“As I write this I’m struggling with the myriad things I long to say to you.”
He pushed his chair back from his desk, trying desperately to focus on a single cohesive direction.
It was late. It always was when he finally had the chance to unwind and put his thoughts onto the screen. The coffee usually helped. It never really did much for him besides giving him the jitters, but he knew that if he didn't let it out it was going to continue to eat him alive.
He forced his hands back on to the keyboard.
“I know we never really knew each other...”
He hesitated, hands hovering over the keys. The pain in his chest was growing unbearable, and he felt as though something was trying to choke him from the inside.
“...but before you left I had envisioned a long and beautiful life with you.”
He choked for air as the emotions began to take their toll.
“I loved you. I still love you. I can’t help it.”
A tear rolled down his cheek.
“I know I’m not much of a man. My life has been one self-induced failure after another. I’d love to blame my parents, my upbringing, my teachers, or whatever, but the truth is that I should have been smart enough to avoid all of those pitfalls.”
He cringed as vivid recollections of his numerous failures rushed into his mind.
“I should have been smart enough to prepare for this, to maybe even avoid it, but as always I destroyed yet another relationship before it even had a chance to blossom.”
He slammed his fist onto his desk. He hated himself for leaving such a horrendous wake of destruction in his path. He knew that no one who ever knew him ever went away unscathed.
“I should have seen it coming, but I didn't. I was too self-absorbed, too damn stupid to keep it from happening, and now you’re gone.”
He slumped over his desk, almost shaking from the pain and the rage. He knew that no one could ever hate him as much as he hated himself; that there was no way she would ever read the words he was so desperately trying to get out of his head and on to the screen.
“I don’t care how this sounds. I miss you. I miss the life we could have shared. I wanted to show you the places where I grew up, and share some of the things I once found beautiful with you. I wanted to make you smile.”
He had pictured that smile of hers so many times. And her eyes. He knew he would be able to see her happiness in her eyes if he had just been given the chance.
“I would have done anything to make you happy. I would have given up anything, sacrificed anything...”
He brushed the tears off of his cheek with his sleeve.
“I would have died for you.”
He wanted to die. The guilt and the shame he had been enduring were practically begging him to end himself, but he knew that even though killing himself would make the world a better place it wouldn't bring her back to him.
“I wish I could tell you to your face how much you mean to me, how much meaning you brought into my life just by being there. I wish I could hold your hand, tell you everything is going to be alright, hold you close when you’re afraid or when you need a shoulder to cry on. I wish I could have been the kind of man you needed me to be.”
He stared at the screen for a moment, lost in the memories of what could have been; what should have been.
“I know you’ll never read these words, but I have to say this anyway. I’m a better person for having had you in my life those fleeting moments. You changed me. You made me want to live for the first time in a long time. You made the world beautiful to me. You saved me.”
He didn’t bother wiping off the tears. There was no stopping them.
“I love you. I always will. I’m so sorry I never had a chance to hold you and to tell you just how special you are to me.”
The pain was unbearable. He wanted so desperately to end it all, but knew that it was not what she would have wanted.
“The doctor told us it no one’s fault, that miscarriages just happen. But I can’t help but believe that it was all my fault. I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry! I wish you were here to tell me everything is going to be OK, that it wasn't my fault.”
He began to weep. He opened his mouth to scream but nothing came out.
As he sat there trying to regain his breath and composure, he imagined what she might think to see him so distraught. He choked back the tears and straightened himself up as if she had just walked in the room.
He smiled as if she was there with him.
“I love you honey. You’re my pride and joy. You’ll always be daddy’s little girl.”
Sunday, October 6, 2013
Thursday, October 3, 2013
What About God?
“But you’re the only guy I've never cheated on!”
And there it was again. That upturned lower lip, that strained redness in her eyes, and those tears. Those god damned tears.
I remembered how much those poorly-applied-makeup streaked streams of manipulation used to drive me nuts, and almost couldn't help but revel in their pitiful ineffectiveness.
“What do you want?” I started, unable to contain my scorn, “A medal, or a dang lollipop?”
“But…”
I laughed. I couldn't contain it. There she stood, face all contorted in a woefully lame attempt to elicit compassion; trying to use the same tired tactics she had used for the entire 8 years we were together.
“You’re not supposed to cheat!” I threw my hands in the air and shook my head in disdain. “And you know as well as I do that it’s only because the opportunity never presented itself.”
“I would never cheat on you!” The whine in her tone didn't work on her ex, and it certainly wasn't about to work on me.
“Really? And what about the pastor of the church in Sciotoville?”
She opened her mouth as if she had the ability to muster anything of any value to add to the conversation, but it was her turn to listen.
“You cheated on your ex with him! It’s what killed your first marriage. You fucked him for four years! And you were still fucking him right up to the time we met.”
“But I stopped seeing him when I met you.”
I knew I was no prize, and not exactly the poster boy for stability, but I also knew that I wasn't an idiot.
“You stopped seeing him because he moved out of town when the church people started questioning why he was spending so much time with you while his own wife was at home going crazy over it,” I shrugged and shook my head, “and you were still calling him when we first got married, so don’t even.”
Her mouth remained open but nothing was even making an attempt to come out of it.
I continued, remembering the years I had put up with it in the hope that it might someday get better, “and you haven’t changed a bit.”
She straightened up as if she were about to retort with conviction and righteous indignation, but slumped back again, knowing that I was finally immune to her bullshit.
“I have to go,” I said, trying my best to put an end to the proximity induced nausea and get back to counting my inventory.
She looked down for a second, eyes darting side to side, and then raised up again with an ‘Ah-hah!’ look on her face, which she quickly hid behind that almost comedic tragedy face that she used to twist her face into around my friends to try to make them think I was mean to her. I knew she was about to say something so ridiculously asinine that I might just pass out from the sheer stupidity of it.
“But what about God?”
And there it was again. That upturned lower lip, that strained redness in her eyes, and those tears. Those god damned tears.
I remembered how much those poorly-applied-makeup streaked streams of manipulation used to drive me nuts, and almost couldn't help but revel in their pitiful ineffectiveness.
“What do you want?” I started, unable to contain my scorn, “A medal, or a dang lollipop?”
“But…”
I laughed. I couldn't contain it. There she stood, face all contorted in a woefully lame attempt to elicit compassion; trying to use the same tired tactics she had used for the entire 8 years we were together.
“You’re not supposed to cheat!” I threw my hands in the air and shook my head in disdain. “And you know as well as I do that it’s only because the opportunity never presented itself.”
“I would never cheat on you!” The whine in her tone didn't work on her ex, and it certainly wasn't about to work on me.
“Really? And what about the pastor of the church in Sciotoville?”
She opened her mouth as if she had the ability to muster anything of any value to add to the conversation, but it was her turn to listen.
“You cheated on your ex with him! It’s what killed your first marriage. You fucked him for four years! And you were still fucking him right up to the time we met.”
“But I stopped seeing him when I met you.”
I knew I was no prize, and not exactly the poster boy for stability, but I also knew that I wasn't an idiot.
“You stopped seeing him because he moved out of town when the church people started questioning why he was spending so much time with you while his own wife was at home going crazy over it,” I shrugged and shook my head, “and you were still calling him when we first got married, so don’t even.”
Her mouth remained open but nothing was even making an attempt to come out of it.
I continued, remembering the years I had put up with it in the hope that it might someday get better, “and you haven’t changed a bit.”
She straightened up as if she were about to retort with conviction and righteous indignation, but slumped back again, knowing that I was finally immune to her bullshit.
“I have to go,” I said, trying my best to put an end to the proximity induced nausea and get back to counting my inventory.
She looked down for a second, eyes darting side to side, and then raised up again with an ‘Ah-hah!’ look on her face, which she quickly hid behind that almost comedic tragedy face that she used to twist her face into around my friends to try to make them think I was mean to her. I knew she was about to say something so ridiculously asinine that I might just pass out from the sheer stupidity of it.
“But what about God?”
Sunday, June 9, 2013
Dreaming In Binary
A cold chill on the side of his face woke him from his troubled sleep. The heat of the night and the horror of his vivid nightmares had driven him to perspire, and once the air conditioning unit had finally kicked in it had made his pillow so cold he couldn't help be be jarred awake.
He shuddered, if not for the cold, for the permeance of the sensations echoing in his mind, remnants of a dream that refused to be ignored. It took only one hint of a memory to bring back that feeling in the pit of his stomach; a feeling that could only be described as soul nausea.
Shaking his head violently, side to side, as if to expel the thoughts through his ear canals, didn't help. It just added dizziness to the already toxic concoction of regret, embarrassment, shame, self-loathing, and indigestion, the latter of which he couldn't understand at all given that he hadn't eaten anything for at least a dozen hours.
He knew he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep, at least not for a while, so he got up and went to the bathroom. Before he had a chance to stop himself, instinct had already kicked in and he had switched the light on.
There stood his reflection staring back at him; that disgusting hairy lump of uselessness. There wasn't much he hated more in the world than that thing in the mirror. It brought him nothing but misery and agony. It let itself be entirely motivated by its feelings, and its feelings were never in his best interest.
The only redeeming quality he could see in it was that in its obesity it no longer completely resembled his father.
He remembered how even when he had gotten in good shape for that one brief moment in his life, when he had literally worked his fat ass off, at his absolute best, he could see his father so clearly in the mirror that he was never able to appreciate how far he had come.
He hated himself for looking like him. He had worked so hard to change his mannerisms, gestures, posture, poise, his social ineptitude, and all of those idiosyncrasies that defined him, but could not escape that face in the mirror. If he could have cut out every trace of him with a knife he would have, but he knew that there would be nothing left of him when he was done.
He hated himself for having been too small and weak to defend himself from him when he was a child. He hated himself for having believed, despite knowing it to be impossible, that if he just tried hard enough he could make him proud. He hated himself for trying to reach out that one last time, knowing it would end as badly as it did.
But most of all, he hated himself for not being able to show an ounce of self control and restraint when he needed it the most.
Every time he had the faintest hope that the man was not actually his biological father something stupid would happen to put him back in his place in the family tree.
He remembered something his mother had said one day when they had come back from a committee meeting visibly upset. He had asked what was wrong, and her answer had been permanently etched in his mind, “You know your father. He can't keep his mouth shut.”
“Like father, like son.” It was his personal mantra of hate, one he hardly passed a mirror without chanting to himself in his father's honor. It was typically accompanied by a two-fisted bird flip, but this time he just didn't care enough to make such an empty gesture toward something he knew would never change.
He knew that no one could ever hate him more than he hated himself. It had become somewhat of a safety blanket in his relationships, knowing that no matter how bad he screwed things up by saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time, they could never hate him that much.
But that didn't mean that there wouldn't be consequences. Those had always mattered, not to his father, of course, but he had always understood that his words had an impact on those around him and, as much as his limited social skill permitted, he tried his best to keep from hurting those around him with his words.
It had only taken one time in his life to learn that lesson. Even in his 40s he still remembered vividly how he had made a girl in his first grade class cry by calling her a turtle for going slower than some of the other kids on a gymnasium obstacle course.
He tried his best to keep from saying things that were too easily interpreted as offensive or hurtful, but had always struggled when tired or sick.
He had never taken to drinking because he knew how hard it was to keep himself in check when he didn't get enough sleep. Those were always the worst times, and the ones that made his resemblance to his father the most poignant. He couldn't even count the amount of times he had made himself look like a complete asshole just by uttering a few contextually misplaced words. The ones that stood out were the ones he knew had left a lasting impression.
There was that time he had finally gotten the nerve to take his coworkers up on an invitation to a party. Things had been going so well, but when it came time for him to leave, he had blurted out something along the lines of, “I gotta go. I've got more important things to do.”
There was also the time his coworkers had thrown a party for him when he was transferring to a new location. He hated standing in front of people to talk about himself so his going away speech ended up turning into a cacophony of embarrassment and accidental bridge burning.
But as bad as the social issues were with friends and colleagues, the worst times were always when he had feelings for a girl. He'd become an utterly senseless buffoon. It was the one part of himself that he hated almost as much as his similarities to his father.
He'd fall for a girl and do and say the stupidest things, and invariably it would turn out badly; especially that time he ended up marrying one of them.
Worst years of his life. All because he had a stupid childlike crush on some woman who just happened to be lonely and desperate enough to latch on to him when, like an idiot, he had confessed to her that he had feelings for her.
Thinking about her and those long and miserable eight years gave him the energy he had been lacking to flip himself off, but he knew that standing there like a head case certainly wasn't going to help him get any sleep. And he also knew that not getting enough sleep would only make things worse the next day. He knew he had to stop acting like a pitiful adolescent and get himself back to bed.
As he was about to turn the light off and head back he could hear his alarm start to buzz. He distinctly remembered checking the time when he had gotten up and it was only 3:30. He knew he hadn't been staring at his ugly face in the mirror for two and a half hours.
As he headed down the hallway the alarm grew increasingly louder, almost to the point where it started to become painful. He practically ran to his night stand.
As he turned it off he looked at his bed. There was someone in it. He froze. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He felt the heat rising from his chest, to his neck, then to his head. A drop of sweat rolled down his face.
Unable to move, he watched as the person who was in his bed began to slowly turn toward him, their face still covered by the blanket. He tried to shake himself loose of whatever was keeping him pinned in place, but just kept getting more and more terrified.
As if being controlled by a puppeteer, his arm raised and stretched out toward the bed. His hand gripped the blanket tightly, and with a swift tug yanked it hard.
Lying there, eyes wide open, with that blank, empty stare looking right at him, was his father.
He tried to scream, but instead jolted himself awake.
His pillow was cold from the sweat that had chilled from the air conditioner kicking on in the middle of the night. His heart was racing. He sat up and tried to shake it off. He looked at his alarm clock. It read 3:30.
He shuddered, if not for the cold, for the permeance of the sensations echoing in his mind, remnants of a dream that refused to be ignored. It took only one hint of a memory to bring back that feeling in the pit of his stomach; a feeling that could only be described as soul nausea.
Shaking his head violently, side to side, as if to expel the thoughts through his ear canals, didn't help. It just added dizziness to the already toxic concoction of regret, embarrassment, shame, self-loathing, and indigestion, the latter of which he couldn't understand at all given that he hadn't eaten anything for at least a dozen hours.
He knew he wasn't going to be able to get back to sleep, at least not for a while, so he got up and went to the bathroom. Before he had a chance to stop himself, instinct had already kicked in and he had switched the light on.
There stood his reflection staring back at him; that disgusting hairy lump of uselessness. There wasn't much he hated more in the world than that thing in the mirror. It brought him nothing but misery and agony. It let itself be entirely motivated by its feelings, and its feelings were never in his best interest.
The only redeeming quality he could see in it was that in its obesity it no longer completely resembled his father.
He remembered how even when he had gotten in good shape for that one brief moment in his life, when he had literally worked his fat ass off, at his absolute best, he could see his father so clearly in the mirror that he was never able to appreciate how far he had come.
He hated himself for looking like him. He had worked so hard to change his mannerisms, gestures, posture, poise, his social ineptitude, and all of those idiosyncrasies that defined him, but could not escape that face in the mirror. If he could have cut out every trace of him with a knife he would have, but he knew that there would be nothing left of him when he was done.
He hated himself for having been too small and weak to defend himself from him when he was a child. He hated himself for having believed, despite knowing it to be impossible, that if he just tried hard enough he could make him proud. He hated himself for trying to reach out that one last time, knowing it would end as badly as it did.
But most of all, he hated himself for not being able to show an ounce of self control and restraint when he needed it the most.
Every time he had the faintest hope that the man was not actually his biological father something stupid would happen to put him back in his place in the family tree.
He remembered something his mother had said one day when they had come back from a committee meeting visibly upset. He had asked what was wrong, and her answer had been permanently etched in his mind, “You know your father. He can't keep his mouth shut.”
“Like father, like son.” It was his personal mantra of hate, one he hardly passed a mirror without chanting to himself in his father's honor. It was typically accompanied by a two-fisted bird flip, but this time he just didn't care enough to make such an empty gesture toward something he knew would never change.
He knew that no one could ever hate him more than he hated himself. It had become somewhat of a safety blanket in his relationships, knowing that no matter how bad he screwed things up by saying the wrong thing to the wrong person at the wrong time, they could never hate him that much.
But that didn't mean that there wouldn't be consequences. Those had always mattered, not to his father, of course, but he had always understood that his words had an impact on those around him and, as much as his limited social skill permitted, he tried his best to keep from hurting those around him with his words.
It had only taken one time in his life to learn that lesson. Even in his 40s he still remembered vividly how he had made a girl in his first grade class cry by calling her a turtle for going slower than some of the other kids on a gymnasium obstacle course.
He tried his best to keep from saying things that were too easily interpreted as offensive or hurtful, but had always struggled when tired or sick.
He had never taken to drinking because he knew how hard it was to keep himself in check when he didn't get enough sleep. Those were always the worst times, and the ones that made his resemblance to his father the most poignant. He couldn't even count the amount of times he had made himself look like a complete asshole just by uttering a few contextually misplaced words. The ones that stood out were the ones he knew had left a lasting impression.
There was that time he had finally gotten the nerve to take his coworkers up on an invitation to a party. Things had been going so well, but when it came time for him to leave, he had blurted out something along the lines of, “I gotta go. I've got more important things to do.”
There was also the time his coworkers had thrown a party for him when he was transferring to a new location. He hated standing in front of people to talk about himself so his going away speech ended up turning into a cacophony of embarrassment and accidental bridge burning.
But as bad as the social issues were with friends and colleagues, the worst times were always when he had feelings for a girl. He'd become an utterly senseless buffoon. It was the one part of himself that he hated almost as much as his similarities to his father.
He'd fall for a girl and do and say the stupidest things, and invariably it would turn out badly; especially that time he ended up marrying one of them.
Worst years of his life. All because he had a stupid childlike crush on some woman who just happened to be lonely and desperate enough to latch on to him when, like an idiot, he had confessed to her that he had feelings for her.
Thinking about her and those long and miserable eight years gave him the energy he had been lacking to flip himself off, but he knew that standing there like a head case certainly wasn't going to help him get any sleep. And he also knew that not getting enough sleep would only make things worse the next day. He knew he had to stop acting like a pitiful adolescent and get himself back to bed.
As he was about to turn the light off and head back he could hear his alarm start to buzz. He distinctly remembered checking the time when he had gotten up and it was only 3:30. He knew he hadn't been staring at his ugly face in the mirror for two and a half hours.
As he headed down the hallway the alarm grew increasingly louder, almost to the point where it started to become painful. He practically ran to his night stand.
As he turned it off he looked at his bed. There was someone in it. He froze. His heart nearly leapt out of his chest. He felt the heat rising from his chest, to his neck, then to his head. A drop of sweat rolled down his face.
Unable to move, he watched as the person who was in his bed began to slowly turn toward him, their face still covered by the blanket. He tried to shake himself loose of whatever was keeping him pinned in place, but just kept getting more and more terrified.
As if being controlled by a puppeteer, his arm raised and stretched out toward the bed. His hand gripped the blanket tightly, and with a swift tug yanked it hard.
Lying there, eyes wide open, with that blank, empty stare looking right at him, was his father.
He tried to scream, but instead jolted himself awake.
His pillow was cold from the sweat that had chilled from the air conditioner kicking on in the middle of the night. His heart was racing. He sat up and tried to shake it off. He looked at his alarm clock. It read 3:30.
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