Chapter Six: Cold, Wet, Things


When I arrived at Charlie's house my mood was unnaturally calm. The Beast seemed to share in my ache, as his purring had become a low, almost popping, series of click s amidst the rumble. Even now, as I procrastinated turning the key, the Beast noisily throbbed in solidarity. Almost asking if I was ready to go inside and amend my most profound regret since coming here:

The neglect of my mother.

For the past two days she and I hadn't spoken. An impossibility if you'd looked at our history in the many years leading up to now. She could scarcely go six hours without talking to me. So much so that she always called during her lunch break to check in on me while I was home-schooled.

It was cruel to purposefully avoid her calls by keeping my cell phone turned off. Crueler, still, to delete her voicemails from Charlie's answering machine to hide them from my father.

But, in my defense, I didn't know how to talk to her about Edward. Or, closer to the truth, I couldn't risk opening up about all the things I'd kept from her over the years.

What happened with Edward was just another drop in a sea of unspoken little things I'd buried deep inside me. Simply because whenever she caught a glimpse of what really went on in my head, she couldn't handle herself. She'd shrivel into a ball of arms and legs, like a dying spider.

A quiet statue pretending to watch TV, torpored on her bed or the couch, running on autopilot for hours; days. Even weeks.

I think it was her lack of being able to help or understand what I was going through that left her so stuck.

Yet, the fact of the matter was, however unfeeling it is on my part to conceal things from her, I could barely function with my own emotional intensity. Having to be the confidant for her emotions on top of it had steadily become too much for me to cope with.

Still, I loathed how despicable it made me. That I couldn't handle her little bouts of grief.

While I couldn't say for sure what year, age, or situation had begun to erode my temperance – sometime during mom and Phil's honeymoon, the corrosion had finally been realized.

The only future I could see for the two of us was like a grand, frail, canyon held together with dried, listless boards with no tools to salvage it. Bent, rusty nails were the only things I had left besides explosives to salvage the colossal mess.

In her favor, my mother was a beautiful mess. Her soul was wonderful chaos and if I resembled her in the slightest I should consider it an honor. However, she made up for what she lacked in executive function and stability with an unyielding appetite for life. This rich vivacity in the pursuit of goodness and self-growth that most people (I had met) rarely aspired to.

Thus, one might understand why I couldn't endure satiating her every anxious thought after everything that happened with him.

Soothing myself in the buzzing warmth of the Beast's toasty cab, I stalled a little longer. It could have been a couple of minutes or an hour, but eventually I harnessed the gumption to turn off the ignition, slide my book-bag into my hip, and scavenge inside the larger front-side pocket for my cellular flip phone.

It would take a bit for the phone to wake up, much less receive the bloated swamp of texts and calls from the void, so I took that as a sign to lock up the Beast and head inside.

Trudging along the wet brick driveway in front of Charlie's house and locking the door behind me out of habit.

Once my coat was hung up in the front closet, and my bag had been set upstairs beside my desk, I rechecked the phone.

Surprisingly, there were only six missed calls and two voicemails from my mom.

She must be holding back.

A bright number '5' shone above the little envelope that marked my text messages, which might seem excessive compared to some.

Still, I'd expected a great deal more after going radio silent for nearly two days.

With a breath to gird myself, I opened the first message, which had been sent yesterday at 1:45 pm:

'Beau,' she began. 'Call me when you get back to Charlie's house? I want to know how your day went'

The next was sent a few hours later, at 5:07 pm:

'Is everything okay? You haven't called. Did the power go out? Please call me when you get this.'

Followed almost immediately with:

'Honey, I called Charlie's house. Are you both out getting dinner? Please call me when you get back (smiley face)'

The last text she'd sent yesterday had been received at 9:33 pm:

'Did you lose your charger cord? It goes straight to voicemail. I've been calling Charlie's house, why aren't you picking up? Please don't shut me out. Worried about you'

The final message from my mother had been sent just a few minutes ago, at 4:02 pm, and had a different tone than the others.

It read:

'Baby, if you don't call me by 5 I'm calling Charlie at the station.'

Grimacing at the thought of dealing with a worried Charlie on top of this convoluted mess, I hit the 'call' button and held the silver-gray flip phone against my ear.

It didn't even ring twice before she picked up the phone.

"Beau?! Is that you?" She sounded as frazzled as I thought she'd be.

The wiry fingers of guilt clenched around my stomach as I sat at my desk to turn the computer on.

"Yeah, it's me," I tried to sound comforting, but the anxiety likely showed in my voice because she said:

"Sweetheart, what happened?"

I heard Phil talking in the background, although the whipping sounds of shuffling muffled his words.

"Is that Beau?" He seemed to ask, but given the heavy thumping and lack of further questioning, I presumed my mother had left the room.

Stalling for an acceptable lie and procrastinating by listening for Phil's voice, I only answered when she pressed me again: "Beau? What happened, honey?"

"Not much. Just, you know, getting used to school."

She wasn't convinced, not that I expected her to be so easily fooled. "Were they mean to you?"

The memory of Edward's dark, sharp eyes flickered through my mind's eye. So sharply that my chest felt like it had been ruptured. Hastily, I put him from my mind to focus on Mike, Eric, and Angela.

"No. They've all been very welcoming…"

A worried sigh fell from her lips like morning dew. "Oh, honey, tell me all about it."

"It doesn't" – Irritated that my attempts at shielding myself from her had gone awry, I shoved a random notebook off the computer desk as if it could burn off the excess angst inside me – "even matter."

What was I supposed to tell her? Some gorgeous guy had been a jerk to me? How pathetic.

"Yes, it does, sweetheart," my mother cooed to soothe, like melted honey or a balm.

"I don't want to talk about it," I finally admitted to her. "It's just an adjustment, getting used to school and everything. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure, baby?"

As grateful as I was for her sympathy, for whatever reason, it annoyed me. Instead of being comforted, I felt smothered and coddled – which was a horrible feeling to have for one's mother. Especially since, I'd never felt this bothered by her until the last six months or so.

"Yeah. It's just really boring here. Not much to share."

A terrible lie, but whether she believed it or not, she desisted.

"Okay, honey," she assured, but I could tell by the tone of her voice that she was disappointed that I didn't open up. "We can talk about it later, if you want to."

"Okay," I parroted, to try and kill the subject. "How are things going with you and Phil?"

"Oh! We're good! Phil and I are flying to Florida next week to look at rental houses and…"

Unintentionally tuning her out, as the conversation began to become repetitive of things that she had already told me before I left Phoenix, I focused instead on the poor old computer rising from the dead in front of me.

Occasionally letting out an: 'Uh huh', 'sure', or 'that sounds great' as the wretchedly slow machine sputtered to life.

Sometime during the conversation, when she began talking about buying a new swimsuit, my mom finally noticed that I'd stopped paying attention.

"You're not really into this, are you?" She teased in good-humored mischief. Snapping my focus from the lagging screen back to the phone call.

I laughed gently into the phone. "No, not really. But you should take pictures of the houses and stuff. Show me what it's like in Florida."

My mother's tone practically squeaked from enthusiasm. "Phil said he'll teach me how to use his digital camera! We'll be sure to send you lots of pictures, honey."

"That's cool, mom," I gushed in return. Only for her excitement to shift from the pictures to the thing, she was really excited for.

"But, you'll see for yourself when you come back? Spring Break is in April? You'll come visit us then?"

I'd be lying if I said calling this Forks excursion quits and heading back to my mother in April wasn't appealing. For a moment I allowed myself to be lured, drawn in by the comforting safety that my mother's company provided. It would be wonderful to be near her again. To talk or draw together, sit and drink coffee or cocoa while we watch our favorite shows, and let myself mold into the framework of 'mommy's precious boy' for the rest of my life.

But I had to let go. I couldn't really understand why it was so pressing that I loosened the chord – after all, who did I really care about impressing? I had no close friends – only that I wasn't done trying yet.

Mom needed to devote the time she'd spend with me to her new husband if they were ever going to work. If she was ever going to survive without me as her dearly beloved, but deeply flawed, little crutch.

A visit couldn't hurt, though.

"Um, sure. If Phil thinks it's okay."

The squeal on the other end of the line was so loud that I had to hold my cell phone a few inches from my face. Squinting at the shrillness in her voice before I pressed the plastic against my cheek again.

"Phil! Phil!" – I could hear her running to the other room and sighed. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump! – "He's coming to visit in April!"

Even with the exasperation, the grin on my face stretched from ear to ear. Gods, I missed her exuberance. Later on, I'd notice how she didn't even bother asking Phil and be annoyed with how she'd prioritized me first, again, but for now I soaked in the zest of the moment.

"We have to get his ticket!" She excitedly called out, bringing a harder laugh to my lips.

"Wait! Mom! Mom! I don't know when Spring Break is! We have to check the dates before you just buy tickets!"

We laughed then, herself at her excited folly and me at how she never changed. It was a wonderful thing, sometimes, to know someone as well as you knew yourself.

"I know, I know," she reassured. "I'm just so happy! It's not the same without you here."

"I know, mom," I retorted, drinking in the sunny mirth of her happiness like a dried-out sponge.

In the invisible arms of my mother's familiar voice, the temptation to tell her what happened toyed against the tip of my tongue. While she started to gush about her upcoming trip to Jacksonville, the urge steadily grew until I couldn't contain the desire anymore. The need for connection, our connection, threatened to flood over the rim of my heart.

So, before we ended the call, I cleared my throat to interrupt her:

"Hey, mom?"

She paused, no doubt sensing something was amiss from my tone. "Yeah, honey?"

Yet, as I swallowed my pride and parted my lips to say something, the wind beneath my sails faltered. Whether it was cowardice, or something lurking in my subconscious that silenced me, I lost my nerve. Kicking myself as a more important message flooded from my mouth:

"I miss you."

"Awhh, baby, I miss you, too, " She merrily reciprocated.

Something in the way her voice mellowed from the phone enticed me to slide my fingers over my bracelet. Absorbing the unbridled safety of her love into each turquoise stone, each gold and corded detail woven with the strength of our bond.

Somehow, I knew she was touching her necklace with me.

In my opinion, the probability of psychic powers existing was slim to none. However, the image of her hand on those matching stones, the same hand which had held mine tightly while I learned how to walk, helped me feel less alone.

For the time being, I had everything I needed. A fresh wave of nourishment rippled through me like a pebble on a pond.

Satisfied by the length of the call, as any call that was too long tended to add anxiety rather than alleviate it, I wet my lips to begin the slow unraveling of words that was ending a phone call.

"I gotta go, mom. I have homework to start working on."

Her disappointment came in the form of a soft, mournful little sigh that struggled to remain optimistic. "Are you sure? You know we can talk about anything if you need to."

"Yeah," I paused to wet my lips again, then gently tapped my fingertips on the desk in an unconscious habit. "I'm fine, mom. I'll call tomorrow."

Whether or not she was convinced, she didn't fight me on it. "Alright, honey, I'll be here."

"Night, mom."

"Goodnight h-" she'd just begun to say when I hit 'end' button and closed the flip phone. I hadn't meant to hang up mid-sentence, but my brain auto-finished her goodbye faster than she said the words.

As we were hanging up anyway, I didn't bother calling or texting to apologize. It happened when I tried to talk, too, and she'd experienced that my whole life.

A silly thing to worry about, but I'd been vexed over more ridiculous things.

Not wanting to think of another ridiculous thing or even think of his name, I focused instead on connecting this ancient computer to the internet. Clicking on the AOL icon and waiting as the robot voices of cheap dial-up began to scream into the great beyond.

It took a whopping three and a half minutes for the little AOL person icon to stop its repetitive dance. The last thirty seconds were spent spinning around in my computer chair to dispel the tedium.

How many programs did I use back in Phoenix? I'd have to download them all again and hope I remembered the passwords.

Signing on, I set to work on downloading my favorite programs: Itunes, Yahoo Instant Messenger, Bittorrent, DVDVideoSoft's Free Youtube Downloader, VLC video player, Gimp, and other less critical little programs I liked to have at the ready for personal use.

While those downloaded one at a time– at the speed of a salted snail – I browsed the net for my favorite websites. Making the most of the slow crawl of time by saving my known passwords to this wretched old computer via the 'remember me' feature. I didn't have a right to complain about this free-to-me computer, but I wished my dad had gotten me something a little bit faster.

It took a whole hour until I had yahoo instant messenger up and running. One dull, homework-filled hour of waiting for several downloads to finish so I could run the installation software.

A whole hour to realize, with a faint twinge of apathy, that all the circles next to the names of my old 'school friends' in Phoenix were grayed out.

Either they were offline or hiding behind an 'invisible' status to spare themselves further conversation with me. I supposed it hardly mattered, anyway, since I couldn't think of anything I wanted to say when there was a chance I wouldn't be returning to school with them.

Remembering the note from Eric and Angela, I fished it out of my bag to read it. Feeling each wrinkle in the paper as I smoothed it out against my pant leg.

The note seemed to have been written by Angela, if only because I had yet to meet a single guy my age with both elegant and legible handwriting…

It wasn't a very detailed note. It just had the names, phone numbers, emails, and instant messenger information that belonged to Angela and Eric, followed by:

We're here for you (lopsided happy face).

While I would certainly last longer if I made a friend in this dismal place, the idea of adding Eric to Facebook or any other social media left a bad taste in my mouth. He seemed like a nice guy, but Gods was he nosy. Would he send me a thousand questions the second I gave him have my instant messenger info?

The mere thought exhausted me, but I put his number in my cell phone contacts anyway. Just as a precautionary measure, in case Connor or his 'buddies' ever did wanna beat my ass or something.

Adding Angela's number to my cellphone was something I didn't think twice about. I even added her email to my contact list and sent her a friend request on Yahoo Instant Messenger.

Her username was: FlordeBrilla, and curious, I googled what that meant on a translating website. 'Sparkle Flower' or 'Glitter Flower' were the only definitions I could find, save for if she told me it meant something else. I even found it fun to say.

Floor-day-briee-uh, Flor'd'breeuh, Floor'de'briya, I sounded it out in my head. Amused at my silly attempts to roll the 'R'.

Floor-debris-ya? Okay, that's enough…

Eager to focus my overactive mind on something else, I minimized the Yahoo Instant Messenger window to check on my current download: Itunes. It was only about twenty percent done, though. Great.

With a sigh, I logged into my Facebook account to pass the time by signing in to all my websites.

It had almost nothing on it and very few 'friends' to speak of, but I made an account so my mom could share stuff with me. Primarily photos of her art, the art her students made (with permission, of course), or my favorite: funny images. I had a weakness for clever puns, so whenever she ran across one she would send it to me.

I only logged into Facebook once or twice a month, unless my mom had something to show me, since my lurking places were elsewhere.

Yet, as I slid the cursor toward that big 'x' to close the page, something caught my eye.

A shiny new '1' glimmered boldly next to the 'friend requests' button.

Who would send me a friend request? On Facebook of all places?

Clicking the button out of sheer curiosity, I waited for the page to load. Beguiled by the mere fact that someone could send me a friend request, because I didn't think my profile was searchable to the public.

Clearly, I was mistaken.

As the web page continued to load painfully slow, I caged my bottom lip between my teeth. Clenching down so tightly that the burgeoning piece of chapped flesh began tearing from the strain. Thankfully, the website loaded before I tasted blood. Freeing my unconscious prisoner from further rupture.

As the page flooded into view, it revealed a name I didn't recognize: E.A Masen. The person also had no set profile picture – indicating that the account was likely new.

Strange. The name didn't ring any bells. Did I have any second cousins?

The friend request included a message, and as I drank it in, I found myself leaning closer and closer to the screen. Simply because it was the most articulate way to put things that a random guy on the internet could have phrased themselves.

It read:

| 'Forgive me for seeking you out beyond this website, but are you VibrantCacophony from VampireFreaks? I resonated with the poem on your profile and it would mean a great deal to me to be able to see more of your art. My username is PerpetualTwilight.

| I await your reply with importunity, E'

Awed at the notion that anyone would have found my poetry scribbles on Vampirefreaks, much less want to see my lackluster doodles on DeviantArt, my mouth fell open.

Astounded into a numb, immobile state of petrification that left me unable to left-click the mouse.

Only once the shock began to fizz away from my fingers could I begin to move, and when I did, I did not accept.

Eager to accept this friend request (and add this incredibly polite stranger to my DeviantArt page), I had to check the facts.

Typing in the URL to VampireFreaks, I logged into my account and hastily sought my profile. For E.A Masen's words to be accurate, I had to have some of my old poetry on there with a link to DeviantArt and Facebook accounts somewhere on the page.

Ignoring the bright '1' of a new friend request having been sent to my VampireFreaks account, I waited for my profile to load with baited breath.

With a spark of clarity, lightly gasping my breath, I drank in the page as soon as it flooded into being.

E Masen hadn't lied. I did have an old poem on here and there was a subtle link to my DeviantArt profile hidden near the top of the 'about me' section. Right next to the link to my Facebook account.

I almost never talked to people on VampireFreaks, since I preferred to lurk on the online radio station pages to find new music.

Gods. I'd forgotten how cringe my profile was.

Re-reading the old poem, I shuddered to myself. Why did I think this cry for help was worth sharing with random people on the internet?

Bracing myself for the wave of memory of why that poem was written (that was bound to strike at any moment), I re-read the poem. My inner voice was low and listless at the memory of what caused me to write it in the first place. Another little thing I hid from mom, even myself.

The poem was entitled: Cold Wet Things.

| With every drop of rain upon the skin,
| these cold, wet, things do saunter in
| Each drop of pain a memory stained,
| In these gray hands, our hearts are weighed

| The clouds have reaped the measured grain,
| and here, the hurt begins again
| For rain will come and rain will end
| these wordless whispers aren't our friends

| I can't stop the rain from pouring down
| Can't stop the mired, frigid sounds
| The soul can only bear so much,
| These frozen embers burn to touch

| And though the sun will shine again,
| these cold, wet, things shall never end

Why did this 'E Masen' want to know me – so badly that he looked me up on Facebook – after reading this poem?

It wasn't even a great poem. It was melodramatic and depressing and I'd written it when I was fourteen.

At the time, it was something to be proud of. Not too many fourteen-year-old boys wrote poetry without inserting overtly-obvious innuendo.

I just didn't see people as objects. That had been instilled in me since before I could remember.

There wasn't anything wrong with wanting to fuck, especially in this day and age, but even at fourteen those sorts of thoughts were things I didn't share on the internet. I didn't even write my fantasies on paper for fear of my mom finding them.

It wasn't like my mom wouldn't support and love me for being a bit queer. She was just as weird and out-of-step as I am. There wasn't a logical reason for why I hid things from her, outside of the worry that I might make her life a little more complicated.

Besides, the black hole of unresolved anguish was something I was used to carrying around at this point. Although everyone had a dark side, complete with vices and toxic traits, I didn't want my mom to know about all of them.

In fact, she didn't even know that this DeviantArt account, or Vampirefreaks, existed.

Close as we'd always been, there were things you didn't tell your mom.

Things like this. Cold, wet, things that left you numb and frozen.

I never shared this poem with my mom because if I let my heart thaw out, I worried it might shatter.

I didn't want her to be there when it inevitably did—a stark contrast to the happy memories I wanted her to remember.

Paralyzed in the dalliance of teenage melancholia, I nearly forgot why I went to look up my poem to begin with.

With a start, I alt-tabbed back to Facebook, staring at the picture-less – bot-like – friend request. Wondering who this E.A Masen was and if he genuinely was just someone who found themselves touched by my naive little ramble.

If the shoes were reversed, would I have sent him a request?

Yes, I accepted, dryly. Though, I wouldn't have felt the need to do so from a throw away account…

Grazing the point of my tongue along the inside of my lips, I resolved what doubt plucked at my stomach in a warning and hit the 'accept' button.

Exhaling in a low hum as I typed the DeviantArt URL into my browser to acquiesce to his request.

It didn't take long to make my DeviantArt public, nor to accept the friend request from PerpetualTwilight on both DeviantArt and Vampirefreaks.

Unwilling to leave E.A's request unresolved, I clicked the 'reply' button and began to type him a message.

It read:

| 'Yes, I'm VibrantCacophony. I've accepted your friend requests and made my DeviantArt public, not that I have very much there. I'm flattered that you cared enough to ask. It's been a long time since I updated anything. Let me know what you think if you have time?

| P.S: I don't really use facebook, so if you reply on VampireFreaks I'll see it faster'

Clicking 'send' I didn't think too much of my reply. I just hoped that he wouldn't change his mind. When the time was right, I planned to ask him why my poem was so important to him, but at the time? I'd just forgotten to ask and I didn't want to send him a bunch of questions.

Not seeing any other messages from him on VampireFreaks or Deviantart, I logged out and stepped away from the computer.

Slipping away from the desk to walk downstairs for dinner. Less because I was hungry and more because I wanted some distance from that poem.

Charlie's kitchen was sparse, at best. He'd bought some things for me to eat for snacks and breakfast, but I realized quickly that there wasn't a lot to work with otherwise.

Sliding the milk carton to the side, I thought I saw a vaguely white block of moldy cheese hiding in the back corner of the fridge.

Not wanting to touch that without latex gloves, I grimaced.

How was I supposed to make it here if there wasn't food to eat?

Vowing to ask Charlie if I could have some money for groceries, I closed the fridge and walked to the nearby house phone. Picking it up and turning it on, my eyes widened as the screaming of dial-up robot sounds reminded me that I was still online upstairs.

Even if Charlie called, there was no way he could reach the house right now.

Wishing we had DSL cable internet, I had just started back up the stairs when my phone started to ring.

It was Charlie, and guessing by the noise in the background, he was still at the Station.

"Beau?"

"Yeah, it's me," I reassured.

"You hungry? I was thinking of getting something at the Diner."

Remembering the slab of questionable cheese, I scowled.

"I could eat. But maybe we should go out to eat. Did you want me to meet you there?"

Charlie didn't answer for a while. Someone else was talking to him, though the voice was so muffled by sounds from the police radio that I couldn't make it out.

Eventually, he responded. "How about I come get you? I want to see how that truck is holding up."

Everything within me cringed at the thought of being chauffeured in the police cruiser, but the panic abated at the alternative. Would Charlie let me drive him around?

Probably not. I'd be shotgunning my own truck. Still, it was preferable to the other option.

I sighed affirmatively. "Alright. That works. When will you be here?"

Charlie laughed. "Won't be five minutes."