REVISED final project for creative writing
if any of you want to read this before next tuesday and let me know if it doesn't suck anymore plz let a brotha know
Mike Newell
The Life of Christopher
“At age six I fell from my bedroom window and onto the hot summer lawn. The grass was dry, arid, scratchy and I felt my entire body erupt in an uncomfortable itch as I writhed in agony, trying to force off my shirt. I managed to rip it off right as my mother, dressed only in her nightgown, came out the front door to see what the noise was. I heard her scream “Chris?!” but it felt distant. My back erupted in pain and my fingernails tore at my shoulder blades, I tried to tear them off, but to no avail, and soon the bones had broken skin and I felt myself moving them, manipulating them. On my knees I screamed, my mother standing above me, and in the hospital that night I prayed to God that I would wake up in my own bed the next morning.”
Jim found the diary sitting on a booth in a diner in the middle of Nevada. Confused, upset, he had driven there at one am in the morning, trying to distract himself from the creeping desire for sleep, and the nightmares he was certain would follow. His eyes burnt the entire time on the road, but the flight felt good, the escaping of one place for another. He had thought about his neighbor, Julie, about stepping into her room awkwardly the night before to talk about records, and about leaving awkwardly with a promise for lunch after thirteen minutes of standing with hands in pockets and shoes shuffling uncomfortably on the ground. The entire drive there Jim thought about how Julie looked last night, crouched over her record collection, and for the sake of forgetting other more pressing issues in his life, issues he had once embarrassingly recounted to her, he could be grateful for that.
But for the diary, too, Jim could be thankful. After finding it, Jim first thought to tell the waitress about the book, “someone left this here,” is all he’d say, and she’d take it and be on her way, letting him stew in his own misery. He allowed himself a peek while the waitress made her way back with the cup of coffee he’d ordered, and in that instant he forgot all about standing around and talking about records, he forgot a lot of things, and he decided he wouldn’t be telling anyone about the book.
He lived in a one room apartment in a city whose name is unimportant to his story and with a bed, a dresser and a desk as his only furniture. He owned a microwave that sat perpetually unplugged in the bottom of his closet, turned on its back and with stacks of dollar bills, coupons and an assortment of pocket change overflowing from its open front. The door of the microwave sat on the opposite side of the room, and collected the overflowing water from a dying indoor plant. When Jim returned home from the diner that night he opened his shades and sat near the window, allowing the street light to illuminate his reading material, and with a pack of cigarettes and a six pack of Blue Moon as his only companions, he began learning as much as possible about the life of Christopher.
“My head was under water as I walked back to my hospital bed, trying to keep my balance. The nurse walked at a safe distance behind me, worrying constantly about my anger, but not knowing that nothing makes me more irate than seeing that fear, that curiosity. I stretched my back muscles before going into my room, and I heard her inhale sharply. “Good night, nurse.” I said, and alone in my room I sung “happy birthday to me” counting the eighteen years over again and again in my head. I took another pill with another glass of water and felt myself descend lower into the deep blue, knowing the ingestion of the medication would let the hospital staff rest easy for the night, knowing they would be relieved to be free of my sleep walking tirades, even if just until tomorrow night. This morning I feel entirely hung over and I’m trying to belt out this entry before the man with a moustache comes in with the needle and explains calmly what DNA sample they’d be taking today, what measurement of my “disfigurement” they’d be requiring that afternoon, and what combination of potatoes and poultry I was being allotted that evening. Footsteps in the hall.”
Jim awoke to the sun staring him directly in the eyes, twenty minutes late for work. Still sitting near the window, Jim rubbed his eyes, thankful that he had managed to plunge directly into sleep, avoiding that point in the evening where your eyes were closed but the light still crept in through the lids. Sitting, staring, allowing himself to breath the first air of the day, Jim thought back to hazy images from the night that could not be entirely called nightmares. He thought about his mother’s home. In the dream it had almost felt tangible, but with the sun through the window shades he could barely remember her face. Jim got up to get ready for work.
The apartment was set up so that everyone had to share a common bathroom with the other rooms in that wing of the building, and on his way to take a shower Julie opened her door.
“Long night?” She said. He stopped, but didn’t turn.
“Not long enough I’d say.”
“I know what you mean. You feeling all right Jim? You look a bit under the weather.”
“Come to think of it Jules, I’d say you’re right. Maybe I’ll take the day off.”
They both laughed, he turned and he gave her a small smile. “Nah, I’m feeling fine, thanks anyways.”
“All right well, let me know, you know?”
“Right. Watch that record player of yours by the way, I think you might have left it on last night.”
“Oh. No. I was listening to it.”
“Oh.”
Jim paused, trying to decide on what words fit next. Julie stood in front of him for a moment, smiled weakly, and with a small wave goodbye retreated to her room.
He made his way to the last shower stall and closed the curtain. He removed his clothes, throwing them over the curtain rod, and turned the heat all the way up on the faucet. He felt his skin burn, and saw it turn red. Sighing, he recalled the last entry he read before he’d fallen asleep.
“Every inch of growth is like a mile more between me and the rest of the world. The doctors look at me with sickly curious stares, and I try not to get upset at my leather bound arms and legs, about the strap across my forehead that ensures that I cannot look in any direction I choose. Today I do not feel like writing much. Today the only thing that I am looking forward to is escape, and I know that if I am to do so I must do it before I fall asleep tonight. I know the nurses sneak in to read this, I know because I see the fear in their eyes the next morning after I’ve written about tearing their eyes out, about ripping off their ears. I know because the cover of this book has a “medical evidence” sticker adhered to it. I know because I feign stupidity but am no less intelligent than the average person, even with the huge quantities of narcotics that sit in pill form next to my evening dessert, every single day. I have had enough. Tonight is the night. Tonight is the night. I must keep saying it.”
Jim’s forehead pressed up against the bus window, and he tried not to think about all of the things that had led him to live in a one room apartment, unemployed and without any meaningful relationships. The commute to work had been uneventful and ultimately pointless, as he was fired for tardiness upon arriving, and after a sit down at a nearby bar, he decided to go back to his apartment. Riding home on the bus, a homeless man sat in the back humming along and pressing imaginary headphones to his ears. He thought about Christopher, and looked out the window. The world was a desert, and the sun had already begun to set in the sky. He closed his eyes, trying to occupy his mind for the remainder of the hour long ride, and, mistakenly, he let himself drift off to sleep.
The homeless man pulled out the imaginary earbuds and leaned back in his seat to peer ahead for a while, a hobby of his.
“Jones!” The homeless man shouted to the bus driver, “Jones what’s a nickel buy for ya?” he grinned from ear to ear, and while waiting for Jones’ smart aleck come back, he was only momentarily distracted by a fearsome twitch from the only other passenger on the bus.
“Ya owe me ‘bout twenty more than that buddy! Tell ya what, ya get off at this next stop and I’ll call it even stevens, aright?”
The homeless man chuckled, “Not so likely Jones! None so likely... Say, what say we stop by a drive thru? I’m buyin!”
“Sure ya is,” The bus driver smiled slyly, loving the routine. He peered up in his rearview and surveyed the condition of his passengers, and simultaneously as he scanned the crowd of two, something of great significance was occurring inside Jim’s mind, who Jones saw had fallen into the aisle, now shaking uncontrollably. Jones stopped the bus, and the homeless man jumped from his seat, doing his best to keep Jim on his side, to hold him still. Jim, in the meantime, felt fast asleep, like he was going home again. Jim fell deeper and deeper, until…
He, or his mental portrayal of himself, erupted onto an icy landscape, slipping and watching his reflection gain its balance. The sky was dressed for night and inside the world were the lights of a dozen yellow stars, and he knew he was in the city, inside a corridor of cigarette haze and with a frigid breeze making him shake uncontrollably. He could see a slit in the sky, revealing the moon, which illuminated a deadened world of ice sculptures, snow men and snow forts and snow children fighting with snow balls inside of snow suits. He felt an unnamed emotion crescendo in his chest, a frantic palpitation, a panicked contentedness, and his body strained to contain itself and under oceans of life and volumes of memory he felt himself losing his balance, washed away with the descending tide. He felt the animals of the sea come to guide his way and each one of them carried a world on their back and what he was felt like what he had only previously been and his eyes, his eyes were blazing suns and he swam and swam until the electricity caused this imaginary world to rupture into reality.
“He’s awake,” the doctor said, “What’s your name son?”
“My name…” he said, “My… where am I?”
“The hospital, son, you had a seizure on the bus. The driver called the police. You owe your life to this gentleman over here, he kept you upright, saved you from your own tongue.”
His head throbbing, trying to understand it all, he looked over and saw the homeless man standing near the doorway. Julie sat next to him, holding her hands to her face and staring at him with red, frightened eyes.
“What’s your name son?”
“I’d like to be alone, doctor.”
“I just need to check for any memory loss, son, if you could just tell me your name…”
“Jim. Nothing else now doctor. I’d like to be alone, I’d like to at least speak to my friend.”
“All right, all right, but I’m going to have a nurse come in to check up on you.”
“Thank you Doctor.”
Julie got up from her chair, still upset, and came over to him.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!”
“I’m sorry Jules. Listen, can I ask you for a favor?”
“Yes, of course, what do you need?”
“There’s a leather book on my bed, here are my keys, do you think you could bring it to me? Try not to read any of it, it’s a diary.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Could you get that for me now?”
“Are you sure? I’d rather not leave you alone, I’d ra-”
“Please. Jules.”
“Fine, I’ll be back in an hour.”
He watched her leave, the homeless man going with her before turning and nodding his head to the man who’s life he’d just saved. Jim stared up at the ceiling from his hospital bed, focusing on not sleeping, trying to forgot all of the falling, to forget all. And, ignoring the nurse and doctor who had just reentered the room, he occupied his thoughts on one of Christopher’s earlier entries.
“I turned sixteen officially three weeks ago, and today I, officially, have full grown wings sprouting from my back. The doctors were ecstatic today, explaining to me that the outermost layer of feathers had grown splendidly and healthfully. They smiled down at me as the nurses brought in the anesthetic and tweezers to begin pulling out this newest layer, to begin placing my feathers inside of jars with neat labels on them and in neat rows inside of a tray that read “classified” on the top. As the medical professionals stood about cheerfully, as the interns took notes, their mouths agape, as the nurses went about their busy work, I summoned up the courage to ask “might I see my mother for a moment?” and all in attendance, with only a brief pause to glance at me, shook their heads and tsked. The head doctor said “we’ll get her in here as soon as possible Chris! As soon as your condition is steady we’ll get her here!” and as I started to protest I felt a needle in my arm and fell asleep for three hours before waking enough to write this. I took a look at my wings, mangled, stitched up from all of the samples they’d taken. I thought about what my face must look like now.”
Julie stopped by while he was sleeping, and put the book under his arm. Jim, who had not actually been asleep, could hear her sigh heavily, and felt her watching him for a brief moment. Soon he heard soft footsteps and the opening and closing of a door, and opening his eyes, Jim immediately opened Christopher’s diary and began reading where he had left off.
“As I spit out the pill the nurse had given to me with water, as I waited for the lights to go out, as I tested my strength for the first time in years, and found myself able enough to break free from the leather straps, as I leaped at the window, breaking through and falling to the ground below, as I stretched my wings and felt their abilities for the first time in my life, as I began to allow myself a shred of hope for this freedom I had longed for for so long, the only thought that occupied my mind was my mother. I had not seen her in twelve years, the doctors had asked her to come visit, but she could never make it. I understood. Would she be frightened of me? Has she accepted my condition now, my imperfections? The air was freezing during that first flight, and as I’m writing to you, dear diary, I’m sitting on a bench in a park in the middle of the night. I want to see my mother. But don’t you worry, dear diary, I’ll come to find you too. I’ll come to find you, and save you.”
In the parking lot, on the way to her car, Julie was stopped by a nurse.
“Excuse me ma’am, are you a friend of the patient you just visited?”
“Yes, I’m his neighbor”
“The Doctor was wondering if he could ask you a few questions.”
“Me? Why sure, I suppose.”
The nurse led Julie back through the blank, sterile corridors to an office at the end of the hall. Inside the doctor’s office the walls were made of diplomas and books. He sat, peering over his eyeglasses at his desk, and reading a patient’s file. “Ah, miss! Thank you, just a couple of quick questions. Oh, uh and what was your name?”
“Julie, Doctor, how can I help?”
“I was wondering if you knew much of James’ past. I’ve scanned his records, he’s had quite a few MRI’s, none that showed signs of his having epilepsy. I’ve got some theories, and I was wondering, do you know if James had an especially traumatic childhood?”
“Doctor, is it really my place…”
“It’s all in confidence, Julie, don’t worry, and don’t feel you have to tell me anything.”
“Right, right,” Julie bite her lip, “I’m not sure, Doctor, I mean we’re only neighbors and all. All I know is he had a really detached relationship with his parents, especially his father. He told me that once, when he was about four, he just walked out of his house when his parents were fighting and he caught a bus, said he wanted to go far away,” Julie chuckled nervously, “I’m not really sure doctor, what kind of thing are you looking for? Can’t you just ask him? He has a diary, I know that for sure, I just dropped it off to him.”
“Thank you Julie, that’ll do. We appreciate your help… be sure to call if you’d like to know your friend’s condition.”
Julie exited the room, and the doctor peered again at the file in front of him. He took out a pen, and under the day’s date he wrote, “checking for potential for trauma induced seizures, patient is stable and asleep.” The doctor leaned back in his chair, and he paged a nurse, requesting her to bring him Jim’s diary.
In his hospital bed, Jim was fighting off sleep, worrying about the nightmares, about seeing his mother’s home again, and wishing he was in his car, driving off to the diner to find a haplessly placed piece of literature. Outside he could hear footsteps in the hallway, and he quickly shut his eyes, faking sleep. The footsteps stopped at the door to the room, and then walked over to him. A woman’s hand felt his pulse, and then walked back out the door and down the hallway. Jim allowed himself to open his eyes, and he went to grab Christopher’s diary…
Unfortunately for Jim, his diary, Christopher’s diary, was at that moment under scrutiny by the Doctor, who thumbed through it quickly, sighed, and handed it back to the nurse immediately. Jim, in the room down the hall, screamed. He erupted from his bed, searching under the nightstand, under the chair in the corner, searching every inch of the room. “Where is it?!” He screamed, “Where the hell is my diary?!” Just then the nurse rushed in, holding it in her hand.
“Sir, you should be in bed!”
“Why did you take my diary?!”
“Diary? Oh, this blank journal your friend dropped off for you? A very nice gift, I’d s-“
“It is not blank! It’s my diary! It is not blank! Who said you could take it?!”
“The doctor needed it sir, I’m sure he can explain everything, I’m sorry sir, but you should really get back into bed!”
“I do not want to be in bed! I want to know what the doctor needed that diary for!”
“I understand sir, and if you’d just lie back down I’d be happy to get the doctor for you, but you just…”
Jim erupted, slapping the nurse, his eyes were wild with fire, and he glared as the nurse stumbled backwards, falling into a sitting position. The diary spilled out on the floor, face up, and the clean white pages began to turn slowly over and over one another. He looked down on her, ferocious, breathing heavily, and was startled to recognize the frame reflected in her eyes, the assailant, from his childhood. As the nurse noticed Jim’s eyes beginning to turn up into his head, he heard the window break behind him. Jim turned, wild, trying to see what the noise was. He fell to his knees, now facing the window, staring at it, searching for any sign of a crack, searching for the sound of breaking glass. Jim heard the shattering of glass again, and this time, looking up to the window, a huge form hovered there, reaching its hand out to him. Jim, for a moment, felt he could not move, could not feel, he tried receiving the open hand, trying to force himself to stretch out his arm, trying… and as his head crashed to the marble floor, Jim saw words spread out in front of his eyes:
“Mother! Mother I’ve come back for you! I broke through her bedroom window, glass littering the floor, and shouted to her. Mother, I’ve come home! I’m free! I’ve come for you, Mother! It felt cold in the house and I struggled to see through the stagnant, lightless air. I saw nothing. I saw an endless plain of snow. I saw snow people in snow mobiles. My vision was impaired behind a haze of cigarette smoke, and suddenly through the murky gray mist two red eyes opened, looking directly at me. Where’s Mother? I asked the eyes. Where is she, where is my mother? The red eyes appeared to smile, and a deep, throaty groan responded, “Welcome home son”. I felt my wings flex, trying to take off, but I did not move, and my legs gave out under me. On my back, I could see the sky was littered with falling flakes, each one catching the red light of his eyes. I was covered in the calmly falling avalanche, but it took time, I was washed under the descending tide, but it took time. “Does it feel good to be back?” he spoke to me. I did not respond. What I felt like was what I had only previously been and my eyes, my eyes had already begun to set in the sky, letting the desert turn cold.”
Mike Newell
The Life of Christopher
“At age six I fell from my bedroom window and onto the hot summer lawn. The grass was dry, arid, scratchy and I felt my entire body erupt in an uncomfortable itch as I writhed in agony, trying to force off my shirt. I managed to rip it off right as my mother, dressed only in her nightgown, came out the front door to see what the noise was. I heard her scream “Chris?!” but it felt distant. My back erupted in pain and my fingernails tore at my shoulder blades, I tried to tear them off, but to no avail, and soon the bones had broken skin and I felt myself moving them, manipulating them. On my knees I screamed, my mother standing above me, and in the hospital that night I prayed to God that I would wake up in my own bed the next morning.”
Jim found the diary sitting on a booth in a diner in the middle of Nevada. Confused, upset, he had driven there at one am in the morning, trying to distract himself from the creeping desire for sleep, and the nightmares he was certain would follow. His eyes burnt the entire time on the road, but the flight felt good, the escaping of one place for another. He had thought about his neighbor, Julie, about stepping into her room awkwardly the night before to talk about records, and about leaving awkwardly with a promise for lunch after thirteen minutes of standing with hands in pockets and shoes shuffling uncomfortably on the ground. The entire drive there Jim thought about how Julie looked last night, crouched over her record collection, and for the sake of forgetting other more pressing issues in his life, issues he had once embarrassingly recounted to her, he could be grateful for that.
But for the diary, too, Jim could be thankful. After finding it, Jim first thought to tell the waitress about the book, “someone left this here,” is all he’d say, and she’d take it and be on her way, letting him stew in his own misery. He allowed himself a peek while the waitress made her way back with the cup of coffee he’d ordered, and in that instant he forgot all about standing around and talking about records, he forgot a lot of things, and he decided he wouldn’t be telling anyone about the book.
He lived in a one room apartment in a city whose name is unimportant to his story and with a bed, a dresser and a desk as his only furniture. He owned a microwave that sat perpetually unplugged in the bottom of his closet, turned on its back and with stacks of dollar bills, coupons and an assortment of pocket change overflowing from its open front. The door of the microwave sat on the opposite side of the room, and collected the overflowing water from a dying indoor plant. When Jim returned home from the diner that night he opened his shades and sat near the window, allowing the street light to illuminate his reading material, and with a pack of cigarettes and a six pack of Blue Moon as his only companions, he began learning as much as possible about the life of Christopher.
“My head was under water as I walked back to my hospital bed, trying to keep my balance. The nurse walked at a safe distance behind me, worrying constantly about my anger, but not knowing that nothing makes me more irate than seeing that fear, that curiosity. I stretched my back muscles before going into my room, and I heard her inhale sharply. “Good night, nurse.” I said, and alone in my room I sung “happy birthday to me” counting the eighteen years over again and again in my head. I took another pill with another glass of water and felt myself descend lower into the deep blue, knowing the ingestion of the medication would let the hospital staff rest easy for the night, knowing they would be relieved to be free of my sleep walking tirades, even if just until tomorrow night. This morning I feel entirely hung over and I’m trying to belt out this entry before the man with a moustache comes in with the needle and explains calmly what DNA sample they’d be taking today, what measurement of my “disfigurement” they’d be requiring that afternoon, and what combination of potatoes and poultry I was being allotted that evening. Footsteps in the hall.”
Jim awoke to the sun staring him directly in the eyes, twenty minutes late for work. Still sitting near the window, Jim rubbed his eyes, thankful that he had managed to plunge directly into sleep, avoiding that point in the evening where your eyes were closed but the light still crept in through the lids. Sitting, staring, allowing himself to breath the first air of the day, Jim thought back to hazy images from the night that could not be entirely called nightmares. He thought about his mother’s home. In the dream it had almost felt tangible, but with the sun through the window shades he could barely remember her face. Jim got up to get ready for work.
The apartment was set up so that everyone had to share a common bathroom with the other rooms in that wing of the building, and on his way to take a shower Julie opened her door.
“Long night?” She said. He stopped, but didn’t turn.
“Not long enough I’d say.”
“I know what you mean. You feeling all right Jim? You look a bit under the weather.”
“Come to think of it Jules, I’d say you’re right. Maybe I’ll take the day off.”
They both laughed, he turned and he gave her a small smile. “Nah, I’m feeling fine, thanks anyways.”
“All right well, let me know, you know?”
“Right. Watch that record player of yours by the way, I think you might have left it on last night.”
“Oh. No. I was listening to it.”
“Oh.”
Jim paused, trying to decide on what words fit next. Julie stood in front of him for a moment, smiled weakly, and with a small wave goodbye retreated to her room.
He made his way to the last shower stall and closed the curtain. He removed his clothes, throwing them over the curtain rod, and turned the heat all the way up on the faucet. He felt his skin burn, and saw it turn red. Sighing, he recalled the last entry he read before he’d fallen asleep.
“Every inch of growth is like a mile more between me and the rest of the world. The doctors look at me with sickly curious stares, and I try not to get upset at my leather bound arms and legs, about the strap across my forehead that ensures that I cannot look in any direction I choose. Today I do not feel like writing much. Today the only thing that I am looking forward to is escape, and I know that if I am to do so I must do it before I fall asleep tonight. I know the nurses sneak in to read this, I know because I see the fear in their eyes the next morning after I’ve written about tearing their eyes out, about ripping off their ears. I know because the cover of this book has a “medical evidence” sticker adhered to it. I know because I feign stupidity but am no less intelligent than the average person, even with the huge quantities of narcotics that sit in pill form next to my evening dessert, every single day. I have had enough. Tonight is the night. Tonight is the night. I must keep saying it.”
Jim’s forehead pressed up against the bus window, and he tried not to think about all of the things that had led him to live in a one room apartment, unemployed and without any meaningful relationships. The commute to work had been uneventful and ultimately pointless, as he was fired for tardiness upon arriving, and after a sit down at a nearby bar, he decided to go back to his apartment. Riding home on the bus, a homeless man sat in the back humming along and pressing imaginary headphones to his ears. He thought about Christopher, and looked out the window. The world was a desert, and the sun had already begun to set in the sky. He closed his eyes, trying to occupy his mind for the remainder of the hour long ride, and, mistakenly, he let himself drift off to sleep.
The homeless man pulled out the imaginary earbuds and leaned back in his seat to peer ahead for a while, a hobby of his.
“Jones!” The homeless man shouted to the bus driver, “Jones what’s a nickel buy for ya?” he grinned from ear to ear, and while waiting for Jones’ smart aleck come back, he was only momentarily distracted by a fearsome twitch from the only other passenger on the bus.
“Ya owe me ‘bout twenty more than that buddy! Tell ya what, ya get off at this next stop and I’ll call it even stevens, aright?”
The homeless man chuckled, “Not so likely Jones! None so likely... Say, what say we stop by a drive thru? I’m buyin!”
“Sure ya is,” The bus driver smiled slyly, loving the routine. He peered up in his rearview and surveyed the condition of his passengers, and simultaneously as he scanned the crowd of two, something of great significance was occurring inside Jim’s mind, who Jones saw had fallen into the aisle, now shaking uncontrollably. Jones stopped the bus, and the homeless man jumped from his seat, doing his best to keep Jim on his side, to hold him still. Jim, in the meantime, felt fast asleep, like he was going home again. Jim fell deeper and deeper, until…
He, or his mental portrayal of himself, erupted onto an icy landscape, slipping and watching his reflection gain its balance. The sky was dressed for night and inside the world were the lights of a dozen yellow stars, and he knew he was in the city, inside a corridor of cigarette haze and with a frigid breeze making him shake uncontrollably. He could see a slit in the sky, revealing the moon, which illuminated a deadened world of ice sculptures, snow men and snow forts and snow children fighting with snow balls inside of snow suits. He felt an unnamed emotion crescendo in his chest, a frantic palpitation, a panicked contentedness, and his body strained to contain itself and under oceans of life and volumes of memory he felt himself losing his balance, washed away with the descending tide. He felt the animals of the sea come to guide his way and each one of them carried a world on their back and what he was felt like what he had only previously been and his eyes, his eyes were blazing suns and he swam and swam until the electricity caused this imaginary world to rupture into reality.
“He’s awake,” the doctor said, “What’s your name son?”
“My name…” he said, “My… where am I?”
“The hospital, son, you had a seizure on the bus. The driver called the police. You owe your life to this gentleman over here, he kept you upright, saved you from your own tongue.”
His head throbbing, trying to understand it all, he looked over and saw the homeless man standing near the doorway. Julie sat next to him, holding her hands to her face and staring at him with red, frightened eyes.
“What’s your name son?”
“I’d like to be alone, doctor.”
“I just need to check for any memory loss, son, if you could just tell me your name…”
“Jim. Nothing else now doctor. I’d like to be alone, I’d like to at least speak to my friend.”
“All right, all right, but I’m going to have a nurse come in to check up on you.”
“Thank you Doctor.”
Julie got up from her chair, still upset, and came over to him.
“Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!”
“I’m sorry Jules. Listen, can I ask you for a favor?”
“Yes, of course, what do you need?”
“There’s a leather book on my bed, here are my keys, do you think you could bring it to me? Try not to read any of it, it’s a diary.”
“Sure, sure.”
“Could you get that for me now?”
“Are you sure? I’d rather not leave you alone, I’d ra-”
“Please. Jules.”
“Fine, I’ll be back in an hour.”
He watched her leave, the homeless man going with her before turning and nodding his head to the man who’s life he’d just saved. Jim stared up at the ceiling from his hospital bed, focusing on not sleeping, trying to forgot all of the falling, to forget all. And, ignoring the nurse and doctor who had just reentered the room, he occupied his thoughts on one of Christopher’s earlier entries.
“I turned sixteen officially three weeks ago, and today I, officially, have full grown wings sprouting from my back. The doctors were ecstatic today, explaining to me that the outermost layer of feathers had grown splendidly and healthfully. They smiled down at me as the nurses brought in the anesthetic and tweezers to begin pulling out this newest layer, to begin placing my feathers inside of jars with neat labels on them and in neat rows inside of a tray that read “classified” on the top. As the medical professionals stood about cheerfully, as the interns took notes, their mouths agape, as the nurses went about their busy work, I summoned up the courage to ask “might I see my mother for a moment?” and all in attendance, with only a brief pause to glance at me, shook their heads and tsked. The head doctor said “we’ll get her in here as soon as possible Chris! As soon as your condition is steady we’ll get her here!” and as I started to protest I felt a needle in my arm and fell asleep for three hours before waking enough to write this. I took a look at my wings, mangled, stitched up from all of the samples they’d taken. I thought about what my face must look like now.”
Julie stopped by while he was sleeping, and put the book under his arm. Jim, who had not actually been asleep, could hear her sigh heavily, and felt her watching him for a brief moment. Soon he heard soft footsteps and the opening and closing of a door, and opening his eyes, Jim immediately opened Christopher’s diary and began reading where he had left off.
“As I spit out the pill the nurse had given to me with water, as I waited for the lights to go out, as I tested my strength for the first time in years, and found myself able enough to break free from the leather straps, as I leaped at the window, breaking through and falling to the ground below, as I stretched my wings and felt their abilities for the first time in my life, as I began to allow myself a shred of hope for this freedom I had longed for for so long, the only thought that occupied my mind was my mother. I had not seen her in twelve years, the doctors had asked her to come visit, but she could never make it. I understood. Would she be frightened of me? Has she accepted my condition now, my imperfections? The air was freezing during that first flight, and as I’m writing to you, dear diary, I’m sitting on a bench in a park in the middle of the night. I want to see my mother. But don’t you worry, dear diary, I’ll come to find you too. I’ll come to find you, and save you.”
In the parking lot, on the way to her car, Julie was stopped by a nurse.
“Excuse me ma’am, are you a friend of the patient you just visited?”
“Yes, I’m his neighbor”
“The Doctor was wondering if he could ask you a few questions.”
“Me? Why sure, I suppose.”
The nurse led Julie back through the blank, sterile corridors to an office at the end of the hall. Inside the doctor’s office the walls were made of diplomas and books. He sat, peering over his eyeglasses at his desk, and reading a patient’s file. “Ah, miss! Thank you, just a couple of quick questions. Oh, uh and what was your name?”
“Julie, Doctor, how can I help?”
“I was wondering if you knew much of James’ past. I’ve scanned his records, he’s had quite a few MRI’s, none that showed signs of his having epilepsy. I’ve got some theories, and I was wondering, do you know if James had an especially traumatic childhood?”
“Doctor, is it really my place…”
“It’s all in confidence, Julie, don’t worry, and don’t feel you have to tell me anything.”
“Right, right,” Julie bite her lip, “I’m not sure, Doctor, I mean we’re only neighbors and all. All I know is he had a really detached relationship with his parents, especially his father. He told me that once, when he was about four, he just walked out of his house when his parents were fighting and he caught a bus, said he wanted to go far away,” Julie chuckled nervously, “I’m not really sure doctor, what kind of thing are you looking for? Can’t you just ask him? He has a diary, I know that for sure, I just dropped it off to him.”
“Thank you Julie, that’ll do. We appreciate your help… be sure to call if you’d like to know your friend’s condition.”
Julie exited the room, and the doctor peered again at the file in front of him. He took out a pen, and under the day’s date he wrote, “checking for potential for trauma induced seizures, patient is stable and asleep.” The doctor leaned back in his chair, and he paged a nurse, requesting her to bring him Jim’s diary.
In his hospital bed, Jim was fighting off sleep, worrying about the nightmares, about seeing his mother’s home again, and wishing he was in his car, driving off to the diner to find a haplessly placed piece of literature. Outside he could hear footsteps in the hallway, and he quickly shut his eyes, faking sleep. The footsteps stopped at the door to the room, and then walked over to him. A woman’s hand felt his pulse, and then walked back out the door and down the hallway. Jim allowed himself to open his eyes, and he went to grab Christopher’s diary…
Unfortunately for Jim, his diary, Christopher’s diary, was at that moment under scrutiny by the Doctor, who thumbed through it quickly, sighed, and handed it back to the nurse immediately. Jim, in the room down the hall, screamed. He erupted from his bed, searching under the nightstand, under the chair in the corner, searching every inch of the room. “Where is it?!” He screamed, “Where the hell is my diary?!” Just then the nurse rushed in, holding it in her hand.
“Sir, you should be in bed!”
“Why did you take my diary?!”
“Diary? Oh, this blank journal your friend dropped off for you? A very nice gift, I’d s-“
“It is not blank! It’s my diary! It is not blank! Who said you could take it?!”
“The doctor needed it sir, I’m sure he can explain everything, I’m sorry sir, but you should really get back into bed!”
“I do not want to be in bed! I want to know what the doctor needed that diary for!”
“I understand sir, and if you’d just lie back down I’d be happy to get the doctor for you, but you just…”
Jim erupted, slapping the nurse, his eyes were wild with fire, and he glared as the nurse stumbled backwards, falling into a sitting position. The diary spilled out on the floor, face up, and the clean white pages began to turn slowly over and over one another. He looked down on her, ferocious, breathing heavily, and was startled to recognize the frame reflected in her eyes, the assailant, from his childhood. As the nurse noticed Jim’s eyes beginning to turn up into his head, he heard the window break behind him. Jim turned, wild, trying to see what the noise was. He fell to his knees, now facing the window, staring at it, searching for any sign of a crack, searching for the sound of breaking glass. Jim heard the shattering of glass again, and this time, looking up to the window, a huge form hovered there, reaching its hand out to him. Jim, for a moment, felt he could not move, could not feel, he tried receiving the open hand, trying to force himself to stretch out his arm, trying… and as his head crashed to the marble floor, Jim saw words spread out in front of his eyes:
“Mother! Mother I’ve come back for you! I broke through her bedroom window, glass littering the floor, and shouted to her. Mother, I’ve come home! I’m free! I’ve come for you, Mother! It felt cold in the house and I struggled to see through the stagnant, lightless air. I saw nothing. I saw an endless plain of snow. I saw snow people in snow mobiles. My vision was impaired behind a haze of cigarette smoke, and suddenly through the murky gray mist two red eyes opened, looking directly at me. Where’s Mother? I asked the eyes. Where is she, where is my mother? The red eyes appeared to smile, and a deep, throaty groan responded, “Welcome home son”. I felt my wings flex, trying to take off, but I did not move, and my legs gave out under me. On my back, I could see the sky was littered with falling flakes, each one catching the red light of his eyes. I was covered in the calmly falling avalanche, but it took time, I was washed under the descending tide, but it took time. “Does it feel good to be back?” he spoke to me. I did not respond. What I felt like was what I had only previously been and my eyes, my eyes had already begun to set in the sky, letting the desert turn cold.”