Epistle to Your Former Self

but when the party was over and the others had gone to bed, the man was still awake, lying on his back looking up at the stars. pairing off like Noah's Ark, his friends were happy and he was happy for them so they all were happy. but he wanted to be happier and he wanted to not be a liar and he wanted all these pretty things in life that turned into pretty little disappointments -- rubies that turn to dust in your hand. the stars were starting and flickering and fading and the man was tired of the stars being so far away from him. cold distant light, an anglerfish at the bottom of his heart, tempting him with light and food and water, all of it good for him but none of it real. stars like teeth on a saw, cutting into him every time he looked up. so he decided he would never look up again, he would forget about her, whoever she was, and he would stare down into the earth, that cold, lonely last stop, never really stopping to look where he was going, but always escaping from the starsaws.

and it's easy when you're down. it's harder to stand up, to not crack, to shout fuck you every time someone who said they'd be there isn't. but it's just not possible anymore. you lost that golden glow, the blonde haired girls of your past, you've lost yourself in someone else -- someone who isn't charming or brave or confident or clever. and you get tired of writing these rants that have no end, always thrown off by the pacing of the whole ordeal, always looking for a way out of these worthless words and trying to find a way to become more actual -- more entelechinetic. which is not to say that I'm real anymore, but the process of becoming real would be nice; a wraith in the willows.

All the times I tried to run, I never made it past the pond. God knows how much I hated my house, especially in the winter when the darkness moved swiftly over the snow banks, leaving me a prisoner in my room. Boxes neatly stacked in one corner next to my twin sized bed left little space for me to maneuver around in and the small window above my bed let in a few rays from time to time, but it was never enough to make it feel like home. It was essentially just a place to sleep; no posters of my favorite band on the wall, no TV and video game setup that I could pass the time with, just a clean empty space and bare blue walls. Something about that pond though always held me close – ageless and deep, the last hope for salvation buried in its mirrored darkness.

There’s this one time in particular I’m thinking of. It was just about mid-January and I was in my bed, reading a book I had been working on for my English class, trying to get a little bit ahead like usual. Mom wasn’t home from work yet, and Stacy was making dinner for us that night. Nothing too complex, since she had only recently begun to make meals on her own; I’m pretty sure it was tacos that night. Regardless, the food was almost ready when my Dad stumbled in, throwing open the simple cherry red door at the bottom of the stairs with a theatrical flair. He was obviously drunk, aside from the fact that he leaves work at three and could’ve been home by three thirty if there had been traffic and it was now seven, his glazed eyes, unkempt hair and smoky demeanor said it best. Hearing his brutal ascent upward towards the kitchen, I ducked out of my room down the long hallway to try and fend off some of the flak Stacy would undoubtedly receive for not having dinner on the table.

I didn’t get there quick enough and I heard the screams from both sides, flatly resonating through dead air. When I got to the kitchen, she was on the floor, curled and crying on the dirty white tile with him standing over her, several chairs scattered and overturned in his wake. As he started to pull her up by the hair, I ran in swinging knowing that I didn’t have a chance. I thought about her. I thought about steel beams, ancient granite, thought about having hammers for fists, and most importantly, I didn’t think about anything. I just acted. My punch hit him in the jaw, flesh cracking against hard bone, and sent him back into the sink. That was all the time I could give her and she knew enough to run. I cocked back for another salvo, hands sweating and thought about why I didn’t grab a ceramic plate off of the table, still neatly set with a snowflake tablecloth and silverware.

My nose was broken and a stream of dark red sprayed across the stovetop as I went down. I was screaming; flailing around on the tile like a fish on land, legs kicking chairs, shins, oven doors – anything so long as I could stay conscious. There was a parting shot to my ribs I couldn’t see coming through closed and blackened eyes, and I heard my father panting loudly, the air above me thick with whiskey and hate. It was several minutes before I tried to get up, and I assumed that he had retreated down the hallway to pass out. Crawling by memory, I found my downcast coat near the porch door and gathered myself on a kitchen countertop. Opening the door, I scrambled out into the deep, wonderfully brisk air and felt the snow pushing itself against my wounded face like a protective mother.

The hundred yard trek normally wasn’t too tough to make, but considering the weather, my blood encrusted face and my freshly swollen eyes, it was almost five minutes before I reached the clearing. Clean, unspoiled snow covered everything dead and gone, branches on the outskirt heavy with winter and I thought that this would make a great postcard; a boy standing alone in a snowy clearing, the inky mirrored water next to him, an enraptured scream escaping his lips, wanting nothing more than for the icy embrace of winter to take him and pull him close. Stacy probably would’ve ran to the neighbor’s house about 200 yards in the opposite direction, and Mom wouldn’t be home for at least three more hours. I’m not religious by any means, but I never imagined Hell as a burning inferno of darkness and demons. Hell to me was always a lonely desert of ice, where you could walk forever in any direction and you’d always be bitterly frozen to the core. But you would never freeze to death out there, and you could never lie down to rest; you just kept moving nowhere. The weird thing is, Heaven was the same thing; you were free from everything, the air was so cold it would freeze cleanly in your lungs, and there was no one that would spoil the spotless landscape, not even you, because the snow would be sinking quietly like a graveyard. I thought about all those things and smiled to myself, congealed blood cracking sweetly on my lips as the empty echoes of silence rang out across the still January water.

He felt like the last sunset of winter, when the few remaining rays of light would blossom into a brilliant gold, covering the ground in sweet sunlight before spring came. His time was coming and he knew it.