theMATEOlife
02/02/06, 02:41 AM
seems as if some of you wanted to read more, here's chapter two.
If David were alive, he’d be completely paralyzed. He’d be lucky to be able to feel a hair move on his head. He would never be able to walk, never be able to feel a back massage, never be able to get a hard on. The night before the accident, I walked in on David beating off in the bathroom around eleven thirty. He pretended he had the runs and I pretended not to notice the Penthouse he was hiding under his shirt.
If David lived, he probably would have spent the rest of his life in a coma. Picture being trapped inside the loneliness of your mind, picture being completely at one with your thoughts, in complete and utter solitude. If David survived he wouldn’t be able to wash himself, to take a piss on his own, to wipe his own ass. He wouldn’t be able to feed himself, wouldn’t be able to hold a normal job. David would have to be in one of those wheelchairs you control with a straw. He’d never write again. He’d never play piano again.
I write this list of good reasons for David not surviving the accident. You keep trying to think of it as a blessing in disguise. The truth is, I’m not fooled by the grandma costume the big bad wolf named Death is wearing.
Light spills into my room and a Lana-shaped shadow walks through the door. “Hi,” she says. She shuts the door behind her and comes over to me. My desk light shines off her hair. She’s finally gotten some color back in her face. “What’re you doing?”
Nothing, I tell her. I ask why she’s out so late. She ignores my question and instead, reaches for the scrap beneath my pen and examines my writing. Rather than staying by my lamp, I lay down in the darkness on my bed, waiting for her to finish. A minute passes before she turns to me, her eyes puffy from crying so regularly. “I’d expect you’d make a list of ways it could have been avoided.”
We have to accept some things, I tell her. “It couldn’t have been avoided,” I say. “We all go when we’re supposed to go. Nothing anyone can do,” I say. She sits down beside me, staring at the far wall, at my poster of big block text that reads: ‘Pour mourir par nuit.’
“You really believe that?” she asks.
“Even if we’d got into Rick’s car before the accident, Dave still would’ve dropped dead. For whatever reason,” I say. My fingers toy with the edge of my pillowcase, rubbing the soft fabric between my fingers.
“Does it make you feel better to think that? That David’s supposed to be dead?” She gets on her feet, looking down at me as she throws the words into the room.
My lips stay pursed. “Better?” I almost laugh. Lana moves to one corner of the room, then back to the bed, to the corner, to the bed, till she finally sits back down. A long sigh slides through her lips, chapped and swollen. The cold is getting to us all.
Her mouth opens, attempting to bite onto some words, but she falls short. “What is it?” I ask.
Lana’s eyes go glassy, saline washing over her pupils. A sniffle escapes from her nose as she forces the lump down her throat, back into her stomach. “Caleb…” she says, her vocal cords cracking on the second syllable. The silence that follows afterwards is almost a welcome respite from the sobbing that’s echoed through the house today. “Your mom couldn’t tell you herself,” Lana continues.
Sitting up, I lick my dry lips before pressing, “Tell me what?” The girl hiccups, reaching for a tissue off my nightstand. “Tell me what, Lana?”
She collects herself, gathering the pieces of her composure off the floor. “She didn’t have it in her to tell you herself that--“ Lana bites her lip. I suppress the urge to push her, opting to wait instead. “On David’s body they… well, they found something.”
Crossing my legs, my ears strain in the silence of her voice. “Caleb, David killed himself. They found a suicide note.”
Picture being shot in the belly with a sawed-off shotgun by your mother. Picture reaching into your own torso, grabbing your gallbladder and yanking it out. Picture a potato sack of broken glass and cinderblocks slamming into your jaw. Picture watching your own brother get bent in half by a Buick and you might come close to understanding how Lana’s words felt. Shoving her aside, my legs bolt out the door, down the hall, into David’s room where my mom has finally fallen asleep. His room still smells of his cologne, and my mom is curled onto the covers of his bed. “Where is it?”
Lana rushes into the room behind me, too late. My mom’s head jolts up from the pillow. “David!” she yelps, her eyes gazing into mine.
“Where is it?”
“David, my God!”
Lana’s lips twist. “Mom--“ I try.
Picture the Mona Lisa being gashed across the smile. Picture the Venus de Milo shattering to bits. Picture David snapping in half and you’ll see the disappointment on my mother’s face when she realizes who she’s seeing.
Clearing her throat, she finally says, “Where’s what?”
“The note. Give me the note.”
“Caleb--“
“Give it to me.”
Lana disappears behind me, and my mother hands me the crumpled piece of paper she held under David’s pillow. The ink is blurred in random splotches across the sheet--whether the tears belong to David or to my mother you can’t tell.
Back in my room, my desk lamp lights David’s shaky handwriting. The sound of Lana’s footsteps in the doorway are gentle. She makes her way into the room and sits on my bed. Neither of us speaks. Peering down at the words on the torn out spiral notebook paper, my brain tries to make sense of the information. Behind me, Lana crawls under my covers, curling the blanket up to her chin. Straining my eyes on the page, the only words making any sense are, “With love, David.”
After the longest day of my life, a sigh topples out of my mouth. Apparently, it’s the plug that’s been stuck in me. A flood of feelings rushes to the fore in tear form, and finally, I connect with David on the pages of his note. Imagine all the angels committing mass suicide with special fruit punch. Imagine a nine-year-old girl going to rehab for heroin abuse. Imagine a mushroom cloud swallowing an entire city, turning history into ashes. Preceded by a sigh, every feeling in me falls forward. My face in my palms, the saline trickles down my wrists, my forearms, into the crook of my elbows.
Half past 3AM, the tide finally dries out, and the dam rebuilds itself. Wiping the tears on my sleeve, I say to Lana, “Sorry about that.” But the echo of my voice is the only response.
Turning around finds Lana’s closed eyes with marks down her cheek. With her swollen eyelids and chapped lips, she sleeps deeply on my pillow. Getting up from my chair, the carpet is warm between my toes. I slip under the covers next to Lana and kiss her forehead. Her warm skin is smooth against my lips, a welcome relief. With my eyelashes mingling with her auburn hair, you can’t help but smell her shampoo.
In the muted darkness of 4AM, you can see every bloody detail on the backs of your eyelids, and hear each crunch beating on your eardrums.
If David were alive, he’d be completely paralyzed. He’d be lucky to be able to feel a hair move on his head. He would never be able to walk, never be able to feel a back massage, never be able to get a hard on. The night before the accident, I walked in on David beating off in the bathroom around eleven thirty. He pretended he had the runs and I pretended not to notice the Penthouse he was hiding under his shirt.
If David lived, he probably would have spent the rest of his life in a coma. Picture being trapped inside the loneliness of your mind, picture being completely at one with your thoughts, in complete and utter solitude. If David survived he wouldn’t be able to wash himself, to take a piss on his own, to wipe his own ass. He wouldn’t be able to feed himself, wouldn’t be able to hold a normal job. David would have to be in one of those wheelchairs you control with a straw. He’d never write again. He’d never play piano again.
I write this list of good reasons for David not surviving the accident. You keep trying to think of it as a blessing in disguise. The truth is, I’m not fooled by the grandma costume the big bad wolf named Death is wearing.
Light spills into my room and a Lana-shaped shadow walks through the door. “Hi,” she says. She shuts the door behind her and comes over to me. My desk light shines off her hair. She’s finally gotten some color back in her face. “What’re you doing?”
Nothing, I tell her. I ask why she’s out so late. She ignores my question and instead, reaches for the scrap beneath my pen and examines my writing. Rather than staying by my lamp, I lay down in the darkness on my bed, waiting for her to finish. A minute passes before she turns to me, her eyes puffy from crying so regularly. “I’d expect you’d make a list of ways it could have been avoided.”
We have to accept some things, I tell her. “It couldn’t have been avoided,” I say. “We all go when we’re supposed to go. Nothing anyone can do,” I say. She sits down beside me, staring at the far wall, at my poster of big block text that reads: ‘Pour mourir par nuit.’
“You really believe that?” she asks.
“Even if we’d got into Rick’s car before the accident, Dave still would’ve dropped dead. For whatever reason,” I say. My fingers toy with the edge of my pillowcase, rubbing the soft fabric between my fingers.
“Does it make you feel better to think that? That David’s supposed to be dead?” She gets on her feet, looking down at me as she throws the words into the room.
My lips stay pursed. “Better?” I almost laugh. Lana moves to one corner of the room, then back to the bed, to the corner, to the bed, till she finally sits back down. A long sigh slides through her lips, chapped and swollen. The cold is getting to us all.
Her mouth opens, attempting to bite onto some words, but she falls short. “What is it?” I ask.
Lana’s eyes go glassy, saline washing over her pupils. A sniffle escapes from her nose as she forces the lump down her throat, back into her stomach. “Caleb…” she says, her vocal cords cracking on the second syllable. The silence that follows afterwards is almost a welcome respite from the sobbing that’s echoed through the house today. “Your mom couldn’t tell you herself,” Lana continues.
Sitting up, I lick my dry lips before pressing, “Tell me what?” The girl hiccups, reaching for a tissue off my nightstand. “Tell me what, Lana?”
She collects herself, gathering the pieces of her composure off the floor. “She didn’t have it in her to tell you herself that--“ Lana bites her lip. I suppress the urge to push her, opting to wait instead. “On David’s body they… well, they found something.”
Crossing my legs, my ears strain in the silence of her voice. “Caleb, David killed himself. They found a suicide note.”
Picture being shot in the belly with a sawed-off shotgun by your mother. Picture reaching into your own torso, grabbing your gallbladder and yanking it out. Picture a potato sack of broken glass and cinderblocks slamming into your jaw. Picture watching your own brother get bent in half by a Buick and you might come close to understanding how Lana’s words felt. Shoving her aside, my legs bolt out the door, down the hall, into David’s room where my mom has finally fallen asleep. His room still smells of his cologne, and my mom is curled onto the covers of his bed. “Where is it?”
Lana rushes into the room behind me, too late. My mom’s head jolts up from the pillow. “David!” she yelps, her eyes gazing into mine.
“Where is it?”
“David, my God!”
Lana’s lips twist. “Mom--“ I try.
Picture the Mona Lisa being gashed across the smile. Picture the Venus de Milo shattering to bits. Picture David snapping in half and you’ll see the disappointment on my mother’s face when she realizes who she’s seeing.
Clearing her throat, she finally says, “Where’s what?”
“The note. Give me the note.”
“Caleb--“
“Give it to me.”
Lana disappears behind me, and my mother hands me the crumpled piece of paper she held under David’s pillow. The ink is blurred in random splotches across the sheet--whether the tears belong to David or to my mother you can’t tell.
Back in my room, my desk lamp lights David’s shaky handwriting. The sound of Lana’s footsteps in the doorway are gentle. She makes her way into the room and sits on my bed. Neither of us speaks. Peering down at the words on the torn out spiral notebook paper, my brain tries to make sense of the information. Behind me, Lana crawls under my covers, curling the blanket up to her chin. Straining my eyes on the page, the only words making any sense are, “With love, David.”
After the longest day of my life, a sigh topples out of my mouth. Apparently, it’s the plug that’s been stuck in me. A flood of feelings rushes to the fore in tear form, and finally, I connect with David on the pages of his note. Imagine all the angels committing mass suicide with special fruit punch. Imagine a nine-year-old girl going to rehab for heroin abuse. Imagine a mushroom cloud swallowing an entire city, turning history into ashes. Preceded by a sigh, every feeling in me falls forward. My face in my palms, the saline trickles down my wrists, my forearms, into the crook of my elbows.
Half past 3AM, the tide finally dries out, and the dam rebuilds itself. Wiping the tears on my sleeve, I say to Lana, “Sorry about that.” But the echo of my voice is the only response.
Turning around finds Lana’s closed eyes with marks down her cheek. With her swollen eyelids and chapped lips, she sleeps deeply on my pillow. Getting up from my chair, the carpet is warm between my toes. I slip under the covers next to Lana and kiss her forehead. Her warm skin is smooth against my lips, a welcome relief. With my eyelashes mingling with her auburn hair, you can’t help but smell her shampoo.
In the muted darkness of 4AM, you can see every bloody detail on the backs of your eyelids, and hear each crunch beating on your eardrums.