intermission- distraction

I tap my feet, trying to read my textbook, trying to understand exactly what Wernicke’s area of the brain has to do with not being able to speak properly. Because if it does, there is definitely something wrong with my Wernicke’s area. Keeping my eyes down, I run my tongue over my teeth, making sure it’s still there. There must be some reason I can’t talk.

Looking up, I inwardly curse and rejoice that she’s still there. A part of me whispers that maybe if I just sit back and stare, I’ll be able to muster up the courage to actually approach her, to bask in her presence, to talk to her. It’s crazy talk, all of it.

Sitting at a table near the reference section of the library, she’s taken the wiser path. To my right the easy chairs next to the magazine racks hold one student; head tilted back, mouth agape, textbook wide open on his lap. Hard uncomfortable wooden chairs are definitely the way to go for the serious scholar.

There has to be a way to get some studying done. And then it comes to me. I can read a page, and look up, through this technique get actual studying done. I’m thrilled with what my brilliant mind has come up with, and then stupidly decide to start it off with a glance.

And then a glance turns into a look. Before it can turn into a stare I drop my eyes to the page, and attempt to start reading again. How can she be so pretty? There are some things that I can’t wrap my mind around- and this is definitely one of them.

After a page of Psychology, I look up again. She’s still reading, eyes intent on the pages. Her eyes glance right to a notebook on the table, a slender hand pushes a strand of long, dark hair behind one ear, and she looks up, grey-blue eyes locking onto mine.

My heart stops.

Thousands and thousands of ideas run through my mind- anything to fix this, anything to make this all stop and have everything back to normal where I don’t even look up every page and where I’m just studying and she’s just studying and work gets done and everything is all right. Nothing comes up.

Her look turns from one of slight surprise to one of vaguely irritated curiosity.

I get up.

My feet are Judas incarnate, and they bring me to her table, standing directly across from her.

I open my mouth.

“Hey, I’m really sorry. Not even just a little sorry- really, really, really sorry. I mean, here you are, sitting here actually doing work and I’m over there staring and um... Not what I was trying to say... You know what? You’re pretty. And maybe people don’t tell you that or you don’t hear it often or whatever, but you are. And I’m sitting all the way over there and I can’t stop looking up. And- it’s just- distracting. I can’t get any work done, because you’re there, and you’re still looking like that. It’s not even that I’m into you, or that I think about you ever when I don’t see you, because I don’t. It’s just when you’re around. And- just- take the compliment... I’m going to go. Find somewhere I can actually work.”

Turning, I walk to the library doors, heart beating like I’ve just been running for my life. And walk out.

un: good morning

The sun peeked over the apartments on the other side of the street, its light bright and clean. Richard Gabourel stepped out of the imposing brick building, let the heavy fire doors swing behind him, and smiled at the sky. He could just picture the day outlining his torn, ragged suit, exposing the bruises and dried blood to the world.

Cool air, bright, vibrant existence, it was all so different from the nightmare that ended for good with the heavy click of the doors shutting. Not caring where he went, he began an easy, confident walk right. Flashes of memory would fill up his vision occasionally, as if his brain refused to let him forget it.

He woke up to the harsh, burning glare of a fluorescent bulb above him. It took him almost a minute to realize that he was lying down. Almost two more had elapsed before the realization that he was strapped down dawned on him.

“Is he awake?”

The voice scratched his ears, not because it was rough or grating, but because all of his senses were on edge. A pain so intense, so overwhelming split the top of his head that he thought he would pass out. He clenched his eyes tight and bit down hard, the muscles beneath his cheeks tightening with the pressure.

Walking past a coffee shop, Richard caught the curious and worried glances and stares from many of the patrons; eyes peering over newspapers or pupils leaning far left while the face stared straight ahead. He couldn’t even begin to imagine what he looked like- but he felt amazing.

A park appeared across the street to his left, and he watched as children clambered over the twisted green jungle gym, their high-pitched voices shrieking with joy. Parents both cautious and otherwise occupied sat on the benches on either side; some with their hands loosely clasped before them, never looking away from their offspring, and others chatting with friends, seemingly ignoring the fact that their children were hanging from the bars with their legs, trying to pick up their Hot Wheels cars in the sand.

one night.

It was a cold, dark night, typical of most in late October. The slight change that this night held was the monster under the bed, waiting.

Steven lay underneath the covers, body so rigid that the small of his back didn’t touch the mattress. The little matchstick boy stared at the ceiling, but really waited for something to appear in his peripheral. He pushed his head further back into the pillow, watching both sides of the bed.

While his eyes pretended to watch the ceiling, his ears strained to hear the slightest slither, the scrape of dry, inhuman skin on the floorboards. He barely breathed to keep it as silent as possible, but his heartbeat raced out of control and echoed in his ears like war drums.

Ten years old. At ten years old you knew better than to lose sleep over whatever figments your imagination was coming up with in the late hours of the night. But he knew there was something there.

In the corner of his room, leaning against the wall, was his hockey stick. He thanked God that he chose a hockey stick over a new bike last Christmas, and cursed himself for not asking for a baseball bat. It would be difficult to use a hockey stick- it would be unwieldy, and hard to swing.

That being thought, he knew what he had to do. The full realization of his next, and very likely last, action caused his eyes to open wide, and he sucked in a deep breath.

Something large and scaly dragged itself past the boxes underneath the bed.

It seemed like hours before he released that breath. When he did, it was slowly, so that he felt like a slowly deflating balloon.

The monster had gone towards the left side of the bed.

This was his chance. The hockey stick was on the other side of the room, in the right corner. It leaned against the wall with all the might of Excalibur, promising salvation, or at the very least the feel of something hard and heavy.

He closed his eyes, and hoped this wouldn’t be the last time.

Steven threw the covers back over the left side of the bed, and knew in his head that they had landed on something. The sound of tearing cloth reached his ears as soon as his feet touched the ground, and he very promptly wet himself. He ran so fast that his forehead collided with the darkened wall, but his fingers wrapped themselves tightly around the handle.

Now he could fight back.

The creature had slid back underneath the bed, and turning around he felt its hot, putrid breath pour over his feet, even though the bed was at least four feet away. Two bright, yellow eyes reflected the streetlights outside, and they looked right into his.

He raised his hands over his head, grit his teeth, and brought the stick down hard on the floorboards. They struck with a resounding CRACK. His hands were numb, and they hurt, but he knew what he had to do.

Steven screamed at the top of his lungs and brought it down again, harder, feeling the wooden shaft almost shatter. The jaundiced eyes widened, and a heavy breath washed over his feet and ankles, causing them to start sweating.

The rest of his body was ice, and he shook like a leaf. He knew that although his scream had echoed throughout the entire house, no one was coming. He was all alone.

He levelled his arms and brought the hockey stick out, straight in front of him like a lance. In his mind he knew that only one of them would be left alive once it was all over.

This would be his one night stand.

jffe.

Sitting on that streetcar, you wondered why it all went down the way it did.

You sit in the stained, maroon seat and take a deep breath, inhaling the cool air with its hint of cigarette smoke and car exhaust. It fills your lungs, cold and dirty.

It’s so different from the smell of Irish Spring, that light green soap that lay scattered in boxes all over his bedroom floor. You remember how he told you about his mother, and how she had bought it in bulk, after he had mentioned how much he loved it.

The next stop is yours, and you stand up to yank on the cord. As the streetcar screeches to a halt, you almost stumble, but catch yourself on a handrail. Stepping down off the stairs and into the night air, you start the eight minute walk back to your house.

As you walk past silent street by silent street, the first raindrops begin to fall. They tap on the shoulders of your jacket, and you pull your tuque down over your ears, wondering why, in winter, it’s liquid dropping out of the sky instead of beautiful, fragile snow.

You remember the last time you can remember it raining. Walking down Dundas, his baseball cap pulled down over your mess of hair, keeping you dry. Taking in breath after breath you can recall what his hat smelled like, sweat and boy and just a hint of Irish Spring.

Walking along in the rain, you hunched over, damp and miserable. Looking up, you saw him shaking his head and smiling that crooked smile. Deep in your chest that feeling grew just a little more, and you silently begged those above the clouds to change things- to give you just one day.

But the arm never came down around your shoulders, never held you against his chest and warmed you up from the inside out. The distance between the two of you never shortened, and his hat kept the rain off of your head but didn’t do a thing for the rest of you.

All of the walks, and the talks, and the listening, you stuck with it. On the living room wall of your head, right above the fireplace, you hung a picture of the two of you, together. But you were the best friend, and you were good at what you did.

That’s all you were. JFFE. Just Friends For Ever.

pt.4 as it freezes.

It might have been two days later when he stood up from the easy chair, thirsty. Opening the fridge, he saw a can of soda sitting on the top shelf. Next to the can lay the sandwich. It lay there, crushed. His eyes fell to the cool tiles, and on the way down caught on a carton of orange juice. Grabbing it, he strode back to the living room, swinging the door shut behind him.

It was a week after that when he opened the fridge, stared in, and shut it again. He knew he was hungry, but- not for something cold. Cupboards were opened and sifted through, and expiration dates were glanced at while quick mental calculations took place. Finally his fingers closed around a familiar shape, and he pulled out a box of cereal. It did the job- but he wished he had milk.

The end of the month was nearing when his stomach led him to the kitchen and his feet stopped him short from the doorway. He stared into the darkened room and watched the microwave lights blink the time, small, green numbers that lived and died over and over again. His feet twisted and turned his body away, turning him towards the phone. Confident hands picked up the receiver and dialled his favourite pizza parlour.

Summer had died long ago. Autumn was gaining momentum and swiftly making way for winter when he waited, standing outside the doorway to the apartment. The key hesitated before the lock, thought it over, and plunged in, twisting itself and opening the way in. A palm pressed against the door and pushed it forwards, letting it swing slowly inwards. The apartment was growing darker; the fading sunlight streaming in, working in vain to fill up the room with its brightness.

Eyes stared into the dark. A right hand returned, with key, to a pocket, and exchanged house keys for car keys. A body turned and legs strode down the hall.

pt.3 up and ready.

He blinked once, twice, three times. With each open and shut his eyes took in the barely furnished room and the lonely television set. He stretched his fingers, and noticed the soft warmth of the sun on his right. His back and shoulders ached, and with the dull pain that lay in them he remembered where he was- and why he was.

Far behind him was a bedroom, completing the holy trinity by joining the kitchen and living room. Sitting on a table next to a neatly made bed, a clock radio began its mechanical screeching. Beep beep beep, it went, step forward, step forward, step forward.

He pulled himself out of the easy chair and wiped his face with both hands. Work started in half an hour. Closing both eyes, he let out a deep breath, and shuffled down the hall, through the bedroom, and into the bathroom.

Seven minutes later he was out and dressed. Striding into the kitchen, he opened the fridge. The cool air escaped its sealed prison, and drifted past his face, creating cool waves through his still-damp hair. The light was both cold and warm. On the top shelf lay the sandwich.

He stared at it jaws clenching and unclenching, his teeth feeling like they would shatter in his mouth. His left hand reached around to his back pocket and felt the familiar shape of his wallet.

He would buy lunch today.

pt.2 waiting to weep.

The drive home was uneventful. Nothing happened. At least, nothing he cared about happened.

It was a little after six when he got to the empty apartment. He stepped in, kicked his shoes into the open closet, and shut the door behind him.

He didn’t turn on any lights; the sun cast its fading glow through cool, pale grey clouds. His feet moved slowly, heavily, and took him to the small dark kitchen. Opening the fridge with his right arm he placed the crushed sandwich on the top shelf. It was still good for the next day.

Moving to the living room he slowly sat himself down into a worn easy chair. The television sat in front of him, dead; to his left the cold, dim light came in through the window. He sat there, waiting to cry.

He waited. Leaning back, he searched himself for the hurt, for the sorrow he knew lay there somewhere. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to force it out. It wasn’t like trying to pour out an empty cup- it was like trying to pour out a cup with a lid on it; a lid sealed tightly shut.

Sitting there, in the apartment growing slowly darker. He waited.