August 15-Oh no. Oh no. Oh God. I am devastated. Gutted. Oh no. How could it happen in such a way? Oh no. Oh God no. It feels as though my heart has been burst. Smashed and hammered to death! And, why? Why me?
I was up in my room. However, I was idiotically dizzy, so I didn’t want to leave my room. I was looking around. It was the first time I had stood up since coming here. Since waking up. I noticed something underneath the tan end table slightly poking out. I knelt down and pulled it out. It had an enormous amount of dust on it so I immediately wiped it off. It was a cover for an LP. I remembered what those were. There was a large “4.” The type you would see at the beginning of a movie in a countdown. The word “Foreigner” in dark red letters was above the number. And then it struck me. The song. This had the song. That hauntingly familiar song that I had once heard! With the word “hero” in it. I remember it well. It was my favorite song. Juke Box Hero. Then I opened up the drawer in the end table in search of more clues. There was a calendar. A 1992 calendar. Above 1991,1990, 1989, 1988, 1987, and 1986 calendars. All of them were sealed in plastic. I turned seventeen on August 16, 1986. Save for two months, I’d never know what it was like. Nor would I know eighteen or nineteen or twenty or twenty-one. I have only just been acquainted with twenty-two and I will meet twenty-three abruptly tomorrow.
And then I heard steps. Underneath the frame of the door--there she was. It had never been more clear to me than at that moment, that the rose had come back to see me. It wasn’t a rose, though. It was her. That which the man spoke of. The girl! But I knew it was her. I knew it was the rose. She’d just turned twenty. Yesterday.
I looked at her. From the sole of her feet to the top of her head. Flawless in her consummate and rigid pose. She was wearing blue jeans. A small white blouse. Old Converse sneakers. And we stared for a moment. I, in awe of her beauty, and she, in awe of my decrepitude. I looked at her cheeks. Her soft, pale, shining cheeks that seemed to be depressed by worry. Then to her lips. Pink and almost fluffy in there near quivering protrusion. Up to her eyes. Her beautiful blue eyes. Deep as the ocean and thin as the sky. They were what stuck out to me the most. Her radiant blue eyes. And then I went to her hair. Her wavy dark brown hair. There was one strand…one petal, cresting over further than the others down her face. She may have thought of it an imperfection, but it was my favorite.
And then I looked down the length of her arms. Her hands were both jittering from anxiety down near the center of her waist. She would occasionally clench her fists or clasp both hands within one another or squeeze one hand in the other. I looked up and down both arms. Up and down her silky skin, from her hands to her shoulder. And then I saw it. That which would plague me for eternity. The rose in the complex had no thorns. This one had a glaring prickle burning on her left ring finger. A diamond. A bright red diamond. And I looked at it with the fear of death. After noticing that I had seen it, her sparkling eyes began to glisten. Mine did the same. And we stared into each other’s eyes one last time. For one last time we would be in love. For one last time we would realize its futility. The room was bleak and cheerless with no light filtering through the blinded window. The only noise I heard was her heart pulsing in her chest, for mine had been deflated. Depression, it seemed, had rendered me incapable of life. I breathed in only a few diminutive breaths--breaths of hopelessness and despair.
With an air of sorrowful despondency, she was able to sputter out, “Sorry,” just before she started to cry. She began to walk out. But, I couldn’t let the rose leave again! I couldn’t do it! Not again! No more heartbreak! I yelled, “Wait!” And she came back into the doorway crying. I waited for a few seconds, hoping something pertinent would come to mind. Something that would bring her back to me forever. Looking into her beautiful tear-filled eyes, I could see her desire for me and yet an irrepressible anguish was overspread about her countenance. And all I could come up with was, “Happy birthday.” There was a certain dread that filled her face and I imagine it came to mine and the entire portrait of the room itself. I believe she was searching for that same pertinence in my words. But all she received was a useless congratulatory statement meant for toddlers. Is that really all my futile brain could imagine? Is that IT? I really am daft. I really am useless. And amidst a multitude of tears now running down her cheeks she stammered, “Thank you,” and departed.
It was over. I had lost her. Forever. There was no turning back time. I was and still am a defeated soul, trampled on the ground by my own despicable regret. All I could do was stare aimlessly, and before I realized it, I was staring at the mirror and analyzing the grim figure behind it. I didn’t look twenty-two. I was sullen and sunken and decrepit with dark eyes, cracked lips, and pale skin, which was the only drapery around my feeble bones. I was sick with despair. Sick with adoration.
I went back to my bed and sat down for what seemed like two hours. It may have been more. Maybe less. I meditated. I thought about everything. Everything that had come to pass within the last week or two and even long before that. And it all seemed to make sense. Everything the man had said was true. He was my brother. We had moved to L.A. We had gone to a church called New Life. Slowly, more of my memory continued to phantasmagorically flow into my mind. Then people came in. My brother, my mother, and my father. I recognized my brother as the man to my left in the complex, but only much younger. I recognized my mother as the old woman across from me in the complex, but only much younger. I recognized my father as the old man to my right in the complex, but only much younger. And I felt the oldest out of all four. I was the one who felt nearer to death and, at that moment, I would have gladly embraced my demise with open arms.
I gave my brother a hug first, and told him that I was sorry and begged him to pardon my prior illogical attitude. They were all surprised because they seemed ready for an argument of my previous statements and their validity. He said, “It’s alright, you didn’t know.” I hugged my parents. We talked for quite some time. It got my mind off of her. They reaffirmed memories that were coming to my mind and made new ones regarding the time in which I spent comatose. My parents had taken me back to Eureka four months after the incident. Los Angeles had become unbearable for them and they wanted to move back somewhere more peaceful while still having their son in close proximity.
They were traveling around the nation when they heard I had woken up. My parents were. They were in Delaware so it took quite some time for them to arrive. My brother was in Los Angeles so, naturally, he was here first.
I told them the girl had come to visit me and that was essentially what brought my memory back. They told me that she had indeed married a man (15 years her senior) nearly two years ago. She had met him while in high school. He had charmed her, wooed her, given her things. And then the instant she turned eighteen, he asked her to be his wife. After much deliberation, and I must think a guilty conscience, she agreed. They also told me that it was her who played the song. After she heard that I had gone into a coma, she petitioned her parents to live in Los Angeles with her brother for at least a year. She came in every afternoon to play the song. I remember her voice. Her satin-like voice. She knew my favorite song. She knew it well. However, she was easily bored with the monotony of the hospital and, seeing how I wasn’t animate, she no longer cared to stay. She went back to be with her parents only three months after.
I inquired about the calendars in the drawer of the end table. The doctor had been in the room since my parents arrived. He said they were there (the calendars) because every room was issued one. However, the nurses found it pointless to hang them because I was obviously a comatose patient. I wasn’t going to be looking at a calendar for some time. So, they stockpiled all the useless calendars in my end table drawer.
I also asked about Christmas and Easter. They both apparently celebrated one man; Christmas, his birth, and Easter, his death. Christmas was celebrated by exchanging gifts amongst friends and family members. That seemed reasonable and I understood it well. But Easter is altogether odd. Adults hide eggs (which I had previously recollected) and children search for them. But, I didn’t understand the correlation between eggs and the man’s excruciating death. And then to make matters worse, my brother said, “Don’t worry, there’s a bunny.” They all had a good laugh. But, I was still utterly confused and the bunny comment only confounded me all the more. I still feigned a laugh if only to get off the subject.
They told me I had been close to the pastor before I went away. Mr. Gore. He was my mentor of sorts. I remember him. He had a great affinity to the president: the last president I know of anyway (Ronald Reagan). But he died. Gore did. A couple of years ago. They told me how I treated his granddaughter. With such great disrespect and abhorrence I had looked upon her, and with such tenderness and reverence she had looked upon me. There was nothing about her person that I had left untouched. With every word that came out of her mouth was a haughty retort out of mine that slowly destroyed her psyche. I was very mean to the girl. But, from the way they described her, my criticisms were more than warranted.
Our conversation from that point on was rather trivial. They quizzed me about quite useless facts. My parents anniversary was May 10. My father’s birthday: February 3. My mother’s birthday: November 7. My brother’s birthday: September 23. Simply useless. But, I acted as though it were fun to me.
I asked who had won the World Series, the Super Bowl, and the NBA Championship. For I suppose I cared about such things when I was young. Or at least that’s what my memory seemed to be recollecting. I stood fast and resolute in not making evident my unendurable pain.
The doctor said that I should stay at least a couple more days until I get my faculties in order. My family left at 10:30 P.M. I waited until 11 to watch Nightline. But it wasn’t on. It was Saturday. On a normal day, I would be less disappointed. After that, I found it was impossible for me to go to sleep. So I did what I do best--I thought. Or rather, I over-thought. When left to my own devices, I suppose my brain is taken into a species of fit. It goes about fancifully, wondering what could have been, what should have been, and what might all be a farce. And it’s not as though I can control this certain genre of fit; it arbitrarily appears when my body refuses to succumb to exhaustion.
I began to formulate a scenario in my brain where every single person I had met within the past day or two was fake. It began with, “The doctor’s answer regarding the calendars was quite short and unimaginative.” And then, I thought, “Maybe they’re there to reinforce the act.”
“It all seems too perfect. What about the record player? The LP ‘hidden’ underneath the end table? Would it really be like that? The man! My ‘brother.’ Why had he been so irate at the end of our conversation? Because he wanted me back in the complex? My ‘parents.’ Why would they be in Delaware? They were only needed for reinforcement. If my ‘brother’ failed, they would step in to rectify the situation. They never even told me my name! Or there name’s, for that matter! How was I able to make decisions if the complex was all a dream? But it was her! The actor playing the rose! She was what planted these memories in my brain. These are not my memories from this place…dear God! These are all allegorical memories from the complex! I must get out of here! The doctor only said two more days because he wanted to comfort me! Oh no! I must leave!” And with that, I attempted an escape. I rose from my bed, triumphant in the fact that I had discerned their subterfuge before they could once again capture me. I ran to the door and as soon as my right foot stepped out into the hallway, my feeble legs could no longer support my equally as feeble body. I fell to the floor. It was carpeted in the hall. It didn’t hurt so bad. I blacked out for a second or two while laying on the floor, because all the blood rushed to my head. There was one dim light and there was no person there to see me. I struggled back up to my knees and crawled to my bed. When I caught my breath, I found I still couldn’t fall asleep. So I continued to think. What made me realize the faults of my hysterical notions was the fact that I couldn’t remember certain things. Something I’d just realized. I can’t remember the faces of the nurses. In fact, I’m not sure they had faces. Other than eyes and hair. Although hair isn’t really part of the face. Everything else just seemed to be pale. I also couldn’t remember anything about the food. I knew I ate it, I knew I could taste it, but I never actually saw it. It’s odd. It was there, I just never saw it. And the words in the notebooks. I never actually made words. I just sort of remembered what I wrote. I never searched back in the notebooks and the only thing that was constant was the cartoon cow in the second notebook. Strange, though. Maybe it was because I couldn’t imagine the food or the words or the faces. And another thing: I can’t recall ever using the toilet but to break the window and to flush the orange petal down it. And, because of all these things, I was taken back into a state of grief.
I don’t know why I was so frenetic about being taken back into the custody of the complex. I had become quite accustomed to life there. It was simple. I did nothing, I thought of nothing--nothing important in regards to the spectrum of the place, anyway. I almost wish it had been real. Which is strange, I suppose. I racked my brain and fought tirelessly to get out of there. And now I wish, with every fiber of my being, that it existed and that I was there right now.
This, unfortunately, is normality. That which I so desired to know. And, why? Because I didn’t realize how good I had it. I can’t fathom existence, now. I don’t want to. I want to go back to my safe little rat hole where everything was comfortable and life was easy. But I’m stuck. I hardly know how to function. I hardly know how to behave. This society to me is nothing more than an enigma. All I desire is to be solitary and to be provided sustenance. But, I’m certain that solitude and dependence aren’t traits that are looked highly upon. Normality. How I hate you now that I know who you are. Grief is what you are. Grief in a rucksack of depression. That’s what you are! You blasted fiend! You lead us to our graves, all the while laughing with a sinister grin on your sardonic face. You are a silent thief. You come in the dark night of my existence and rip away any chance at contentment. You tear away that which makes my being and you thrust it into the sea of misery. You skin the husk of my pride, you crack the shell of my spirit, you gouge my flaws and then parade them in front of me as though you were a child and I was the casualty of your taunt. You are a sadist--an evil, malicious sadist dedicated to the suffering of all mankind. How I wish to see you burn. How I wish to see you suffer! Death, it seems, is the only manner in which to see that reality.
Oh God! Why couldn’t she wait? I remember how I’d planned to wait. When I turned 21. That was the day we were to be wed. We had each given our word! I remember now! It was a pact we had made, just before she moved. Why did she not wait? What was she thinking? What was in her inept skull? A man 15 years older than her. He could technically be her father! Only two months after she turned eighteen, too. She wed TWO MONTHS after marriage had been legalized for her. That is exactly the nature of the rose: to inadvertently cause me insufferable amounts of agony. I believe I described it the best when I said it was “like a microscopic pushpin slowly excoriating the surface of my heart.” Although I suppose that’s pompous. Using my own quote like that. It’s my diary, why should it be? Or my memories, rather. Still, the pain is unbearable. I can’t stop thinking about her. She is so beautiful! I am so unworthy! And yet I feel deserving of something. Something that may alleviate my pain. Where is my solatium? What have I done not to deserve one? My bones are so weak--my constitution even weaker. I could die from sorrow. I wouldn’t put it past myself. If I had to imagine sorrow being made of some material, I would suppose it to be a dagger shoved right through the center of my heart. I am drained. Physically, emotionally, mentally. And for a moment. The moment she stepped foot into my room I began to feel an uprising of hope. An inkling, though it was, but hope nonetheless. She was so radiant. An incomparable radiance, even to a full moon. I can see her face now. Her shining pale cheeks, pink feathery lips, her perfect white teeth, her soft petite nose, her unblemished hair of imperfection. Everything else on her body is secondary to that face of unparalleled beauty. I miss her. Oh my. She’s gone forever.
I remember what a moon is.
Now that I think of it, they never told me my name. Or their names. Or her name. They never asked me if I knew it (my name) like they asked me about their birthdays. I guess they thought I already knew. They did tell me. Didn’t they? I think it was at a point when I stopped paying attention to their ramblings. But I can faintly remember them telling me my name, their names, her name, and the doctor’s name. Or can I? Am I making up things again? Oh, I don’t know. I suppose it doesn’t matter anyhow. I like being on a no-name basis. And I’m afraid I’d be disappointed with my name. The doctor’s name is Dr. Cole. Or so it says on his nametag. That much I do know.
Well I suppose I lied about the date. It is, in fact, August 16 now. But, at 4 in the morning (which is when I began writing this) it seemed as though it were still night. There’s a clock down the hall, outside my room that I can see from my bed. There’s not much light for me to write by, though. It’s my birthday, I suppose. What a solemn manner in which to celebrate. If one could even call this a celebration. I never much enjoyed birthdays, anyhow. Even at a young age. I can remember requesting that a big deal was not to be made of my birthdays. Which my parents found quite odd, seeing as most 8 year olds would have jumped at the chance to have a pool party with friends. I guess I learned very young that life’s seeming ocean of eternity, was nothing but a puddle in the scope of history. Not even a grand puddle, either. A puddle of futility. It is there one day and is summarily evaporated the next. Life is just one hateful, insignificant haze. No one loves it. Everyone hates it. For they’ve no time in which to love. No time in which to think, really. Does a puddle have enough time to think before a bright day extracts its existence? No! It is a pitiable measly little puddle whose only instance in which to ponder and feel is the moment before his foreknown death. And what is his thought? What is his feeling? It is hate. It is pain. A blind rage! An insufferable fury! And, why? For he had only just been acquainted with life and, in turn, life had heartlessly deserted him. This existence is all too strange.
I have yet to look out this window. I don’t know why, though. Possibly because I’m afraid I won’t see the tree out there. I found such peace and solace in the tree in my final weeks in the complex. Not a thing on this earth really could’ve given me the state of celestial bliss that I found when with that regal pine. Maybe I should took a gander out of my window. It would really serve a purpose. At least in my own mind.
No tree. And yet I feel it’s here. As though it’s been here all along. Such harmony and freedom I feel at this moment. It’s a grand wonderful feeling. Strange, though. This sudden happiness. I feel that I am a dolphin on the open sea, freely bounding through each sun-drenched cerulean wave. As though the tree himself is caressing me within his great figurative arms. And though my life seems a spiraling staircase falling deep within the depths of perdition, I can still find comfort in the fact that the tree will always be here, whether physically or only in my mind.
But, my mind wanders. I’m not one who typically views the half-glass as though it were full. I miss her. I really do miss her. The great pressure on my chest is nearly unbearable. The great lugubrious pressure. I don’t see this as a fresh start. How could I? I see it as more of a musty conclusion for this stage of my life. The end of an era. The end of innocence. I missed my baby-step into adulthood. Instead, I’ve made a vast bound. And now I’ve been rendered an anxious mess equivalent to a child first entering into the boundaries of a school.
They never told me who it was that hit me with the extinguisher. Because then I’d have something to live for. Better for whoever it may have been, I suppose. Nevertheless, don’t fret, I will continue existing, if only for my family’s sake.
There are hills outside this window. Followed by snow-capped mountains. The incipient sunrise is looming above them like the golden crown of a king on his royal throne. I’d like to be there--in nature, that is. All by myself. Existentialist to my death. Indeed, I would enjoy it. Being amongst the verdant hills, the crackling autumn leaves beneath my feet, the cool gusts of wind within my nostrils, the refreshing azure brook streaming coolly through my hands, the succulent wild berries erupting with a taste of sprightliness in my mouth, slumbering on a fallen pine and waking more invigorated than ever before, seeing sights of congenial flames bursting and sparkling in the night sky, the noon-day sun blessing my warm skin with its rays. There is also a road. My chain is broken--there is a garbage truck outside my window now. My east-facing window. How I would enjoy a voyage to the proverbial west at this moment. I’ve never had a window that faced west, or at least never according to my memory. I’ve never been as fond of someone. I’ve never felt pain like this. This wrenching and unrelenting pain, that never seems desist in the persistent stabbing of my chest. Before, I had deemed it all to be melodrama and nothing more. But, I’ve come to the realization that this twinge is far more painful than any physical injury. It can even transcend into physicality rather than simply emotionality. The streams of light from the sun are slowly creaking through my window. It must be around 6:30. Yes, it is.
What is this? The walls appear to be papered. And yellow. How strange! I knew my eyes would fail me. I knew the relentless white had altered my perception. Quite strange.
Anyway. I will keep this green pad. I won’t add to it. I won’t take anything away. Words won’t ever come to mind like they do in this particular situation. And I just have no desire to write any longer. It will probably go under my bed (wherever that may be) for years. And every now and then when I yield to nostalgia I will take a look at it. I will see the conversation between my brother and I. My absurdity. All of my sadness. When I finally remember what exactly Christmas and Easter are I’ll realize how foolish I was. I may laugh. I may cry. Maybe I will move on. One thing’s for certain: I’ll never forget my time in the complex. And, because of that, I’ll never forget the years before I went into the coma. I’ll have two accounts. One while in the complex, and of course, another of the reality of the six years prior. I wish there were some way to obtain that diary I had made. But I suppose it’s all in my memory now.
I am tired. I feel elderly. As though I should probably stay here. I wish that this epoch would have a pleasant finale. I wish she would just walk into my room, caress me, kiss me, marry me. My how much joy that would bring me. And I have been half-expecting her to barge in here, throw her ring into the metaphorical fire, and bid me to take her to some far off land where we could be fruitful and multiply. But she won’t. There are no far off lands. There are no happy endings when normality is involved. She’s made a commitment and, although it is a foolish and brash commitment, it is still bound by law. Bound by her own unwillingness to disappoint. She won’t dare disappoint her husband but she has obliterated me. My hopes were all destroyed and if not destroyed, then critically injured. It’s like a suffering and shivering child has wedged himself within the fibers of my soul. I almost feel anger. She has evinced this anger with great clarity. And still, I have no idea what she could have been thinking. And that angers me. Maybe the suffering child is also spiteful. But not vengeful. It’s difficult to be furious when you have such a great penchant toward the person who your fury seems to be directed at. I’m muddled. My chest heaves with grief, resentment, horror, and tragedy. Each emotion sends a shock of pain through my chest like a devastating bolt of lightning. I’m regretful. And now I become livid again. Not at her. But at whoever it was that hit me. Was that type of force really necessary to contain me? Was I that insane? Did you think I was a fierce vampire? Did you think I was a bloody ogre? Did you think I was rabies-infected? Imprudent child! My, how my face frowns. It is finished. This entire ordeal. It is done.
And here I sit. On this white bed. A solitary and mournful rat. My iniquities subtracted. My slate clean. My will to live absent. All my love is gone. I find it impossible to love her. Like a numbness has infected my chest. Maybe I will move on after all.
Goodbye. |
Submission Name: Morose Thorn (Chapter 7)
