in the cave. Fifteen seconds. Finally, I find the entrance and frantically throw myself through. It is dark, but I follow the sound. At the back of the cave, a tape recorder lies playing on the ground. The source of the screams. Right on cue, an explosion takes place at the front, sending bits of rock and wood throughout. Large chunks have fallen between me and the outside world. He knew I wouldn’t take the time to think of this set up. He made me think my daughter’s life was on the line. Someone will find me, I think. They know where I had to go. But where’s Hannah? What’s going to happen to her? And now that I know he’s a compulsive liar as well as a serial killer, I wonder what the surprise will be.
I pick up my backpack and head down Blossom Street towards the tiny business district of town. On the way, I’ve only seen a few people, and none of them seemed familiar. I found what I was looking for a block down from the grocery store—I stopped at a bench to light up a Marlboro when I was suddenly pushed over, and at once, underneath the boot of a very large man.
“Wh... What the fuck is wrong with you?” I blurted from under the boot. I could barely breathe and when I could, the breaths crept into my lungs like a drunken 15-year-old trying to sneak home. “What about the deal?”
“What about the deal? You have a fucking gun,” said the fat bastard that was standing over me. “And when I’m finished with you, you’ll wish you hadn’t broken our agreement.” My chest was starting to hurt badly; I could feel my ribcage starting to buckle, so I got desperate.
“GET OFF OF ME!” I managed to scream at him lightly. He heard me, and after removing the gun and holster from my belt, he listened. I pushed my way up from the dirt and punched him in the chest. Only then did I realize his true size. I meant to punch him in the mouth, but he was a lot taller than I anticipated, and as for the fat bastard comment, I take that back. He was solid. And now, he was pissed.
“Do you really think that hurt?” he asked with a cocky grin forming on his face.
“Well sir, I was hoping...” I said with a sudden respect. The punch didn’t even cause his big toe to curl. I was in trouble. “I was hoping just to startle you. Then I could run away. You’re stronger than me, I could never hurt you.” He was narcissistic, and I’ve found the best way to deal with those types is to feed their ego.
“You’re damn straight I’m stronger. That’s why you brought a gun. It takes no muscle, takes no skill.” He looked me dead in the eye as he said this. At some point, he had reached out and grabbed my collar. The truth was, he was a very intelligent man. After the last murder, he ran off to this tiny, fenced-in town. There is no media here. There is no technology. The grocery store doesn’t even have a calculator, let alone a cash register. I grew up here, and it was perfect refuge for anyone trying to escape from a life in prison. The location was perfect, right along the Ocella. Occasionally a small boat would pass, delivering textiles to towns in Ohio, but there was no tourism here. It was a trip to nowhere and I knew that and my team knew that, but I had to make the call. Here I am.
At the crime scene, he left a letter:
Dearest Kevin,
If you’re reading this, you have found my latest victim. It’s sad she had to die the way she did, but you couldn’t stop pressuring me. You couldn’t let us be together. You chased and chased, and it took a lot out of me. In public, I am afraid of being exposed. I am afraid, and all I want is for this to end. I want a fresh start, a passport and enough money to get to Mexico. I know at this point, you find this a stupid thing for me to ask, seeing as how I’ve butchered 16 Barbie’s and a couple of Ken’s that got in the way. But Kevin, I wouldn’t say no just yet.
You see Kevin, your daughter was near that crime scene shortly after I left. She has been there every Wednesday for the past 3 months. That’s right, you have no need to worry. I’ve been keeping an eye on her for you, as you have been too busy to do so. You shouldn’t treat your daughter like that Kevin, she’s quite precious. I’ve been taking care of her for the last few hours. She misses you though. I’m not sure, do you want to see her again?
Now it has come full circle. If you want your daughter to live, you’ll follow my requests. I am now headed to your old home town, Mill Creek, and that’s where we will meet. You can find me in the market, as nobody knows my face here. Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt anyone just yet, but remember, that’s up to you.
I want you to travel by bus, alone and unarmed. I want the requested items placed in a plain black backpack. I want a boat waiting for me on the river directly after the transaction. You hand me the backpack, I’ll give you a slip of paper with directions that will lead you to your daughter. After you find her, don’t even think of following me. I have another surprise that will not be revealed until I am well across the border. You have 24 hours, then I’ll be gone. I hope you can make it Kevin.
Your friend,
Raf
“You’re right, you are stronger. That’s why I accepted the deal. I just want Hannah back.” I was unarmed now, and he could call off the deal at any minute. If that happens, Hannah and I would both die for sure. I had to figure something out. “You can keep the gun too. A consolation prize.”
“You’re lucky I didn’t take off. You’re lucky I didn’t leave your daughter to suffer and starve to death. You were just in time. I was getting on the next bus if you didn’t show up.”
“I figured that. It’s the only way in and out of here, really. And you know we can’t tell anyone about you yet.”
“Don’t want to cause a panic, huh?”
“Exactly. Can I please have my daughter?”
“Let me see the backpack.” I handed it to him. He unzipped it about halfway and reached in. After fumbling around for a few seconds, he looked back up, “Is all the cash here?”
“Yes, I assure you.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a slip of paper and some sort of remote. He pressed a button, producing a small click, and placing the paper in my hand, he whispered:
“You have 5 minutes to find her. She will suffocate not long after that.” With that, he turned and walked towards the river. “Which boat is it?” he asked over his shoulder.
“Blue 16-footer,” I said. Then, I unfolded the paper and scanned it frantically. Five minutes? That wasn’t part of the deal. Left onto Oak. Right onto Lilac. About 30 feet down the road, go left and run into the woods. “She’s in Chapman’s cave.”
Chapman’s was a place I used to go as a kid. It was situated just 20 yards into the woods, but not many people knew about it. To find it, you had to think like a child. They seem to have a knack for trap doors and the like, and this cave was all but nonexistent. The opening had always been completely screened by small, close-growing trees and shrubs of varying shapes and sizes, and unless you ventured between them you wouldn’t find it. Somehow he did.
It had been 2 minutes and I was making the turn from Lilac into the woods. I leapt over a log and tripped, resulting in a painful roll down the hill. Two minutes to go. I get up and run again in a small circle at first as I try to regain my sense of direction. I do, and darting, I make my way to the creek. From here, I can see the small maze of trees that guard the cave. One more minute.
I jump the creek and land on a moss-covered rock. I twist my ankle but retain balance. I now run with a limp, and with 30 seconds to go, I start to plunge through the trees. I can hear muffled screaming in the cave. Fifteen seconds. Finally, I find the entrance and frantically throw myself through. It is dark, but I follow the sound. At the back of the cave, a tape recorder lies playing on the ground. The source of the screams. Right on cue, an explosion takes place at the front, sending bits of rock and wood throughout. Large chunks have fallen between me and the outside world. He knew I wouldn’t take the time to think of this set up. He made me think my daughter’s life was on the line. Someone will find me, I think. They know where I had to go. But where’s Hannah? What’s going to happen to her? And now that I know he’s a compulsive liar as well as a serial killer, I wonder what the surprise will be.
My American Dream
All my life, I have dreamt of having a daughter. She would be beautiful, with bright, rosy cheeks, and a smile that would warm my day. I would be in my mid-20’s, happily married, with a college degree and a nice home in a good neighborhood: my American dream. My husband, an intelligent man, a hard worker; he would be loving and appreciative; raising our daughter would be a team effort, our team, Olympic class. My prayers and predictions however, were unusually wrong.
I was 15 years old when I met Aaron. I was in the school gymnasium, playing basketball; the coach said my jump shot needed some work. He was running sprints for football or something. After sinking four shots in a row, the ball bounced hard off the rim and skipped across the dazzling, hardwood floor, and as fate would have it, it dribbled into his path, catching him in stride, causing him to trip, ending in a violent crunch into the wall. “Oh my God, are you okay?” I screamed as I jogged over to him.
“I’m fine,” he replied as he pulled himself from the floor. There was a cut above his eye and a trickle of blood protruding from his mouth.
“Here, let me help you.” I wouldn’t typically nurture a boy right off the bat, but this time I felt there were special circumstances. I had, after all, nearly mashed his entire face.
“I’m fine.” He took off his shirt and wiped the blood from his mouth, then dabbed a few times at the cut above his eye. Him being a football player, I thought he would be more muscular, but he was not. He was tiny. He was nothing, really. But he was cute.
“I’m sorry,” I said
“It’s really okay.” He looked at me, with no emotion at first, but after seeing how badly I’d felt, he smiled. “I’m the smallest guy on the team. Coach says I can really take a beating.”
I smiled back, “It’s a good thing you’re not a crybaby.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.” I reached out and gave him a little push. He pushed back, laughed, and walked over to his duffel bag. I followed, “I’m Christi by the way.”
“Hi Christi, I’m Aaron. It was nice to meet you, but I gotta go.”
“Okay,” I said in a deflated tone. I hoped I didn’t make him mad and caused him to leave. My mother might actually approve of this one. “Bye.” I walked to my basket ball, which now rested in the middle of the floor. I picked it up and began to work on my jump shot once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him walk towards the door. Just as he reached the rubber matting that carpeted the entranceway, he turned and walked to me.
"Text me sometime,” he said as he placed a slip of paper in my hand. I was relieved at this gesture, as I kind of wanted him to like me. Since I now figured he did, I definitely had to text him. It was on that very day that I made my mother buy me a cell phone.
I wanted to do the thing boys always do on television, wait three days before initiating contact, but that wasn’t happening. Really, I knew nothing of Aaron, but I wanted to know more. He was a little weird, and I was curious. Really curious. “Why do you need a cell phone?” my mother asked me as I dragged her to the Mill Creek mall, “are you selling drugs?”
“No mother. I’m not selling drugs.”
“Then why do you need a cell phone?”
I’m not sure why my mother thinks that only drug dealers have cell phones, but it is ridiculous, and, in my opinion, a waste of fantasy.
“My friends have cell phones mom. They like to text.” “Text? What is that?”
“It’s like writing notes to one another, except faster and more efficient. Just buy me the phone, I’ll show you.”
“Fine.”
As soon as I got into the car, I pulled out the slip of paper and texted Aaron. “Hi, how are you?” I asked.
At first, he said nothing, and that made me a bit paranoid. “He probably gave me a fake number,” I thought, then: “Well, my face hurts because somebody made me trip over a basketball ;).”
“Don’t do that. Ur gonna make me feel bad :(.” I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but sometimes a girl needs to exaggerate things a bit, in an attempt to be cute.
“No sad faces hun, smiles are better =D.” He was right, smiles are better. “:)”
“See, didn’t that feel good?”
“It did.”
His words were completely corny, and I knew it, but at least he was trying unlike the other pathetic boys, practically demanding hand jobs on the afternoon bus ride. At least he was sweet. “When are we gonna hang out?” he asked. I felt a warmth crawl over my body.
“Pick me up.” Aaron did pick me up, that night and every night after for nearly four months. My mother would yell at me for leaving the house so much, especially to hang out with a boy, and sometimes she would confront him about his faith and his intentions. Somehow, he always passed the test. At first, it was a shy relationship, then, over time, it became more involved. On my sixteenth birthday, Aaron picked me up yet again, and took me to a place that was important to him (We told mother we were going out to eat), somewhere that was private and beautiful, somewhere perfect. To my disappointment, he took me to the football field. Sure, it was lit up nicely, with a table on the 50-yard line, but that was typical; it reminded me of another teen movie (A generality, not to be confused with Not Another Teen Movie). Despite this corny gesture (Much like the ones he performs daily), the night ended in me becoming a woman.
By this time, we had become quite the item in school. Aaron was the smallest player on the football team, but he was scary talented. If a ball were thrown in his direction, he was coming down with it every time. He was somewhat of a king among his teammates, and now, they viewed me as his queen.
Even before Aaron, I was popular in school. I was on the girls’ basketball team, and was planning a campaign for vice president of my class. I was pretty, I guess, although I was somewhat self-conscious of my nose. It wasn’t big or anything; I just didn’t like it. Aaron says I have a gorgeous nose, so nowadays, I just go with that.
The two of us together was affinity. He didn’t mind that my mother was an overprotective, strict Catholic woman or that I often cried about having a dead father; I didn’t mind that he spent way too much money on RC cars or that he eventually became stale in bed. We dealt with one another’s insecurities, therapeutically making it through each slight malfunction. At that point, after those four months, we had a reasonably perfect relationship. It was this belief that led me to make mistakes.
Six months into our relationship, Aaron decided he no longer wanted to wear condoms. “I only want you,” he would say when I mentioned the risk of diseases. He continued, “It’ll be fine.” When I became a woman (as a result of puberty) I was diagnosed with cysts on my ovaries. To keep them from bursting, I was put on birth control. I didn’t give him any more trouble about it. To tell you the truth, he was kind of better at it this way, and I wasn’t going to complain about that. With the new and improved sex, a new and improved sex life followed closely behind.
Aaron and I had sex constantly, or, at least, whenever we could. Some days we would be able to sneak it in before my mother came home from work, or otherwise, in the woods on logs, or once, in a giant pile of gravel in a vacant field. It was a rush. It was good. On May, 6th, however, things changed. That morning Aaron called me. “Hi baby,” he said as I picked up the phone.
“Hi.” I said back
“Are you going to school today?”
“I think I might stay home. I’m not really feeling well.”
“You should come to my house. My parents are leaving soon. You know what that means?”
“No, really. I threw up twice already, once at 3 in the morning and again when I woke up. I think I have the flu somehow.”
“No, that can’t be right. It’s too nice out.” “Well, there’s something wrong. I need to go to the doctor’s.”
“For real?”
“Yes for real. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay, I love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
“Bye.”
As I told Aaron, I went to the doctor’s, so my mom let me take her car. The doctor’s office was only two blocks away, so it would usually be an easy walk. On this day however, my stomach wasn’t up for it. Although I didn’t have a license, my mother let me take the car. If necessary, she would pick up my prescription when she went to the grocery store later that night.
I got there and the doctor administered the typical flu tests. He then asked for a urine sample, something that he said was required for a girl my age. Twenty minutes later, he walked back into the room with an odd look on his face. “Bad news,” I thought as he looked me over. He sat next to me and took my hand, something that he has never done before. “Am I dying?” I blurted out “
No, not in the least.” He said.
“Well, is everything okay?”
“Not quite, my dear. I have to ask you some questions.”
“Sure,” I said back. I wasn’t sure where this was going, but it didn’t sound good. “How are things at home; how are your relationships?”
“Just fine , I guess. My mother is on my back a lot, but you’ll have that.”
“Yes, at your age that’s typical.” He pushed out the slightest smile before he continued, “I assure you, it’s for good reason.” As he said this, the smile faded. “How are things at school?”
“They’re okay. I always work ahead.” “That’s good. Keep it up. Hard work always pays off.”
“Yes, that’s what mother always tells me.” “She’s a smart woman. Always has been, if my memory stands true.”
“Mhmm,” I replied in a nervous sort of manner. I didn’t know what else to say. What was he getting at?
“How are the boys?”
“They’re fine. I have boyfriend.” I tried to look confident, as if I could take whatever he threw at me.
“Ahhh.” This is when it got a little more PG-13. “So, I assume that’s how you lost your virginity?”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. My cheeks drowned in a sea of red. I looked at the ground and tapped my foot heavily against the floor. I felt him looking at me, felt him waiting for some kind of response. Thirty seconds passed; the confidence I tried so hard to build was worn. Finally, after nearly a minute of silence, I spoke, only to end the awkward moment that I was in. “Why do you ask?” “It’s just that the test results told me that you are no longer a virgin. Has this boyfriend of yours been using contraception?”
“Umm...” Once again, I didn’t know what to say. The red was now turning to a deep shade of purple. My hand clenched the arm of the chair, splinters penetrating my skin. Droplets of blood sprinkled onto the floor, like candy from a battered piñata. With my head still down, I raised my eyes to his. There was no smile. “We used to.” “But not anymore?”
“I’m on birth-control.”
“ So, no other precautions?”
“Nope.” I felt stupid now, telling him everything. My eyes lowered to the floor once again. My heartbeat quickened, my breathing speed increased.
“And how often has this been going on?” “About a month,” I said.
“Well, I think I have some news that you likely won’t want to hear.” My eyes stayed fastened to the floor, now focused on the bolt in the middle of the vent. I felt a tear stumble from the corner of my eye, roll down the bridge of my nose, then watched it plummet onto the bright white floors. My body took a sudden state of numbness, my foot stopped tapping; I looked up at him, feeling, knowing what he was going to say. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to hear it at all.
“Am I...” I couldn’t finish the sentence, dreading what the answer would be. This couldn’t be happening... This couldn’t be real. But of course it could. Aaron didn’t want to wear the condoms. I knew I should have made him, knew I should have at least tried, but I didn’t because I was selfish, because it felt good. “
"Yes, you are." He put his hand on my shoulder and looked soothingly into my eyes. I looked back as if I were facing death.
“My mother is going to kill me.” A slight, reassuring grin appeared on his face.
“Don’t think like that. It’s going to be okay.”
He said it was going to be okay, and in many cases, it could be okay. But not for me with my crazy mother, my dead father, or (Now I realize this) my immature boyfriend that spends too much money on fucking RC cars. Me, with my big plans in high-school politics and my athletic prowess on the basketball court. I have everything to lose, and now it is lost. My perfect grades mean nothing; I’ll never graduate now. I, who, just 15 hours ago, before some illness, some creeping, worsening sickness that I now know is a...
And to tell you the truth, Aaron is a dickhead lately. He used to be sweet, but now he’s nothing but an arrogant bastard, bragging about his sexual conquests, bragging to my friends about the cheerleader he supposedly nailed last week. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to mess up what I had; but what did I have but a boyfriend that covers up his cheating with a pathetic, idiotic obsession, with RC cars? He has a job, but no money. He has a brain, with no sense. His mere presence sickens me, and he’s the...
I’m Christi, and I had always dreamt of having a daughter. Now, in a pivotal period in my life, in my development as a person, an athlete, or an intellectual, anything I wanted, really, I’m pregnant. I’m sixteen years old, and having serious doubts about my relationship; looks of kindness and looks of terror all around me, all the time: my mother, his mother, the doctor, teachers, students, my dead father. Each look sent to me a message of “she’s really screwed,” or “you’re a fuck-up.” They were right, I was screwed. There was nothing I could do about it. Then, weeks later, when it all sank in and things were as normal as they could be, I went to the doctor’s office to find out that I was having a son.
I was 15 years old when I met Aaron. I was in the school gymnasium, playing basketball; the coach said my jump shot needed some work. He was running sprints for football or something. After sinking four shots in a row, the ball bounced hard off the rim and skipped across the dazzling, hardwood floor, and as fate would have it, it dribbled into his path, catching him in stride, causing him to trip, ending in a violent crunch into the wall. “Oh my God, are you okay?” I screamed as I jogged over to him.
“I’m fine,” he replied as he pulled himself from the floor. There was a cut above his eye and a trickle of blood protruding from his mouth.
“Here, let me help you.” I wouldn’t typically nurture a boy right off the bat, but this time I felt there were special circumstances. I had, after all, nearly mashed his entire face.
“I’m fine.” He took off his shirt and wiped the blood from his mouth, then dabbed a few times at the cut above his eye. Him being a football player, I thought he would be more muscular, but he was not. He was tiny. He was nothing, really. But he was cute.
“I’m sorry,” I said
“It’s really okay.” He looked at me, with no emotion at first, but after seeing how badly I’d felt, he smiled. “I’m the smallest guy on the team. Coach says I can really take a beating.”
I smiled back, “It’s a good thing you’re not a crybaby.”
“I’m not.”
“Good.” I reached out and gave him a little push. He pushed back, laughed, and walked over to his duffel bag. I followed, “I’m Christi by the way.”
“Hi Christi, I’m Aaron. It was nice to meet you, but I gotta go.”
“Okay,” I said in a deflated tone. I hoped I didn’t make him mad and caused him to leave. My mother might actually approve of this one. “Bye.” I walked to my basket ball, which now rested in the middle of the floor. I picked it up and began to work on my jump shot once more. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched him walk towards the door. Just as he reached the rubber matting that carpeted the entranceway, he turned and walked to me.
"Text me sometime,” he said as he placed a slip of paper in my hand. I was relieved at this gesture, as I kind of wanted him to like me. Since I now figured he did, I definitely had to text him. It was on that very day that I made my mother buy me a cell phone.
I wanted to do the thing boys always do on television, wait three days before initiating contact, but that wasn’t happening. Really, I knew nothing of Aaron, but I wanted to know more. He was a little weird, and I was curious. Really curious. “Why do you need a cell phone?” my mother asked me as I dragged her to the Mill Creek mall, “are you selling drugs?”
“No mother. I’m not selling drugs.”
“Then why do you need a cell phone?”
I’m not sure why my mother thinks that only drug dealers have cell phones, but it is ridiculous, and, in my opinion, a waste of fantasy.
“My friends have cell phones mom. They like to text.” “Text? What is that?”
“It’s like writing notes to one another, except faster and more efficient. Just buy me the phone, I’ll show you.”
“Fine.”
As soon as I got into the car, I pulled out the slip of paper and texted Aaron. “Hi, how are you?” I asked.
At first, he said nothing, and that made me a bit paranoid. “He probably gave me a fake number,” I thought, then: “Well, my face hurts because somebody made me trip over a basketball ;).”
“Don’t do that. Ur gonna make me feel bad :(.” I knew he didn’t mean anything by it, but sometimes a girl needs to exaggerate things a bit, in an attempt to be cute.
“No sad faces hun, smiles are better =D.” He was right, smiles are better. “:)”
“See, didn’t that feel good?”
“It did.”
His words were completely corny, and I knew it, but at least he was trying unlike the other pathetic boys, practically demanding hand jobs on the afternoon bus ride. At least he was sweet. “When are we gonna hang out?” he asked. I felt a warmth crawl over my body.
“Pick me up.” Aaron did pick me up, that night and every night after for nearly four months. My mother would yell at me for leaving the house so much, especially to hang out with a boy, and sometimes she would confront him about his faith and his intentions. Somehow, he always passed the test. At first, it was a shy relationship, then, over time, it became more involved. On my sixteenth birthday, Aaron picked me up yet again, and took me to a place that was important to him (We told mother we were going out to eat), somewhere that was private and beautiful, somewhere perfect. To my disappointment, he took me to the football field. Sure, it was lit up nicely, with a table on the 50-yard line, but that was typical; it reminded me of another teen movie (A generality, not to be confused with Not Another Teen Movie). Despite this corny gesture (Much like the ones he performs daily), the night ended in me becoming a woman.
By this time, we had become quite the item in school. Aaron was the smallest player on the football team, but he was scary talented. If a ball were thrown in his direction, he was coming down with it every time. He was somewhat of a king among his teammates, and now, they viewed me as his queen.
Even before Aaron, I was popular in school. I was on the girls’ basketball team, and was planning a campaign for vice president of my class. I was pretty, I guess, although I was somewhat self-conscious of my nose. It wasn’t big or anything; I just didn’t like it. Aaron says I have a gorgeous nose, so nowadays, I just go with that.
The two of us together was affinity. He didn’t mind that my mother was an overprotective, strict Catholic woman or that I often cried about having a dead father; I didn’t mind that he spent way too much money on RC cars or that he eventually became stale in bed. We dealt with one another’s insecurities, therapeutically making it through each slight malfunction. At that point, after those four months, we had a reasonably perfect relationship. It was this belief that led me to make mistakes.
Six months into our relationship, Aaron decided he no longer wanted to wear condoms. “I only want you,” he would say when I mentioned the risk of diseases. He continued, “It’ll be fine.” When I became a woman (as a result of puberty) I was diagnosed with cysts on my ovaries. To keep them from bursting, I was put on birth control. I didn’t give him any more trouble about it. To tell you the truth, he was kind of better at it this way, and I wasn’t going to complain about that. With the new and improved sex, a new and improved sex life followed closely behind.
Aaron and I had sex constantly, or, at least, whenever we could. Some days we would be able to sneak it in before my mother came home from work, or otherwise, in the woods on logs, or once, in a giant pile of gravel in a vacant field. It was a rush. It was good. On May, 6th, however, things changed. That morning Aaron called me. “Hi baby,” he said as I picked up the phone.
“Hi.” I said back
“Are you going to school today?”
“I think I might stay home. I’m not really feeling well.”
“You should come to my house. My parents are leaving soon. You know what that means?”
“No, really. I threw up twice already, once at 3 in the morning and again when I woke up. I think I have the flu somehow.”
“No, that can’t be right. It’s too nice out.” “Well, there’s something wrong. I need to go to the doctor’s.”
“For real?”
“Yes for real. I’ll call you later.”
“Okay, I love you.”
“Love you too. Bye.”
“Bye.”
As I told Aaron, I went to the doctor’s, so my mom let me take her car. The doctor’s office was only two blocks away, so it would usually be an easy walk. On this day however, my stomach wasn’t up for it. Although I didn’t have a license, my mother let me take the car. If necessary, she would pick up my prescription when she went to the grocery store later that night.
I got there and the doctor administered the typical flu tests. He then asked for a urine sample, something that he said was required for a girl my age. Twenty minutes later, he walked back into the room with an odd look on his face. “Bad news,” I thought as he looked me over. He sat next to me and took my hand, something that he has never done before. “Am I dying?” I blurted out “
No, not in the least.” He said.
“Well, is everything okay?”
“Not quite, my dear. I have to ask you some questions.”
“Sure,” I said back. I wasn’t sure where this was going, but it didn’t sound good. “How are things at home; how are your relationships?”
“Just fine , I guess. My mother is on my back a lot, but you’ll have that.”
“Yes, at your age that’s typical.” He pushed out the slightest smile before he continued, “I assure you, it’s for good reason.” As he said this, the smile faded. “How are things at school?”
“They’re okay. I always work ahead.” “That’s good. Keep it up. Hard work always pays off.”
“Yes, that’s what mother always tells me.” “She’s a smart woman. Always has been, if my memory stands true.”
“Mhmm,” I replied in a nervous sort of manner. I didn’t know what else to say. What was he getting at?
“How are the boys?”
“They’re fine. I have boyfriend.” I tried to look confident, as if I could take whatever he threw at me.
“Ahhh.” This is when it got a little more PG-13. “So, I assume that’s how you lost your virginity?”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. My cheeks drowned in a sea of red. I looked at the ground and tapped my foot heavily against the floor. I felt him looking at me, felt him waiting for some kind of response. Thirty seconds passed; the confidence I tried so hard to build was worn. Finally, after nearly a minute of silence, I spoke, only to end the awkward moment that I was in. “Why do you ask?” “It’s just that the test results told me that you are no longer a virgin. Has this boyfriend of yours been using contraception?”
“Umm...” Once again, I didn’t know what to say. The red was now turning to a deep shade of purple. My hand clenched the arm of the chair, splinters penetrating my skin. Droplets of blood sprinkled onto the floor, like candy from a battered piñata. With my head still down, I raised my eyes to his. There was no smile. “We used to.” “But not anymore?”
“I’m on birth-control.”
“ So, no other precautions?”
“Nope.” I felt stupid now, telling him everything. My eyes lowered to the floor once again. My heartbeat quickened, my breathing speed increased.
“And how often has this been going on?” “About a month,” I said.
“Well, I think I have some news that you likely won’t want to hear.” My eyes stayed fastened to the floor, now focused on the bolt in the middle of the vent. I felt a tear stumble from the corner of my eye, roll down the bridge of my nose, then watched it plummet onto the bright white floors. My body took a sudden state of numbness, my foot stopped tapping; I looked up at him, feeling, knowing what he was going to say. I didn’t want to hear it. I didn’t want to hear it at all.
“Am I...” I couldn’t finish the sentence, dreading what the answer would be. This couldn’t be happening... This couldn’t be real. But of course it could. Aaron didn’t want to wear the condoms. I knew I should have made him, knew I should have at least tried, but I didn’t because I was selfish, because it felt good. “
"Yes, you are." He put his hand on my shoulder and looked soothingly into my eyes. I looked back as if I were facing death.
“My mother is going to kill me.” A slight, reassuring grin appeared on his face.
“Don’t think like that. It’s going to be okay.”
He said it was going to be okay, and in many cases, it could be okay. But not for me with my crazy mother, my dead father, or (Now I realize this) my immature boyfriend that spends too much money on fucking RC cars. Me, with my big plans in high-school politics and my athletic prowess on the basketball court. I have everything to lose, and now it is lost. My perfect grades mean nothing; I’ll never graduate now. I, who, just 15 hours ago, before some illness, some creeping, worsening sickness that I now know is a...
And to tell you the truth, Aaron is a dickhead lately. He used to be sweet, but now he’s nothing but an arrogant bastard, bragging about his sexual conquests, bragging to my friends about the cheerleader he supposedly nailed last week. I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to mess up what I had; but what did I have but a boyfriend that covers up his cheating with a pathetic, idiotic obsession, with RC cars? He has a job, but no money. He has a brain, with no sense. His mere presence sickens me, and he’s the...
I’m Christi, and I had always dreamt of having a daughter. Now, in a pivotal period in my life, in my development as a person, an athlete, or an intellectual, anything I wanted, really, I’m pregnant. I’m sixteen years old, and having serious doubts about my relationship; looks of kindness and looks of terror all around me, all the time: my mother, his mother, the doctor, teachers, students, my dead father. Each look sent to me a message of “she’s really screwed,” or “you’re a fuck-up.” They were right, I was screwed. There was nothing I could do about it. Then, weeks later, when it all sank in and things were as normal as they could be, I went to the doctor’s office to find out that I was having a son.
Snowflakes in May
“I’ll burn this fucking house down. I don’t give a fuck.”
“Shit,” I think as I stand, walk to the door and make my way to Michael’s room. “What the Hell is wrong this time.” I walk down the hallway, still listening to the rant:
“I don’t need this bed. I don’t need shit.” I can’t really blame Michael for this behavior, for it is something that every boy must go through before he becomes a man. You see, Michael is in love; unfortunately, he is in love with a girl that he has scarcely spoken to. Sure, they’re in the same classes, and sure, they occasionally converse over their work, but nothing more. He does not know her favorite color, her favorite food. He has no idea of her personal life or any clue as to what she has come from or where she wishes to go. He knows nothing, yet he has these fucking fits almost daily, bitching about how she never notices him or never asks him to hang out. “Just ask her dude,” I say to him, but he doesn’t listen. Every time he talks to her, he talks about pointless things such as ridding the world of Hannah Montana and therefore the herds of fifteen-year-old whores just waiting to send a respectable adult to a life in which he becomes a piece of meat.
I get to the room and try to open the door, but it is jammed. I push again, still nothing. “Who are you? Don’t come in here.” Screams Michael from inside. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Dude, it’s Jack. Calm the hell down.” I hear the sound of something being pushed away from the door.
“Okay, come in.” he says. I open the door and walk through. The room has been destroyed: in the corner, the bed is overturned and the sheets are messily draped over the desk lamp. A printer has been tossed out the window, except the window is closed and now a scattered pile of glass nests a broken heap of plastic, all spackled by an explosion of ink. The carpet is pulled up, and it seems to have been set on fire in numerous places; there are black spots scattered about the floor as well as a strong smell of Axe body spray and matches. He stands in the center of all this, naked except for a pair socks on his hands, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels hanging from his mouth, and, perhaps most disturbing, a picture of Sara taped to his dick.
“What the fuck is this man?” I say to him in a calm but firm tone. “You can’t keep doing this shit.” He stares at me for a second, then looks at the floor. His breaths are heavy, each one becoming more and more audible, each one becoming more and more desperate.
“Shut up,” he retorts violently, saliva spilling from his mouth. He looks at me again, his eyes red with anger; wait, no—his eyes... they’re red with sadness. Tears trickle from the corners and seem to float to the ground forming puddles, like snowflakes in May. “You shut the fuck up now.” The bottle, which he had moved to the side of his mouth to talk, now fell to the ground and produced a dull thud. In an instant, he too was on the ground, curled up and still crying, and now, he was sucking his thumb.
“Dude, just talk to her. She’s not gonna be that creeped out.”
“I’m fucking scared man. She came to class late yesterday just so she wouldn’t have to talk to me.”
“That’s stupid. Did you even ask her about it?” He does this kind of shit a lot, thinking everything is about him. Every day, it gets weirder. Last week he freaked out because we saw her at the store with a guy. He noticed them from a distance and quickly left, throwing his groceries onto a shelf. I didn’t quite know what to make of it, so I followed slowly behind. In the parking lot, he was chased down and confronted by the store manager. He then went into a sort of mini-fit, turning red in the face with heavy breathing. The manager made him go back inside and put the abandoned items back on the shelves, and as luck would have it, Sara saw him:
“Michael, what’s up? What did you do?” The store manager was still with us making sure we did as we were supposed to. He didn’t know what to say, so, in a gangster-like tone, he said:
“I’z gonna rob this bitch.”
“Oh,” she said, and a look of disinterest spread across her face. She looked around the store, “I gotta get some cough syrup.”
“Oh that’s cool. I love cough syrup. Makes ya trip.”
She laughed nervously, “Oh. That’s nice.” She then walked towards the register and didn’t look back, even as Michael babbled something at her.
“It’ll be okay man.” I said as he began to cry. “Let’s get out of here.” That night he was up until 4 a.m. drinking cough medicine and working on a poem. I woke at 4 to the sound of what I thought was a flood in the basement. Getting up, I realized the sound was coming from the bathroom. I opened the door and Michael was standing there in his underwear holding a cup half full of toilet water. “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked him.
“Dude. I peed. Then I flushed. And it filled up for no reason. And I didn’t know what else to do. So I’m cupping the pee water into the sink.”
“Into the sink where I brush my teeth. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry. I’m trippin’ balls man. I feel like I’m saving the Titanic or something. It’s impulse. I’m just a hero like that.”
As you can tell, most of the time he is quite funny about things. You shouldn’t drink 4 bottles of cough syrup at once, but I didn’t stop him. Cough syrup makes him happy, makes me laugh. There’s nothing wrong with laughter. Tonight, however, is a different story.
“Will you please put some pants on?” I ask as politely as possible.
“Will you please get me some more Valium?”
“You don’t need more Valium. Just go to sleep.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. Give me my fucking pills.” He’s been so fucked up on pills lately he’s starting to think he actually has a prescription for them. Unfortunately, he buys them off a homeless guy that gets them through a Veteran’s Hospital. Over the past couple of weeks, he has spent all his savings on pills and liquor. Now he’s out of pills and wants to trade the man alcohol for more. I don’t see a problem in this; both men were getting the effect they desired. With that train of thought, I drive him to the alley where the man typically hangs out. It is a narrow path in the middle of Pittsburgh that seems to slice the city in half. It goes on endlessly, winding in and out of view of the public eye, and somewhere right in the middle is a man that has a bottle of pills that Michael is all but dying for. “Chester,” he cries out. “Chester, I need ya man.”
BSeconds later, Chester appears from behind a barricade of dumpsters. He is tall, but seems to be fragile. One of his eyes is shut, as behind it there is no eyeball. When it does flip open, it looks a lot like a Venus fly trap searching for an insect to pounce upon. He wears camouflage cut-offs and a dirty white tank-top that is covered in a mixture of dirt, sweat, and blood. As he walks, he turns and tosses an empty bottle of Vladimir into the dumpster. On turning back he stumbles a bit, and finally speaks, “Ay dayre Mikey. Whatcani Do ya for?”
“Hey man I need more Valium. Hook me up.”
“Got money?”
“I got a half bottle of Jack, a little rum, some vodka, and a few beers. What can you give me for that?”
“For muh bes customer, that’ll get ya tha bottle.” A crooked smile spread across his face as Michael pulled the alcohol from his backpack. “Lemme see thatruuum.” He reached out and grabbed the rum from Michael’s outstretched hand. He sunk his teeth deep into the cork, and in a violent turn of the head, ripped it from the bottle, and, in doing so, ripped out his incisor. At first, the blood dripped heavily from Chester’s mouth, but in a few seconds it slowed down to the point where he was able to chug down the remainder of the bottle of rum.
“Give me my pills Chester.” Michael half-whispered to him. Chester dropped the empty bottle to the ground and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a prescription canister filled with Valium, took off the cap and grabbed 5 or 6 pills from the top, then, reluctantly handed the bottle to Michael.
Minutes later, I found myself in quite a predicament. Since we left the alley, Michael had consumed a great deal of Valium. On the car ride home, he popped a couple and laid back in his seat until we got to the gas station. There, he stepped out of the car and held up for a few clumsy steps before falling flat on his face. It is my diagnosis that he has broken his nose and maybe his cheek bone, but he says he’s fine. He has a prescription after all, and a serious intent to do it in. He got back into the car, popped another pill, and laid back again, this time folding the seat down until only his forehead could be seen from the window. I got some smokes and a Snapple and slowly walked back outside.
BWhen I tried to open the door it was locked. Looking over at Michael lying in the passenger seat, I realized he had nodded off. I yelled out his name, in short bursts of sound at first, then in slightly longer squeals that I figure would bring a bear out of hibernation; in this situation however, they were useless. To get a better vantage point, I walked to the other side of the car.
When I looked closer, I realized this was more serious than I had anticipated. Michael laid there, his mouth wide open, his eyes in a death-like stare, as if he had just witnessed his parents having sex. At first, this was a scary sight—I thought for sure that he was dead. A millisecond into my panic, I was reassured by sudden hints of life flagged by movement in the eye and strange tongue-circles that got slightly more precise with each rotation. It seemed like he was slowly coming back to earth, and in that, realizing how stupid he looked doing tongue-circles. After pulling his tongue back into his mouth and offering a brief scowl, he unlocked the door and shouted:
“What the fuck are you doing man? Get in the fucking car. We don't have all fffuckin'dayyyy” His words were very wobbly, and by the end of the rant, his shout was reduced to a shimmer of high-pitched squealing that led to a short cough, then, silence. Back to the staring... Eager to put this awkward situation behind me, I got into the car and drove home.
We arrived back at the house just as the sun opened his eyes and brought life into the world once more. It had been a long night for both of us-- Michael with his self-destructive antics-- and me driving him around, being an enabler. And yes, I know, that sounds awful to say. But it's the truth.
I drive him around to pick up drugs. I lend him money when he needs it. I never tell him when it's too much; I only flash a grin and spit out a quick chuckle to move the situation along. Speaking from his point-of-view however, I know he's never going to listen to me. He's addicted to this lifestyle. He's gonna do what he wants to do when he wants to do it. There's nothing I could do about it. There's nothing anybody could do about it. Might as well just sit back and watch.
We've been home for six hours now; Michael has been locked in his room for almost the entire time. He says he's working on his poem some more and that if he keeps getting distracted Sara will never return his love. Once in a while he comes out and walks to the kitchen. I can always predict this; his footsteps are foretold by the dragging of a chest of drawers from in front of the door and a low rambling of something that I can't quite make out. These signs have just taken place, and now he's dragging himself to the kitchen. My plan was to ignore him again; these plans changed after a long, loud, spontaneous crashing sound echoed through the house.
"Michael, what are you doing now?" I yell as I leap up and speed-walk to the kitchen.
"Nothing, just stay the Hell out!" he replied just before I burst through the swinging door. My attitude went from worried to hysterical as I looked at Michael laying on the ground tangled in a heap of pots and pans that, moments before, were hanging above the stove. They seemed to have beaten him up pretty badly as small amounts of blood scurried out of tiny slices on his face and arms. He seemed okay, so I continued my laughter.
"What the fuck is this man?" I managed to say between short bursts, "Having trouble with the Ramen Noodles again?"
(He usually burns the pot)
"Get this shit off me," he replied with a brief, confused scowl, "I need a pan for eggs." I picked up a few of the pots from his body, then grabbed his hand and pulled him up sending the rest smashing onto the ground. He looked around the floor for a second and picked up the pan that he wanted.
"Just clean up the rest when you're finished," I said to him as I walked back through the door."
"I sent her my poem." In an instant, I was back in the kitchen in a bit of shock. Usually, Michael was afraid to send her his work. He was always too afraid of what she might say or think. Instead, they piled up on the flash drive that was always poking out of small change pocket on his jeans. No matter how fucked up he was, he always managed to hang on to his flash drive.
"You finally sent her something man? That's sweet." I said with a smile on my face. I really was proud of him. Usually he's much too worried about what people, let alone Sara, will think. Even I, his roommate and best friend of six years, have only read a few of his works. And there were a lot. "Which one? The new one?"
"All of them."
"What?"
"I sent her all of them. She won't be able to resist me." Since the whole cough medicine incident, Michael hadn't seen or talked Sara. He only has her e-mail because they had class together. I'm pretty sure she would never date him for very long considering his love of pills and hard liquor as she already thought he was a weirdo. This was going to kill all chances.
"You sent her all of them; like, the whole flash drive?"
"Like, the whole 'Sara' folder."
"How many?"
"Forty, fifty poems maybe. And a few short stories." He seemed completely calm and confident that his work would win her over. I'm not sure if he thinks it's flattering to send that much love poetry and weird stories to a girl whom you barely know, but it seems very creepy to me.
"Oh Christ." I replied. This wasn't going to be good at all.
Over the next four days, Michael's strange, newfound confidence continued, so much so that he looked up Sara's number and called her every night. The fact that she never answered should have given him the hint that she wasn't interested but he kept calling, each time leaving an even cockier, creepier voicemail. I'm not sure if this attitude was due to an extremely heavy weight being lifted from his chest when he sent the e-mail (and the 53 word documents attached to it), or if it was because of the fact he had crushed half-a-bottle of Valium in 4 days, but either way it was better than him running around naked and miserable with pictures taped to his dick.
When I went to sleep on that fourth day, Michael was perfectly happy; he lay on the couch as messed up as ever on his pills watching Monday Night Football, the Giants and the Cowboys, and having a few drinks. He does this every Monday, so I felt safe leaving him alone with his poisons. With a sloppy smile, he bid me goodnight; with a pat on the head, I mumbled "You too man," and walked up to my room.
Unable to fall asleep, I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling for an hour and a half. About halfway through that, I heard Michael make his way to his room. He was whistling some half-assed tune as he walked but it made me smile to know that he was in a good mood. I fell asleep with that smile still etched on my face hoping that the overdramatic nighttime rants were finally over for good.
BANG! My eyes burst open as if I'd been punched hard in the gut and my body was glazed over with sweat like morning dew on grass. I was somewhat disoriented, but my instincts told me to go to Michael's room. I got up in a slow stupor and walked to the door at first, but soon found myself running to Michael's door and knocking a few times before ripping it open and rushing in.
As I entered, an empty vodka bottle bounced off my foot and slid across the carpet before crashing to a halt at the foot of Michael's bed. The new printer was on the ground, only this time it was in tact with some pages printed out. The computer monitor was also on the ground, also in tact, except the power chords were ripped out of the wall and sliced in half. The mattress was overturned and the sheets, I believe, were covered in piss. There was profanity and random scribbles etched into the wall. It's as if Michael didn't know what to do with himself so he did something productive then something destructive. But where was he?
I took another step towards the bed when my foot was met with a thick, disgusting liquid that on looking down, I figured out was blood. A chill burst over my body and quickly multiplies as I followed the blood to the overturned mattress. Shaking like an alcoholic in need of a beverage, I lifted it. Michael lay there, dead in a tuxedo with a bullet hole in his head. His eyes were wide open, just like during the drug-induced rants he typically went on. His mouth was closed except in the corner where thick, frothy saliva protruded in the form of small bubbles. One hand held a revolver; the other, Michael's now empty Valium bottle. I knelt down and put my face on his chest. I didn't cry though. It was one of those situations in which crying just isn't enough. I tried hard to cry, but all that happened were strange, bird-like screeches and broken blood vessels in both my eyes. He was happy last night, perfectly happy. What had happened?
After a few minutes of sobbing Hell during which my knees and face became encrusted with Michael's blood, I stood, picked him up, and put him on the bed. With trembling knees, I wobbled to the door with the intent of finding the phone. I guessed it was my job to inform somebody about this. Just as I picked it up and started to dial, I remembered the papers in the printer.
I rushed back in and knelt down next to the printer, grabbing frantically at the papers. There were four pages: one, a suicide note; the others, the subjects of the suicide note. The second page, behind Michael's note, was a return email from Sara. It stated that she wanted absolutely nothing to do with Michael and if he continued to send her things, there would be consequences.
Next, a final letter to Sara telling her it wasn't her fault that he'd done what he'd done; he was caught up in a state of madness, misery, and eventually, mayhem. That the drugs and alcohol had overtaken him and controlled his every emotion, put him over the edge. He apologized for any inconvenience he may have caused her.
The next page was a letter to me. He apologized, once more, for the way he'd acted over Sara. He then thanked me for always being there and trying to make his life a little better. He thanked me for driving him and lending him money. He basically thanked me for killing him. He vowed, at the end of the letter, to pay me back:
"All the great writers make all their money after they die. Make sure my collection gets out and I promise you'll make a fortune."
The last page was folded, in an envelope, and post-marked two days prior. I opened it, and on reading, realized just how much Michael had scared Sara. It was a restraining order. Thinking back, she was probably right in getting it. He was rather ridiculously mad for her. He sent her fifty poems for fucks sake. Well, she didn't have to worry now. And now, things made some sense to me.
During Michael's extemporaneous new happiness and confidence, he had been doing a lot more pills than usual. Also, somewhat uncharacteristically, he had been mixing the pills with liquor. He usually did one substance at a time and mixing them was always a bit too much. I was sad that Michael was gone, but what's worse, I could have done a lot more to prevent it. I knew what drugs and liquor and crime did to people. I watched him break down and hit rock bottom at least a few times a week. Yet, I did whatever he asked me to. He probably wouldn't have changed if I'd said anything, but he might have. I just didn't want to make things any worse than they were. I just wanted him to be happy. He was my best friend, and maybe I could have saved him. I guess the saddest part is that I didn't even try.
“Shit,” I think as I stand, walk to the door and make my way to Michael’s room. “What the Hell is wrong this time.” I walk down the hallway, still listening to the rant:
“I don’t need this bed. I don’t need shit.” I can’t really blame Michael for this behavior, for it is something that every boy must go through before he becomes a man. You see, Michael is in love; unfortunately, he is in love with a girl that he has scarcely spoken to. Sure, they’re in the same classes, and sure, they occasionally converse over their work, but nothing more. He does not know her favorite color, her favorite food. He has no idea of her personal life or any clue as to what she has come from or where she wishes to go. He knows nothing, yet he has these fucking fits almost daily, bitching about how she never notices him or never asks him to hang out. “Just ask her dude,” I say to him, but he doesn’t listen. Every time he talks to her, he talks about pointless things such as ridding the world of Hannah Montana and therefore the herds of fifteen-year-old whores just waiting to send a respectable adult to a life in which he becomes a piece of meat.
I get to the room and try to open the door, but it is jammed. I push again, still nothing. “Who are you? Don’t come in here.” Screams Michael from inside. “I’ll fucking kill you.”
“Dude, it’s Jack. Calm the hell down.” I hear the sound of something being pushed away from the door.
“Okay, come in.” he says. I open the door and walk through. The room has been destroyed: in the corner, the bed is overturned and the sheets are messily draped over the desk lamp. A printer has been tossed out the window, except the window is closed and now a scattered pile of glass nests a broken heap of plastic, all spackled by an explosion of ink. The carpet is pulled up, and it seems to have been set on fire in numerous places; there are black spots scattered about the floor as well as a strong smell of Axe body spray and matches. He stands in the center of all this, naked except for a pair socks on his hands, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels hanging from his mouth, and, perhaps most disturbing, a picture of Sara taped to his dick.
“What the fuck is this man?” I say to him in a calm but firm tone. “You can’t keep doing this shit.” He stares at me for a second, then looks at the floor. His breaths are heavy, each one becoming more and more audible, each one becoming more and more desperate.
“Shut up,” he retorts violently, saliva spilling from his mouth. He looks at me again, his eyes red with anger; wait, no—his eyes... they’re red with sadness. Tears trickle from the corners and seem to float to the ground forming puddles, like snowflakes in May. “You shut the fuck up now.” The bottle, which he had moved to the side of his mouth to talk, now fell to the ground and produced a dull thud. In an instant, he too was on the ground, curled up and still crying, and now, he was sucking his thumb.
“Dude, just talk to her. She’s not gonna be that creeped out.”
“I’m fucking scared man. She came to class late yesterday just so she wouldn’t have to talk to me.”
“That’s stupid. Did you even ask her about it?” He does this kind of shit a lot, thinking everything is about him. Every day, it gets weirder. Last week he freaked out because we saw her at the store with a guy. He noticed them from a distance and quickly left, throwing his groceries onto a shelf. I didn’t quite know what to make of it, so I followed slowly behind. In the parking lot, he was chased down and confronted by the store manager. He then went into a sort of mini-fit, turning red in the face with heavy breathing. The manager made him go back inside and put the abandoned items back on the shelves, and as luck would have it, Sara saw him:
“Michael, what’s up? What did you do?” The store manager was still with us making sure we did as we were supposed to. He didn’t know what to say, so, in a gangster-like tone, he said:
“I’z gonna rob this bitch.”
“Oh,” she said, and a look of disinterest spread across her face. She looked around the store, “I gotta get some cough syrup.”
“Oh that’s cool. I love cough syrup. Makes ya trip.”
She laughed nervously, “Oh. That’s nice.” She then walked towards the register and didn’t look back, even as Michael babbled something at her.
“It’ll be okay man.” I said as he began to cry. “Let’s get out of here.” That night he was up until 4 a.m. drinking cough medicine and working on a poem. I woke at 4 to the sound of what I thought was a flood in the basement. Getting up, I realized the sound was coming from the bathroom. I opened the door and Michael was standing there in his underwear holding a cup half full of toilet water. “What the fuck are you doing?” I asked him.
“Dude. I peed. Then I flushed. And it filled up for no reason. And I didn’t know what else to do. So I’m cupping the pee water into the sink.”
“Into the sink where I brush my teeth. Thanks.”
“I’m sorry. I’m trippin’ balls man. I feel like I’m saving the Titanic or something. It’s impulse. I’m just a hero like that.”
As you can tell, most of the time he is quite funny about things. You shouldn’t drink 4 bottles of cough syrup at once, but I didn’t stop him. Cough syrup makes him happy, makes me laugh. There’s nothing wrong with laughter. Tonight, however, is a different story.
“Will you please put some pants on?” I ask as politely as possible.
“Will you please get me some more Valium?”
“You don’t need more Valium. Just go to sleep.”
“Don’t tell me what to do. Give me my fucking pills.” He’s been so fucked up on pills lately he’s starting to think he actually has a prescription for them. Unfortunately, he buys them off a homeless guy that gets them through a Veteran’s Hospital. Over the past couple of weeks, he has spent all his savings on pills and liquor. Now he’s out of pills and wants to trade the man alcohol for more. I don’t see a problem in this; both men were getting the effect they desired. With that train of thought, I drive him to the alley where the man typically hangs out. It is a narrow path in the middle of Pittsburgh that seems to slice the city in half. It goes on endlessly, winding in and out of view of the public eye, and somewhere right in the middle is a man that has a bottle of pills that Michael is all but dying for. “Chester,” he cries out. “Chester, I need ya man.”
BSeconds later, Chester appears from behind a barricade of dumpsters. He is tall, but seems to be fragile. One of his eyes is shut, as behind it there is no eyeball. When it does flip open, it looks a lot like a Venus fly trap searching for an insect to pounce upon. He wears camouflage cut-offs and a dirty white tank-top that is covered in a mixture of dirt, sweat, and blood. As he walks, he turns and tosses an empty bottle of Vladimir into the dumpster. On turning back he stumbles a bit, and finally speaks, “Ay dayre Mikey. Whatcani Do ya for?”
“Hey man I need more Valium. Hook me up.”
“Got money?”
“I got a half bottle of Jack, a little rum, some vodka, and a few beers. What can you give me for that?”
“For muh bes customer, that’ll get ya tha bottle.” A crooked smile spread across his face as Michael pulled the alcohol from his backpack. “Lemme see thatruuum.” He reached out and grabbed the rum from Michael’s outstretched hand. He sunk his teeth deep into the cork, and in a violent turn of the head, ripped it from the bottle, and, in doing so, ripped out his incisor. At first, the blood dripped heavily from Chester’s mouth, but in a few seconds it slowed down to the point where he was able to chug down the remainder of the bottle of rum.
“Give me my pills Chester.” Michael half-whispered to him. Chester dropped the empty bottle to the ground and reached into his pocket. He pulled out a prescription canister filled with Valium, took off the cap and grabbed 5 or 6 pills from the top, then, reluctantly handed the bottle to Michael.
Minutes later, I found myself in quite a predicament. Since we left the alley, Michael had consumed a great deal of Valium. On the car ride home, he popped a couple and laid back in his seat until we got to the gas station. There, he stepped out of the car and held up for a few clumsy steps before falling flat on his face. It is my diagnosis that he has broken his nose and maybe his cheek bone, but he says he’s fine. He has a prescription after all, and a serious intent to do it in. He got back into the car, popped another pill, and laid back again, this time folding the seat down until only his forehead could be seen from the window. I got some smokes and a Snapple and slowly walked back outside.
BWhen I tried to open the door it was locked. Looking over at Michael lying in the passenger seat, I realized he had nodded off. I yelled out his name, in short bursts of sound at first, then in slightly longer squeals that I figure would bring a bear out of hibernation; in this situation however, they were useless. To get a better vantage point, I walked to the other side of the car.
When I looked closer, I realized this was more serious than I had anticipated. Michael laid there, his mouth wide open, his eyes in a death-like stare, as if he had just witnessed his parents having sex. At first, this was a scary sight—I thought for sure that he was dead. A millisecond into my panic, I was reassured by sudden hints of life flagged by movement in the eye and strange tongue-circles that got slightly more precise with each rotation. It seemed like he was slowly coming back to earth, and in that, realizing how stupid he looked doing tongue-circles. After pulling his tongue back into his mouth and offering a brief scowl, he unlocked the door and shouted:
“What the fuck are you doing man? Get in the fucking car. We don't have all fffuckin'dayyyy” His words were very wobbly, and by the end of the rant, his shout was reduced to a shimmer of high-pitched squealing that led to a short cough, then, silence. Back to the staring... Eager to put this awkward situation behind me, I got into the car and drove home.
We arrived back at the house just as the sun opened his eyes and brought life into the world once more. It had been a long night for both of us-- Michael with his self-destructive antics-- and me driving him around, being an enabler. And yes, I know, that sounds awful to say. But it's the truth.
I drive him around to pick up drugs. I lend him money when he needs it. I never tell him when it's too much; I only flash a grin and spit out a quick chuckle to move the situation along. Speaking from his point-of-view however, I know he's never going to listen to me. He's addicted to this lifestyle. He's gonna do what he wants to do when he wants to do it. There's nothing I could do about it. There's nothing anybody could do about it. Might as well just sit back and watch.
We've been home for six hours now; Michael has been locked in his room for almost the entire time. He says he's working on his poem some more and that if he keeps getting distracted Sara will never return his love. Once in a while he comes out and walks to the kitchen. I can always predict this; his footsteps are foretold by the dragging of a chest of drawers from in front of the door and a low rambling of something that I can't quite make out. These signs have just taken place, and now he's dragging himself to the kitchen. My plan was to ignore him again; these plans changed after a long, loud, spontaneous crashing sound echoed through the house.
"Michael, what are you doing now?" I yell as I leap up and speed-walk to the kitchen.
"Nothing, just stay the Hell out!" he replied just before I burst through the swinging door. My attitude went from worried to hysterical as I looked at Michael laying on the ground tangled in a heap of pots and pans that, moments before, were hanging above the stove. They seemed to have beaten him up pretty badly as small amounts of blood scurried out of tiny slices on his face and arms. He seemed okay, so I continued my laughter.
"What the fuck is this man?" I managed to say between short bursts, "Having trouble with the Ramen Noodles again?"
(He usually burns the pot)
"Get this shit off me," he replied with a brief, confused scowl, "I need a pan for eggs." I picked up a few of the pots from his body, then grabbed his hand and pulled him up sending the rest smashing onto the ground. He looked around the floor for a second and picked up the pan that he wanted.
"Just clean up the rest when you're finished," I said to him as I walked back through the door."
"I sent her my poem." In an instant, I was back in the kitchen in a bit of shock. Usually, Michael was afraid to send her his work. He was always too afraid of what she might say or think. Instead, they piled up on the flash drive that was always poking out of small change pocket on his jeans. No matter how fucked up he was, he always managed to hang on to his flash drive.
"You finally sent her something man? That's sweet." I said with a smile on my face. I really was proud of him. Usually he's much too worried about what people, let alone Sara, will think. Even I, his roommate and best friend of six years, have only read a few of his works. And there were a lot. "Which one? The new one?"
"All of them."
"What?"
"I sent her all of them. She won't be able to resist me." Since the whole cough medicine incident, Michael hadn't seen or talked Sara. He only has her e-mail because they had class together. I'm pretty sure she would never date him for very long considering his love of pills and hard liquor as she already thought he was a weirdo. This was going to kill all chances.
"You sent her all of them; like, the whole flash drive?"
"Like, the whole 'Sara' folder."
"How many?"
"Forty, fifty poems maybe. And a few short stories." He seemed completely calm and confident that his work would win her over. I'm not sure if he thinks it's flattering to send that much love poetry and weird stories to a girl whom you barely know, but it seems very creepy to me.
"Oh Christ." I replied. This wasn't going to be good at all.
Over the next four days, Michael's strange, newfound confidence continued, so much so that he looked up Sara's number and called her every night. The fact that she never answered should have given him the hint that she wasn't interested but he kept calling, each time leaving an even cockier, creepier voicemail. I'm not sure if this attitude was due to an extremely heavy weight being lifted from his chest when he sent the e-mail (and the 53 word documents attached to it), or if it was because of the fact he had crushed half-a-bottle of Valium in 4 days, but either way it was better than him running around naked and miserable with pictures taped to his dick.
When I went to sleep on that fourth day, Michael was perfectly happy; he lay on the couch as messed up as ever on his pills watching Monday Night Football, the Giants and the Cowboys, and having a few drinks. He does this every Monday, so I felt safe leaving him alone with his poisons. With a sloppy smile, he bid me goodnight; with a pat on the head, I mumbled "You too man," and walked up to my room.
Unable to fall asleep, I lay in my bed staring at the ceiling for an hour and a half. About halfway through that, I heard Michael make his way to his room. He was whistling some half-assed tune as he walked but it made me smile to know that he was in a good mood. I fell asleep with that smile still etched on my face hoping that the overdramatic nighttime rants were finally over for good.
BANG! My eyes burst open as if I'd been punched hard in the gut and my body was glazed over with sweat like morning dew on grass. I was somewhat disoriented, but my instincts told me to go to Michael's room. I got up in a slow stupor and walked to the door at first, but soon found myself running to Michael's door and knocking a few times before ripping it open and rushing in.
As I entered, an empty vodka bottle bounced off my foot and slid across the carpet before crashing to a halt at the foot of Michael's bed. The new printer was on the ground, only this time it was in tact with some pages printed out. The computer monitor was also on the ground, also in tact, except the power chords were ripped out of the wall and sliced in half. The mattress was overturned and the sheets, I believe, were covered in piss. There was profanity and random scribbles etched into the wall. It's as if Michael didn't know what to do with himself so he did something productive then something destructive. But where was he?
I took another step towards the bed when my foot was met with a thick, disgusting liquid that on looking down, I figured out was blood. A chill burst over my body and quickly multiplies as I followed the blood to the overturned mattress. Shaking like an alcoholic in need of a beverage, I lifted it. Michael lay there, dead in a tuxedo with a bullet hole in his head. His eyes were wide open, just like during the drug-induced rants he typically went on. His mouth was closed except in the corner where thick, frothy saliva protruded in the form of small bubbles. One hand held a revolver; the other, Michael's now empty Valium bottle. I knelt down and put my face on his chest. I didn't cry though. It was one of those situations in which crying just isn't enough. I tried hard to cry, but all that happened were strange, bird-like screeches and broken blood vessels in both my eyes. He was happy last night, perfectly happy. What had happened?
After a few minutes of sobbing Hell during which my knees and face became encrusted with Michael's blood, I stood, picked him up, and put him on the bed. With trembling knees, I wobbled to the door with the intent of finding the phone. I guessed it was my job to inform somebody about this. Just as I picked it up and started to dial, I remembered the papers in the printer.
I rushed back in and knelt down next to the printer, grabbing frantically at the papers. There were four pages: one, a suicide note; the others, the subjects of the suicide note. The second page, behind Michael's note, was a return email from Sara. It stated that she wanted absolutely nothing to do with Michael and if he continued to send her things, there would be consequences.
Next, a final letter to Sara telling her it wasn't her fault that he'd done what he'd done; he was caught up in a state of madness, misery, and eventually, mayhem. That the drugs and alcohol had overtaken him and controlled his every emotion, put him over the edge. He apologized for any inconvenience he may have caused her.
The next page was a letter to me. He apologized, once more, for the way he'd acted over Sara. He then thanked me for always being there and trying to make his life a little better. He thanked me for driving him and lending him money. He basically thanked me for killing him. He vowed, at the end of the letter, to pay me back:
"All the great writers make all their money after they die. Make sure my collection gets out and I promise you'll make a fortune."
The last page was folded, in an envelope, and post-marked two days prior. I opened it, and on reading, realized just how much Michael had scared Sara. It was a restraining order. Thinking back, she was probably right in getting it. He was rather ridiculously mad for her. He sent her fifty poems for fucks sake. Well, she didn't have to worry now. And now, things made some sense to me.
During Michael's extemporaneous new happiness and confidence, he had been doing a lot more pills than usual. Also, somewhat uncharacteristically, he had been mixing the pills with liquor. He usually did one substance at a time and mixing them was always a bit too much. I was sad that Michael was gone, but what's worse, I could have done a lot more to prevent it. I knew what drugs and liquor and crime did to people. I watched him break down and hit rock bottom at least a few times a week. Yet, I did whatever he asked me to. He probably wouldn't have changed if I'd said anything, but he might have. I just didn't want to make things any worse than they were. I just wanted him to be happy. He was my best friend, and maybe I could have saved him. I guess the saddest part is that I didn't even try.
A Trip to Nowhere
I'm on a trip to nowhere with the radio down, thinking. Thinking of a time when this silence didn't exist; my ear, full of your words; my car, full of your laughter. A day when my hand shook nervously as I took hold of yours; your fingers fit so perfectly like a diamond ring. I felt a rush of warmth as I looked into your eyes, into your soul, and our lips touched like an explosion, as if we were gas and matches. The fire spread like an angels wings, rising up, taking us to a moment of bliss. For now, it's gone, you're gone. I'm hopeless and hopeful at the same time. Thoughts of our memories slice me like a crown of thorns; the spark is still there. The fire burns.
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