(no subject)
This self analysis has started to get the better of me. I’ve filled my world with conspiracy theories and wild images, hoping only for the sweetest of futures. I had this dream once that I’d be someone bigger than others, someone who would die and leave a legend. But, none of that really matters now. Not when we have everyone else to look up to us. We have everyone in the palm of our hands, eagerly leaning forward to catch a few more words, enthusiastic only because we remind them what it’s like to feel. It’s hard to hate the world when you’ve been given everything, so when they listen to our harrowing tale they somehow associate themselves with the common man, giving them stories to share at dinner parties and social gatherings. We existed only to help their suburban pasts crumble from memory, replaced with borrowed images from the days we thought life had nothing substantial to offer.
They traded us candy bars for stories.
We weaved our way through the trees, minding the dense greenery and side-stepping the infrequent creature that happened to meander by, eyeing us solely out of curiosity. After all, this was their home.
We found a shoebox, as they waited behind us. Filled it with everything that reminded us of him; beer cans, a pipe, his wallet, pictures, notes, and other trinkets that were too sentimental too burn and unimportant enough to our well-being to haplessly discard. I mean, we were mature enough to realize we’d probably forgive him one day. He was half our life force, nevertheless.
We found the spot, designated by the grove of yellow and white wildflowers and the big bent tree I’d carved my initials into. It was my escape. We could have buried it anywhere, but this spot seemed the most appropriate. I knew I’d never need to venture out there again. We had no one left to escape. I rarely traversed these woods anymore, spending my days reading and drinking… the only concrete trait I inherited from him.
I don’t really know what made us decide it was the right time to resurrect what was left of him, the only accurate reminder that hadn’t decomposed. I forgot what he looked like, and I liked it better that way. It’s weird how the memory works. I can recall his suit perfectly, the black pinstripe jacket covering his broad shoulders. The grey and red striped tie, donated from a thrift store the day before. The lapel pin that was obviously purchased for this special occasion, agreed upon by a few elderly church ladies. If that’s how they wanted people to remember him, then I wasn’t going to stop them. I knew him differently than anyone else, anyways.
I kept checking over my shoulder to see if she would show up. I don’t know who I hated worse between the two of them; angry at him for the excessive drinking and the way he’d hit us no matter what went wrong or whose fault it was. I think I hated her the most, but I loved the feeling I got when I thought about her. The mix of hate and anger and bitterness so thick I could taste it on the tip of my tongue and feel it choking me so subtle in the back of my throat. It felt right to hold everything against them. She could have taken us with her, but chose not to. She wanted to rid herself of his memory more than anyone else and we were the two most obvious reminders, following her around like his ghost. I know she saw his eyes in mine, and I know she held it against me.
We were too young to know what to do with ourselves. People would whisper to each other and glance over, nonchalantly shake their heads or feign sympathy. No one really cared. People brought themselves close enough to give us the impression they’d be there for us, while simultaneously distancing themselves so they wouldn’t be chosen to take care of us.
I hated the way the social worker smelled. She reeked of cheap perfume and her excessive makeup covered up any trace of what she really looked like. Her blonde hair was starting to lose its luster from her brown roots. They had given us 3 hours to pack whatever we had left. Simulated a nurturing look, then glanced at her partner and rolled her eyes. She might miss lunch on account of us.
We were confused about everything, we didn’t know where we were going but we were promised a pool and a jungle gym and a community video game system. They skirted every question as to our parent’s whereabouts. Last time I had seen him he’d been in the deepest alcohol-induced sleep of his life. In that moth-tarnished suit. Last time I saw her she was holding a kitchen knife and backing out the front door, cheeks streaked with black lines and her hair matted to the side of her face.
I opened the old cedar trunk in the one bedroom the old house held. Took out everything I owned. Two t-shirts, a brown bear missing an eye, an old pinewood derby car, and a few honor roll certificates later I was packed. I hated that school, the way they always picked on me, the way the girls looked at me and giggled, how no one ever picked me for kickball, deciding rather to make me invisible.
I wished I was invisible. I could see the red business suit out of the corner of my eye, the bright flash of red reflected on the hinges. I could hear her white heels tapping on the linoleum. I wanted her to leave. I wanted to burn the place down. I wanted to experience the whole fucking place fall apart around me, feel my feet start to go as I melded into the ash that was once the darkest part of my life.
But good little boys don’t play with matches.
They traded us candy bars for stories.
We weaved our way through the trees, minding the dense greenery and side-stepping the infrequent creature that happened to meander by, eyeing us solely out of curiosity. After all, this was their home.
We found a shoebox, as they waited behind us. Filled it with everything that reminded us of him; beer cans, a pipe, his wallet, pictures, notes, and other trinkets that were too sentimental too burn and unimportant enough to our well-being to haplessly discard. I mean, we were mature enough to realize we’d probably forgive him one day. He was half our life force, nevertheless.
We found the spot, designated by the grove of yellow and white wildflowers and the big bent tree I’d carved my initials into. It was my escape. We could have buried it anywhere, but this spot seemed the most appropriate. I knew I’d never need to venture out there again. We had no one left to escape. I rarely traversed these woods anymore, spending my days reading and drinking… the only concrete trait I inherited from him.
I don’t really know what made us decide it was the right time to resurrect what was left of him, the only accurate reminder that hadn’t decomposed. I forgot what he looked like, and I liked it better that way. It’s weird how the memory works. I can recall his suit perfectly, the black pinstripe jacket covering his broad shoulders. The grey and red striped tie, donated from a thrift store the day before. The lapel pin that was obviously purchased for this special occasion, agreed upon by a few elderly church ladies. If that’s how they wanted people to remember him, then I wasn’t going to stop them. I knew him differently than anyone else, anyways.
I kept checking over my shoulder to see if she would show up. I don’t know who I hated worse between the two of them; angry at him for the excessive drinking and the way he’d hit us no matter what went wrong or whose fault it was. I think I hated her the most, but I loved the feeling I got when I thought about her. The mix of hate and anger and bitterness so thick I could taste it on the tip of my tongue and feel it choking me so subtle in the back of my throat. It felt right to hold everything against them. She could have taken us with her, but chose not to. She wanted to rid herself of his memory more than anyone else and we were the two most obvious reminders, following her around like his ghost. I know she saw his eyes in mine, and I know she held it against me.
We were too young to know what to do with ourselves. People would whisper to each other and glance over, nonchalantly shake their heads or feign sympathy. No one really cared. People brought themselves close enough to give us the impression they’d be there for us, while simultaneously distancing themselves so they wouldn’t be chosen to take care of us.
I hated the way the social worker smelled. She reeked of cheap perfume and her excessive makeup covered up any trace of what she really looked like. Her blonde hair was starting to lose its luster from her brown roots. They had given us 3 hours to pack whatever we had left. Simulated a nurturing look, then glanced at her partner and rolled her eyes. She might miss lunch on account of us.
We were confused about everything, we didn’t know where we were going but we were promised a pool and a jungle gym and a community video game system. They skirted every question as to our parent’s whereabouts. Last time I had seen him he’d been in the deepest alcohol-induced sleep of his life. In that moth-tarnished suit. Last time I saw her she was holding a kitchen knife and backing out the front door, cheeks streaked with black lines and her hair matted to the side of her face.
I opened the old cedar trunk in the one bedroom the old house held. Took out everything I owned. Two t-shirts, a brown bear missing an eye, an old pinewood derby car, and a few honor roll certificates later I was packed. I hated that school, the way they always picked on me, the way the girls looked at me and giggled, how no one ever picked me for kickball, deciding rather to make me invisible.
I wished I was invisible. I could see the red business suit out of the corner of my eye, the bright flash of red reflected on the hinges. I could hear her white heels tapping on the linoleum. I wanted her to leave. I wanted to burn the place down. I wanted to experience the whole fucking place fall apart around me, feel my feet start to go as I melded into the ash that was once the darkest part of my life.
But good little boys don’t play with matches.