She withered to mere limp flesh under my grip. I simply could not hold back. I loved her. I love her because she exists as a glorious opportunity for control, for final control over something larger than myself…
The trill of the repressed scream that escaped my throat echoed throughout the concrete confines of the spacious room, the room that was my own. And, no, you don't understand. This was where I came to be myself. This…this was my domain, pitiful as its musk and drab walls revealed. But, you still don't understand.
Pulling what of my hair I had to my knees, the screams finally escaped. It was like I could pull into myself – painfully so, and just…let it the fuck out. And, yes, it was a little out of control sometimes. But, the shit down here was never used anyway. And, he deserved it. The screams, he never heard. The broken glass or holed-in plywood? Well, I give him credit for noticing. Pay attention.
"Goddammit, Terrese! Control yourself, would ya? Whose going to keep cleaning up this shit?" He'd ask desperately.
Of course he didn't have the time. And, of course I would get around to cleaning it up. It was worth it all, that one moment of release. I'd cool down. I'd be ok.
The mess wasn't the point. Well, maybe it was. But, it was just another nuisance, another inconvenience to my father's…"free spirit," if you will.
No, the absence itself I didn't mind. The nothingness, it was better than the routine screams and threats of escape Cheryl made most of every night.
Then, my mother was gone. She had finally lived up to her word. Maybe I felt a sense of pride in her. She deserved a better life. If I knew anything about that lady, this I knew. But, it was over so quickly. My mother had simply left my father and me, according to the story. I certainly couldn't blame her. But, be careful. Don't reveal the truth.
I mean, I was dying. The emptiness, the nothingness, I could bear. Cheryl's flight was nothing less than self-proclaimed justice. My father's bar-hopping frenzy and selection of…ladies of the night prevented us from feigning the typical affected expected from the outside.
But, the constant chaos? The constant bullshit…to the nothingness? We were completely purged from the outside. Compliments to my father for his smooth transition as a single parent, inexcusably abandoned by his clearly unfaithful wife surged. And, hey, kudos to me for attaining perfect attendance for the two years in high school I sailed through flawlessly.
Look at what remains inside. Look at who remains dwelling in the ruins, the shameful waste that lies.
Have I pitied myself enough? Have I been justified? Do you understand why my anger is ok…must be ok? Maybe I'm a beast, maybe I don't belong with the rest of you. But, nobody can know.
And, the rain still falls, gently lapsing unto the asphalt outside my open bedroom window. I stare out from the straight-back desk chair of ancient creaking oak. Suddenly, I'm mesmerized.
The clouds are no longer able to support the expanding moisture. Naturally, inevitably, countless drops fall to the to ground, a peculiarly graceful downpour. Graceful. Moreover, ironic. Childishly personifying the waters, I am unusually comforted. The billowing clouds of engorged gray let go. In such violent release there is pervading tranquility, here, beneath the rage. White noise, and I am strangely encouraged.
I press away from the edge of my desktop, noting the barren surface. "Emptiness, more emptiness," I contemplate.
I slowly plod the few steps to the center of my square, seemingly all too stuffy room. In bumping my knee against the side of my unmade bed, I allow myself to fall and hastily maneuver unto my back, arms outstretched to either side, reaching. I stare up at the whiteness of my ceiling; I let out an all too lasting scream. Unable to suppress, engorgement of this emptiness is released.
Below, I faintly hear the springs of the long outdated, paisley-printed couch. I imagine my father shifting uncomfortably. Sure to keep his bottle of brew upright in hand, his eyes are glued to the screen that glows the multicolored pixels of the cheering crowd in the generic game show.
He understands. My episode, failing to replicate the graceful manner of the prevailing downpour, is still excusable, possibly acceptable.
Or, possibly it gathers within the vast emptiness of this place, unable to upset the stubborn apathy of these Victorian shambles.
Still, I lie staring, immobile. As the evening fades into dusk, I suddenly realize that the lulling downpour has ended – for how long, I don't recall. Yet, the realization of this end parallels the end of my preoccupation with my thoughts, the familiar pull into myself where substance still resides. Without this mesmerizing introspection, motion must fill the physical space.
He is gone, I deem before reaching the living room and pulling the well-worn navy hoodie over my head. Then, just one look for confirmation, I scan the couch, noticing the familiar collection of bottles accrued upon the self-crafted coffee table. I reach the end of the hallway and escape through the front entryway.
At least we live in town. I feel the common craving for human life. I do not wish to interact…God, how useless I find social small talk. No, I am obviously not a poster child fro the limelight. But, I need to be surrounded, the heat, the noisy mutterings. I need to know that I am not alone. I still exist…right? I need to confirm this seemingly fabricated substance that I perceive of myself.
I walk the few desolate blocks to the small main street, to the town's infamous diner, Frank's, as its known. I take my usual place at the bar. After all, any tables occupied on these nightly escapades never fail to remain empty of companionship.
At the bar, I remain at least physically close to others, customers who are typically comfortable with choosing a barstool adjacent to others….particularly me.
Yet, tonight I find the place practically empty, one family still finishing up a late dinner at a corner table and a young couple sharing a sundae at the far side of the bar. Finally, I notice the corpulent waitress in her light pink uniform, starting down at me impatiently. I let out a sigh of indifference while trying to decide upon a drink to justify my characteristic loitering. I dig into my jean pocket to pull out two crumpled dollar bills and a handful of coins, which I sprawl out on the counter.
"A strawberry milkshake, please," I choose disinterestedly.
"How are you doing, Terrese?" comes the reply, causing me to question my original judgement of Peggy, perhaps simply tired after a full shift. I stare at her face for a few moments, unaware of my sinking introspection again.
"Your father's been around. I think he slipped into the old brewery 'bout an hour or so ago," Peggy encouraged.
"Yeah. He enjoys his casual drink every now and again as you know," I re-enter reality at the mention of my father, then hope my sarcasm isn't too apparent.
"Well, I'll be right back with that shake. You stay here as long as you'd like. I could use some company 'til closing up shop," she feigns ignorance.
Almost unavoidably, I slip back into my thoughts as she trudges to the edge of the kitchen, reaching the various vats of ice cream. I contemplate the growing trend. Obviously the alcoholism becomes more and more apparent to the outside. And, at times, I let my guard down. Outside of school, the weight upholding the sunny mask of sharp intellect tires me. Yet, the town seems to play along without a hitch. I suppose it's easier on us all this way- supposedly.
I'm still stuck on this approach as Peggy returns, placing the tall icy glass on the counter at the point of my deep stare. My eyesight then shifts, wearily, from counter to pink liquid to Peggy. Peggy meets my gaze briefly, then casually turns her back to reach for the bleached white cloth and continues her cleaning behind the bar. But, still I gaze, no longer at her face; I take in her whole figure, meticulously.
Soft, the top of her hips gush out from her tightly-clasped pink mini. The plentiful mass meets the small of her overall broad, strong back, shoulders working methodically at scrubbing the counter surface. Finally, the contrast of her thin neck, bearing the wisps of mousy brown hair escaping the messy bun, carries an air of delicacy. My eyes rest on this area of Peggy for several moments. A feeling reminding me of the evening downpour fills my stomach. I want to stare until I am full, the melting milkshake completely abandoned.
"Hey, Peggy," I finally murmur automatically.
"Mmhmm?" she responds without turning. I am unsure of how to proceed. I simply want to interact with my field of vision.
"What do you do outside the diner?" Maybe I'm more interested than I originally realized. And, now Peggy turns to face me, cloth still clutched in her right hand.
"What an odd question, child!" comes the animated response.
"Maybe," I respond, "But, for as much time we spend in here togetherwe sure as hell know shit about each other."