Tag: Vol. 69

The house used to hum with him. The soft clicks of claws on tile, the sigh before sleep, the thump-thump of a tail against the floor. Morning light would spill across his white fur, and for a moment, everything golden belonged to us. Cooper—my deaf old dog somehow heard my heart. I’d whisper anyway, low voice, lips close to his ear, Good boy, I love you, and he’d lift his head like the words were a touch.  

Now the house holds its breath. The air feels too still, too sharp around the edges. Sometimes I think I hear him—the faint rhythm of paws, a phantom shift of weight—but it’s only memory rearranged itself into sound. Moose runs through the yard now, wild and loud, joy spilling from him like water, but even his bark carries an echo of what came before.  

Loss has a sound, I think. It’s the hush after laughter. The quiet spot in the air where something once lived and loved. When the wind moves through the trees, soft and sudden, I hear it—the ghost of a sigh, the memory of a tail. And for a breath, it’s all back again: the warmth, the rhythm, the heartbeat beneath my hand.

The suburban shopping mall. The gateway to shopping. The gathering area for hanging around. The setting for timeless romantic comedies. Skylights embellish the ceilings, working with the indoor trees to create a soothing harmony, only topped off with water fountains. At least one fountain can be found in an atrium that can hold a catapult. The immersion is almost immediate when you walk through the doors. 

But it’s not just about doing a grocery run with a pen and paper for a shopping list. It’s about meeting people. It’s about the ambience. It’s about stopping for a bite. I still remember stopping for cookies at Mrs. Field’s. Did you know that the chain still exists? 

That was yesterday. Today, major online corporations like Amazon have hijacked the mall’s customer base. First, it was big box stores. Chain stores have left their utopias to languish in the hands of the elements and vandals. The very rain from which these enclosed cities protected us seeps through leaks in the ceiling, setting the stage for mold and mildew growth. The 21^st century is a grim era for malls. 

I don’t remember her name. She told me a while ago, I’m sure. Maybe I wasn’t fully listening. Maybe the sound of her name fell out of my ears. Ping-ponging around the cartilage and zipping out. I want to ask her to say it, but then she’ll get the wrong idea about me. I should not be the guy that forgets a girl’s name. But I am. So I don’t ask. It might be too late for me to ask. 

The speaker pulses on beat next to us. Someone’s drink has been set on top of it, and the red solo cup is dancing its way toward the edge, a buzzing centimeter at a time. “Think you want to go upstairs?” She shouts over the music, looking up at me. Her face paint is luminescent in the UV darkness. It’s like a free-floating mask appearing to have no owner. A red imposter grin drawn across her lips, impishly exaggerated. Eyes looking out through two blue diamonds. The cherry circle for the nose.  

It all makes me wonder if there really is a girl underneath it all. 

“What?” I shout. Though I had heard her. 

“Want to go upstairs?” She is bumped by the tail of a dragon costume. “It’s getting crowded down here.” 

She’s right. The basement has become a shifting mass of bodies shuffling along the carpet. Bouncing to the baseline, sprawling out onto the couches, or even on top of each other. Heathens, mom would say. No respect for themselves. I nod. 

“Let’s go up then.” She grabs my hand and lets me follow her up the stairs, away from the noise. I get the impulse to ask for her name, but it seems pointless if she is not facing me. She opens the door at the top of the stairs, and my eyes stutter at the sudden white light. When they stop, I can’t tell if the kitchen before me has been painted yellow or white. As if my sight had suddenly become oversaturated in the purple of the UV. It happens briefly, as my corneas finally adjust, and the world’s colors are back to normal. Was it a warning? A fail safe to keep my wandering head in the basement. In the dark where I belong. I open my mouth, hoping to get her to come back down with me, but she continues up a second set of stairs just off the kitchen. My hand is still linked with hers. The ball of her wrist barely poking out of the tulle fastened to her sleeve. 

“Why a clown?” I ask. “What made you pick that?” 

“No other good costumes.” 

Upstairs, a long hallway greets us with its doors ajar. She picks the first bedroom to our right. My guess is that it’s the master bedroom. Besides the giant bed giving this away, the corner of the room houses a wooden wine rack. The shadows of the top bottles spill onto the bottom ones.  

“They must be alcoholics,” she remarks, sitting on the edge of the bed. “See anything good for us?” 

I skim the labels, all written in the type of script that no soul can decipher. I pull out one with gold lettering on red paper. No son of mine will ever drink that poison. The voice is so clear, yet watery. As if conjuring up from the air behind me so it is just heard by me. Not anyone else. And I ignore it. 

I pick up two glasses from the rack and bring them over to her. I hand her the bottle to pour, in case she thought I would want to put something in her drink. Not that I would. She uncorks the reusable stopper and out slides the ribbon of red. Poison. I quickly sit down next to her, resisting the urge to press my fingers over my hurrying heart. I feel as if something in the ground below us is preparing to grab a hold of my ankles and pull me straight through the earth. I still drink and she does too. 

“I can take the makeup off if you want,” she explains through the imposter grin. The white paint across her face looks duller than it had downstairs. Like the blood has been completely drawn from it. I nod, and she steps into the bathroom. The sink inside shushes to life. 

I place my hands flat over my knees. There is a mirror across from me, but I don’t let myself glance up at it. I am worried about what I might see reflected back at me. I imagine the silhouette of mom’s hand pressing down on my shoulder, waiting for me to notice. To explain what I am doing in this room. Convince it that this boy before the mirror is not the same one it knows. As if I could convince myself in the first place. 

She’s out of the bathroom now, holding a stained paper towel. She sits back down. The ghost of the paint is still faintly present, particularly the blue diamonds around her eyes. Faded and grayish like a watercolor portrait. She’s washed most of the red off, but the pink line of the fake smile has remained attached to her lips. Under her chin, she missed a spot of white paint. I want to touch my thumb to it, wipe it off for her. I feel like if I try that, I might cry.  

She’s just that beautiful. 

I look down. My hands are now tightly gripping my knees. She leans in close enough that I can feel the strings of breath on my neck. Her lips find the bone of my jawline. That’s all men are good for. They think with one thing only. The lips go away, but I am still stuck staring at my hands. I wonder if these are the hands that actually belong to me, because I can’t seem to move them at all. I hear the rustling of her costume, and I know for sure she is taking it off. 

I begin to see my hands working at the buttons of my own costume. But it’s not me doing it. In fact, I cannot feel my hands at all. Someone from somewhere else must have hijacked them. And I am observing them as if from inside the little window of a camera. Everything is distant and small. Numb. 

I’m now looking at her face, but I no longer see the traces of the paint on her skin. The world is blinking off. I think I must be above her. She whispers, but my ears are underwater. Down to the deep. She lifts her head, and places her lips on mine. Though I don’t feel it. You’re perverted. I can’t see her anymore. I am blinking in and out of space, with no discernible image or feeling. Just the sense that my mind and my body are untethered from one another. I am drifting toward the edge, a buzzing centimeter at a time. Perverted. 

She is back in my vision. Slowly from an indistinct blur of shape, back to clear again. The numb dissipates. I feel as if I had fallen through into a scene I don’t remember watching. That I have missed something crucial that I can never recover.  

She has her hand in my hair, stroking my scalp with warm fingers. “What happened? Did I lose you?” 

I am looking at her. She is unrecognizable.

The alarm blares, and you struggle to wake up. The light beaming through the window dances in front of your closed eyes. It’s too much for your dry, irritated pupils, but you try to find the courage to open them. 

When you do, you’re met with a pounding headache that reminds you of the night before. You jolt at the realization, causing the bottles on the bed to echo as they hit the floor.  You hear the bottle calling to you, my voice begging you to reopen it, but the sound sends spikes through your head. Your vision is blurred, you fight to catch a thought, but I have dried up your conscience. The only thought that remains still enough for you to catch it is your disappointment.  

It takes a while to gain the energy to pull yourself out of your childhood bed and venture into the kitchen. You need water to subside your dehydration, but that requires you to pass your living room. There, your father is asleep on the recliner, my warm, familiar scent filling the room. His phone vibrates, signifying that it’s 10 a.m. Far too late in the morning for your father to make it to work without consequence, and too late for you to make it to school. Again.  

You suddenly feel sick.  

You rush to the bathroom and begin splashing water on your face, erratically rubbing your hands on your face until it burns. You rub until your hands are covered in your dead skin. You rub until your skin is raw. You rub, trying to erase my existence, but you cannot erase who you see in the mirror.  

Your eyes are swollen. Your face, puffy and red. You look like him.  

Water drips from your hands to your elbows, the chill churning into nausea. Tears spring in your eyes and you rush to the toilet.  

Hunched over the porcelain, you’re reminded of your own childhood. In the early mornings before school, watching your father empty the contents of his stomach after a night out. Your hands are gripping the toilet just as he did. 

You vowed to never be like him, but you, too, have succumbed to the peace that accompanies a drink. Just like him, you irresponsibly toyed with me and now you’re hooked. You feel my claws gripping onto every part of you. My words, coursing through you.  

Guilt gnaws at your chest as you puke.   

You make the decision then to never become him.  

This is the last time, you promise.  

---

To not become him, you outrun him.  

You graduate with honors and secure a full ride to college, escaping the hometown he’s trapped in. You hope that once you leave town, my calls will disappear. The more miles away, you reasoned, the quieter I’d be.  

You were mistaken.  

The addiction runs in your veins. You feel it in your daily dose of caffeine and in how you only consume media in copious amounts, over-consuming television to seize your thoughts, and refusing to pause the music in your ear. You feel it in how your mind shuts off at the tiniest drip, and you feel me in the peace that comes afterwards.  

Nothing silences me, so you decide that you need a job. Yes, because as long as you’re busy, there won’t be time to think me over. But we both know that responsibility has never pushed me away for too long. You can’t hide from me, but you do try to run.  

And run you do.  

To escape the temptation of stillness, you get two jobs. Every second of the day is dedicated to an obligation. Class in the morning. Work. Class in the evening. Work again at night. Repeat.  If you work every weekend, you won’t be tempted to join your roommates’ celebrations. If you have enough money, maybe you can set yourself up for success, and you will never have to reach the lows of your father.  

You suppose that you cannot succumb to genetics if you have no time, but I always find a way to sneak in.  

Late at night, when you’re alone at the front desk working, the silence is filled with my invitations. Your body is exhausted and your legs ache from working such long hours. Just a sip wouldn’t hurt. It would dull your pain, I promise.  

You contemplate the offer, but visions of your father slouched on the recliner and my reeking scent ground you. No, you decide to stay away from me, but you do learn that addiction comes in different forms.  

You begin to chase romantic endeavors, hoping the constant attention will derail your descent into darkness. The kind words from potential partners ease the part of you that hates yourself. Without that constant hatred, there’s little room for me to sway you. Every waking moment of yours is dedicated to something—an assignment, a job, a romantic partner. You have no time to give in.    

You think you’ve won, but the relationships always come to an end, and once they crash, you hear me urging you to take away the shame. You fight my imploring voice by downloading another dating app. The cycle continues.  

You work yourself to the bone. Paper after paper. Shift after shift. You have to be successful. You cannot become him. And you think it’s working, because you’ve gone months without me. You must be doing something right, even if you struggle to hold your eyes open from exhaustion.  

---

“Would it be okay if a few friends came over tonight?” Maisie’s question pulls you out of focus.  

“Is that really necessary?”  

“It would be fun. Besides,” she smiled, “you deserve a break.” 

“I’d actually appreciate if I could be alone tonight.” you hear your voice laced with irritation, but you can’t help it.  

Maisie seemingly nods understandingly, but you hear the slam of her wardrobe as a true testament to her feelings.  

“Is there something wrong?” you ask.  

“Is there something wrong with you?” Maisie challenges. At your look of bewilderment, she continues. “Why are you so reluctant to let anyone in?”  

“I’m just busy.” The truth is you fear my imploration, but you’ll never tell her that.   

“You say no every single time. What’s wrong with you?” 

“What is that supposed to mean?” You argue back, feeling your anger rise.  

“Look around. You have no one.”  

Your anger fades into guilt and it eats at you, because you know she’s not wrong. It’s hard for you to keep friends, not because you despise connection, but because you fear coercion.  

You look down. “That’s the way I like it.” 

“You like doing this to yourself? You’re miserable to be around!” She cries, arms flailing in exasperation.  

You stare at her, face blank. You register her immediate regret, but before she could feed you her apology, you’re out the door.  

Thoughts of me dance in your head, temping indulgence to wash away your shame, but instead you run. You slide into your sneakers and slam the door behind you. You’re not sure where you’re running, but you go as fast as you can, away from the guilt, away from the pain of her words, and as far away as you can from my persuasion.  

You run until your calves burn and you can hear your heartbeat through your ears. You run until the only sound is your feet slamming into the ground beneath you, and you run until you collapse on the ground, exhausted.  

You quickly learn that you chase the high of a thrill because the adrenaline feeds the part of you that craves my affection. You keep running.  

The adrenaline provided momentary relief, but I always resurface.  

You feel the exhaustion set as you begin limping back to the dorm. You feel it deep in your bones and you’re sure that you’ll collapse right into bed.

Unfortunately, my voice still coos as you try to sleep.

---

You wake with the same heavy heart you went to bed with. Despite your sleep, you’re ridden with exhaustion from my presence.  

The creaky wooden floor of your dorm cries while you slide off your ridiculously high bed, and the floor continues to sing as you make your way to the mirror.  

You might not look like him, no. Your eyes aren’t a piercing shade of blue, and you didn’t get the gene for red hair. But he’s written all over you. In your laughter and sarcasm. In your introverted tendencies, and in our chemistry. Nothing you do erases him. 

Nothing can erase me, because when you look in the mirror, you hear me whispering. I’m begging you to abandon today’s responsibilities and join your father on the recliner. You silence me with a portable pencil sharpener, carefully removing the blade and sliding it across your wrists, hoping the release will subside what you truly want. As the blood drips, your mind quiets and turns to static. You do this to not become him. 

You feel relief for mere minutes before the shame sets in.  

Nothing seems to satisfy you. You suppose that’s what addiction is—a lack of satisfaction. So, you take and you take.  

You chase a sense of fulfilment in everything but me, but no matter the letter grade, direct deposit, or the number of women you’ve been with, you are still unsatisfied. You might not see his smile in your reflection, or his swollen face, but you feel like him. Unsatisfied.  

You run, but the feeling always returns.  

At your lover’s abandonment, you search to fill my hole.   

When you are ashamed of your actions, you chase a way to subdue my persuasion.  

Nothing you have done has blocked me out. You pursue satisfaction through other means, but what’s the point of fighting fate? Let me in.   

After months of rejecting my invitations, you decide to go home for the weekend. For the first time, you don’t show up to your scheduled shift, and you silence your ringing phone. You abandon the assignments due tonight.  

All you’re worried about is opening his stash. And you do. You always come back to me.  

When you enter the living room, you see your father on the recliner, surrounded by my aroma.  

When he sees you, he smiles. “You’re home, kiddo?”  

“Yeah, I am.” 

Looking next to him, you see a half-empty bottle. When he notices your eyes drifting to his ignominy, he quickly defends it.  

“Big game today, just getting ready.” He laughs, quietly ashamed. Smiling sadly, you shake your head in understanding. After giving him a hug, you make your way to the kitchen. 

You open the cabinet that holds his collection. You feel a pit form in your stomach, and instead of backing away, you finally grab me and throw your head back. 

I burn your throat as you swallow and the weight in your chest begins to dissipate. Whether it’s relief from our contact, or from surrendering the war, you instantly feel better. You don’t feel insufficient. Memories of your pummeled relationships and fight for control begin to dissolve, like a string losing its tension.  

The stress that you carefully balanced loses all pertinence.  Peace takes the place of fear.  

This is why he does it, and you finally understand. You’ve spent so much time trying not to become him that you didn’t realize that you already are him.  

Miserable. Tired. Alone.   

If this is who you are, what’s the point in fighting me?   

You finish off the bottle. Just today, you reason. Maybe you must give in entirely to get me out of your system.  

Next week you’ll stop, you promise.