|On The Third Day
||[Aug. 8th, 2009|09:49 am]
He takes the pills one by one. It's your average classic tragic scene. He's long since stopped thinking about what he's doing. He's just trying to kill those little heart attacks. Maybe it's because he's completely crazy, or maybe they lie to you about what it feels to seperate two lives. The fact is it doesn't feel like shattering pain that fades like an echo. It's small twinges in the chest that sneak up on you while you're smoking a cigarette or dancing in a bar, or sleeping in the middle of the night. Small warm flashes, pictures of smiles and movement. Moments. The wind rushes out of him, his chest cracks open and seals itself shut before anyone notices. His head shakes, involuntarily and he can't find his bearings for a moment. In instants everything goes sideways and what was real is overwhelmed by the tide of everything that wasn't real.|
But the pills he takes are heady stuff, made for some poor hapless man with chronic back-pain, or someone with the kind of headaches that only opiate medicine can attend to. But whoever they were, they're need for money overwhelmed their need for relief, and untold links in the chain later they'd come to him. But his tolerance is high, and mixed with the right amount of 40 oz, wine, and whatever else he can get his hands on and he's lifted above all that. The world slows down and retracts in a hug that lifts him up and out. He's above, for the moment and the moment is good enough.
Two days ago he was so enraged he screamed at nothing... no one. The affront had been typed on some keyboard somewhere and zapped into his eyes before he could look away. Those moments happen in seconds too but bear a longer draw against his skin, but in the absence of the combination of chemicals mentioned before those bruises last much longer. They draw in until everyone around him sweats. He breathes heavy and the fright is covered over by so much red rage that all he can do is grin and plot until the frivolity of it hits him again and he crumples into a puddle and falls asleep.
What could he have done different, and who's heart then would he be breaking if he had? After four little white tablets he stops asking questions. After the seventh he's having trouble remembering he ever had them.
The liquor reserves shrink, the pillbox gets more empty but he's watching the screen still. He's waiting for something, a sign. He's already learned it isn't coming but he waits for it anyway. And he wonders how far, how long until he can stop doing that.
8th pill, third bottle. It's a strange formula. He wished he was better at math. The lifted feeling turns into something else. His eyes dart around the room sometimes, trying to gain bearings of another kind. But he's distracted and seeking deluded and there's one pill and one bottle left.
That kind of math he can manage.
By the time he stumbles to the futon hes not waiting for signs anymore, or understanding. He's not seeking forgiveness or revenge. He's not terrified of his life or even if what he's just done to himself will kill him. It's not that he wants to die.
He just wants to see what happens.
The lifted feeling has given way to a large cotton ball taking the place of his brain. Even sounds coming in sound muffled and confusing. The room isn't spinning, it's tipping side to side. He considers turning the TV on but he misses the remote as he free falls onto the futon and then there's nothing.
I open my eyes. And B is stitting above me. I haven't come back to myself enough yet to hazard an explanation, so all that I say is that I feel sick, which is not entirely the truth. The fuzzy pounding feeling has ebbed away and now I'm simply high as a kite, and all is right with the world save the fact that my stomach feels like it's trying to escape the hard way. We talk awhile, she feeds me noodles. My eyes close again.
I'm not the least bit worried this time.
When I wake up again, I leave something where I slept. I wake up and my first memory is the way I was before, and how fearlessness didn't always come so darkly bought. I feel sad, but not about the things I felt sad about before. I regret that I couldn't maintain that light, but I regret with hope because I can remember the light clearly again.
For the first time I stop glancing forward and look, saving the glances for backward. I can concentrate. The path in front of me is cloudier, but it's a path. What's behind me was a sprawling instruction in the fact that fighting with your soul is futile and as destructive as fighting with someone elses.
Things I've lost tick off against the things I've gained. The smile comes before I even realize I'm doing it.
There are some that tell me that I have no heart, and I'm willing to entertain the idea that may be true. But heart or not I still fall in love. The only time I feel my heart is when it's breaking, so if that is all that it's good for I think I'm better off without it.
I look back at the place I slept and there he lays. The he that tried so hard and failed so miserably. The he that didn't speak the language and tried to fake his way through it. He, who is full of regret, and rage, and preferred the word sorrow to sadness.
I think that it's better to be sad.
I'm through the shower, we're invited to San Diego. My shirt is crisped out and I'm shaved in the first time in three days. I have no idea what's coming, but I can't wait to see. I'm in an environment where every move is a new learning experience. A new crowd, where the rules are different, the stakes are higher, and the rewards are far greater.
She still catches herself smiling for no reason. He keeps her up late when she has to work early, and darts around the room like someone posessed. He makes her talk when she'd be quiet and say hello when she'd rather sit down. When she broods he attacks it and rips it open, then caresses what's inside until it floats away. A doting angry asian culture and the mind-tricks of her own particular round peg square hole routine learned her silence is golden. He was the one that told her it was only gold flake.
I glance in the mirror while she puts her arms around me and asks if I am ready. I breathe in, I breathe out. I'm ready, and we walk out the door.
...but not before I grab the last 40 out of the fridge and ask if I can drink it on the way.