(no subject)
Most of you can disregard this, I just needed a copy of it at home (I'm at school). Just a brief, sad story. Read at your own discretion.
Confidant
We walked together down the broken stone of Fairview’s crummy sidewalk; just a long, twisting road-nothing close to a park. But it was still my favorite, and you were with me, holding my hand and talking into my ear. I imagined the scene as if it were snowed over, the ground frozen six feet down as if it would be rather dead than give birth to the alien shrubs encroaching on its rocky paradise. The quiet, the blinding monotony of it all, would be toasted into comfortable repose by our breath. We would lay on the mended wall together, neighbors from two sides of the city, arid and complacent. But it is not winter here, it is the end of summer and the heat exudes a muggy stink of plaque and rotting meat. I cannot sense you next to me. You are there, and you hold my hand as we shuffle along, but no. You are not here. You are lost in your thoughts, and you are leaving.
We left the park without speaking much of anything. I drove you home through the back roads. I wouldn’t allow the speed of 75 to carry you their-to deliver you fast, on time, within the hour; I am not a postal service, and you do not need more time alone. But you seemed alone, in the car. The air was stiff and cushioned, even with the windows down, and every time I made to open my mouth I found my breath knocking an awkward wall about an inch from my mouth. Of course you saw all of this-and I smiled at you. Can you believe how awkward I am sometimes? I drove slowly when I turned onto your street, and then I gripped your hand. It was cold, dry and baggy. Your fingers were limp. I wanted to kiss them, but I didn’t. Hold on, man.
You opened the door. We were at your house. The sun was even hotter than before, and sweat dripped down your sideburns as you leaned in the window. I remember that much, at least. Everything was green behind you, and your face perfectly framed in the foreground. But the mind is a poor camera; maybe you didn’t smile at me when you said, singularly, “I feel like I can tell you anything.”
I looked at you. I couldn’t smile at that. I wanted to wipe your brow but I couldn’t reach. You’ve always been a little too far away.
“Yeah.” I gripped the wheel of the car. My knuckles faded.
“But I can’t think of anything to say, now.” A drop of your sweat dripped onto the leather, glistening and keeping still.
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you around.”
And then you turned around and walked back to your house, across the bright green grass, under the bright green tree, onto your cracked porch, and then through the chipped white door. The last thing I saw was your hand, gripping the knob and pulling the door shut. Nothing else.
I drove home.
I found out you were dead three days later. You never made it to college. You got so god damn close, though. Probably close enough to see the sports jackets, smell the drunken parties-shit-drunk people and shit-soaked sidewalks you’d regret. It was all there, coalescing in your head as you nervously sped along. Were you sitting in the front seat? Who was driving? The truck that hit you, did you even see it? Could you hear it, the motor chugging and the brake pads punched five seconds too late? The crunching of the metal and your bones.
What was I in life? I was a face on the wall of your brain, yeah, but was I draped over? Did you hide me from yourself? Could you feel me? Really feel me? Were you lying? Did you look at me in there? Did my face reflect off the grate?
Did you know you were going to die?
You can tell me anything. Even that.
Confidant
We walked together down the broken stone of Fairview’s crummy sidewalk; just a long, twisting road-nothing close to a park. But it was still my favorite, and you were with me, holding my hand and talking into my ear. I imagined the scene as if it were snowed over, the ground frozen six feet down as if it would be rather dead than give birth to the alien shrubs encroaching on its rocky paradise. The quiet, the blinding monotony of it all, would be toasted into comfortable repose by our breath. We would lay on the mended wall together, neighbors from two sides of the city, arid and complacent. But it is not winter here, it is the end of summer and the heat exudes a muggy stink of plaque and rotting meat. I cannot sense you next to me. You are there, and you hold my hand as we shuffle along, but no. You are not here. You are lost in your thoughts, and you are leaving.
We left the park without speaking much of anything. I drove you home through the back roads. I wouldn’t allow the speed of 75 to carry you their-to deliver you fast, on time, within the hour; I am not a postal service, and you do not need more time alone. But you seemed alone, in the car. The air was stiff and cushioned, even with the windows down, and every time I made to open my mouth I found my breath knocking an awkward wall about an inch from my mouth. Of course you saw all of this-and I smiled at you. Can you believe how awkward I am sometimes? I drove slowly when I turned onto your street, and then I gripped your hand. It was cold, dry and baggy. Your fingers were limp. I wanted to kiss them, but I didn’t. Hold on, man.
You opened the door. We were at your house. The sun was even hotter than before, and sweat dripped down your sideburns as you leaned in the window. I remember that much, at least. Everything was green behind you, and your face perfectly framed in the foreground. But the mind is a poor camera; maybe you didn’t smile at me when you said, singularly, “I feel like I can tell you anything.”
I looked at you. I couldn’t smile at that. I wanted to wipe your brow but I couldn’t reach. You’ve always been a little too far away.
“Yeah.” I gripped the wheel of the car. My knuckles faded.
“But I can’t think of anything to say, now.” A drop of your sweat dripped onto the leather, glistening and keeping still.
“Okay.”
“I’ll see you around.”
And then you turned around and walked back to your house, across the bright green grass, under the bright green tree, onto your cracked porch, and then through the chipped white door. The last thing I saw was your hand, gripping the knob and pulling the door shut. Nothing else.
I drove home.
I found out you were dead three days later. You never made it to college. You got so god damn close, though. Probably close enough to see the sports jackets, smell the drunken parties-shit-drunk people and shit-soaked sidewalks you’d regret. It was all there, coalescing in your head as you nervously sped along. Were you sitting in the front seat? Who was driving? The truck that hit you, did you even see it? Could you hear it, the motor chugging and the brake pads punched five seconds too late? The crunching of the metal and your bones.
What was I in life? I was a face on the wall of your brain, yeah, but was I draped over? Did you hide me from yourself? Could you feel me? Really feel me? Were you lying? Did you look at me in there? Did my face reflect off the grate?
Did you know you were going to die?
You can tell me anything. Even that.