Legal Stuff: David Fisher, Keith, Nate and Claire are copyright to HBO, Alan ball and Alan poul.
started: 02/21/02 finished: 02/21/02
By SLASH
I have these dreams, horrible, awful dreams. In them, I see Keith dying, Claire dying, Nate dying, and I'm burying them all, having a funeral for them at my home. But they all have no eyes. Haunting eyes in empty eye sockets. Empty eyes...and then I wake up and stare at them in the mirror. My empty eyes.
I tell myself it isn't insanity. It can't be insanity. I can still count to one hundred and name all the Presidents of the United States. I insist it isn't insanity as I brush my teeth and comb back my hair. I catch the angle of my face and am surprised at the harshness of my jaw. How can someone cradle this face? Was my life before this real? Or was it all just a prelude to the desolation of running the funeral home?
I tell myself that I am David Fisher. I run a successful funeral home. I am a deacon at the church. I whisper my life to myself in a mantra, a single reminder of the person I used to be. I whisper them to myself in the darkness, because I am no longer sure if they are real, or if I am real.
I stand in the scalding hot water of the shower, letting the water sear my flesh. I miss the touch of my lover so much I would rather burn the skin off than feel the mocking reminder of...nothing. I stand in the shower until Mother flushes the toilet three times and bangs on the floor of the bathroom with a broomstick. My skin comes out red and sore and I put on my suit to hide it.
I walk down to the kitchen. Even, perfect steps. Fifty-four in total.
I am in control.
"Good morning, David," Mother says to me, setting down a plate of eggs and toast, with orange juice, in front of me. She makes no mention of my shower, or that my skin is red and blotchy. Claire comes in to sit next to me. Surprisingly, it is she who notices my delirium. Or unsurprisingly. Mother gives her breakfast as well, eggs that taste like rubber and toast either just stale enough to be a hockey puck or so floury that it mixes with your saliva to make a paste, and walks away.
She stares at me, longer than she has in months, years. "David," she says softly. "You feeling alright? Your skin is so...red."
She is quiet, so as not to include Mother. She is respecting my privacy, as no one respects hers. The more I meet my sister, the more I realize we've all seriously underestimated her. "I'm...under the weather," I stammer out, barely looking up at her. If I meet her eyes, I'll crack.
She gives me a long, scrutinizing stare. She doesn't believe me. I don't believe me. Help me! my mind screams, and yet all she does is turn back to her breakfast and shovel the eggs into her mouth. I start to eat my food, and we start our day.