3 posts tagged “dead”

Been a while.  I don't want to hear it.  I should be sleeping.  Meh.

January 23, 2008

I became a problem solver... for him.

Four years--maybe more--I spent, studying logiv, strategy, critical thinking.  I evaluated thought processes, learned to speak four languages, became a hacker, and made my way up to a brown belt in tai-kwan-do.

Somewhere alone the way, he faded into the background.  Still there, he lurked, waiting for me.

Or perhaps not.

Love is weird like that.  I loved him, most assuredly.  And he loved me, or claimed that he did.

It was all so long ago.

Ten years passed and I made a critical error.  Thousands of people died.  Greg died.  A part of me died.

And then there's the guilt, coated on my skin like so many layers of clothing in the winter, but it never keeps me warm.

I sought him out.  The Great Eraser.  My first love--or, the first who'd survived.

Strange.  It felt strange in Ireland.  With him.  With my former lover.

He hadn't changed.  Well, perhaps a little.  Broken up.  One of those things that would pass.

And I loved him, from the second he walked into that pub, in a shirt that had probably sat in a heap on the floor for three days.  The mad Irishman who drank with me and gave me a job.

Months later, I sit, and I file, and I sort.

And months later, he comes to drink with me and talk.  Strawberry tea.  Pints.  Whiskey.

And I'll go home alone, never having even flirted with any others.  Perhaps I should.  Perhaps his love has evolved.  Perhaps he's given up.

Whatever the reason, I will go home.  I will go to bed.  And I will be celebate, even from myself. 

He makes me happy.  When I'm with him, I can't stop smiling. 

Love is telling jokes in a pub with the undead.

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January 24, 2008

"This might not be the best way to choose a career, Ziv," his brother said.

"I have to choose a major.  This seems like as good a way as any."

Ziv blindfolded himself, darts in hand.  "Okay, Zeke, spin me around."

Zeke shook his head, but started spinning his brother in their room, stopping him and aiming him towards a wall that had a dozen sheets of paper tacked to it with different majors written on each.

Ziv started throwing his darts.  Two of the first five ended up on the floor.

Zeke watched as the darts found their way to the papers and stepped closer to the wall when Ziv was done.  "You got four on Philosophy, four on french, and one on accounting and one on art history."

"Where were the other two going to hit?"

"Physics on the one and computer science on the other."

"Which ones didn't get hit at all?"

"The other six.  How are you picking which one you're taking?"

"Oh, I'm taking English.  I just wanted to throw the darts and see what would happen," Ziv said, moving the blindfold down around his neck.

"You little snot!  And here I thought you'd actually lost your mind!"

"Disappointed?"

"A little."

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January 17, 2008

"Did you ever read one of those stories where love manages to surpass death, and then, rather than feeling happy for the main character, you feel miserable for yourself, because you'll never have that?"

"In one of those mood, huh?"

"No, seriously.  Look at this.  The one lover dies, gives his soulmate a challenge, then, eighty years later, the living one returns, dies, and they pick up laughing and loving like they're teenagers again."

"There's a reason it's called fiction, you know."

"You don't get it."

"No, I do.  You're lonely.  You've just ended another relationship--badly--and you're wondering if there are any decent human beings left.  Fearing that there aren't, you turn back to your books, where you just get even more depressed because books are 'feel good' stories where heroes always save the day, get the girl, and live happily ever after.  But you and I both know that life isn't like that."

"....I want it to be."

"The closest you're going to get to love surviving death is me."

"I think I got gypped.  Stuck with my brother for eternity."

"You love me and don't know what you'd do without me, just admit it."

"You know you've ruined my perfectly good moping mood, don't you?"

"Yes, well, that is why I'm here."

"No it's not."

"No, it's not.  But it is one of the perks."

For those that drop by and have no idea what's going on.  The first one is Tyler talking.  The last one--they've been featured in a few other dribblies, but I haven't named them yet, and the middle one was just something random to take my mind off of some issues I'm having with my own college woes. 

So, these are three different ones.  The first one is about a character that still has no name, and I think I'm going to call that finished.  The second two are about two VERY old charries of mine.  The first is Michael, my pretty surfer boy.  And the second one is about Scottie, who I can't give any details about because it would ruin the dribbly.  I'll pull a Tem and separate them by colors.  Wee. 

Do you love me?

It was the question that lurked at the forefront of his mind.  Every person that would meet his eyes: the cashier at the gas station, the waiter at his favorite restaurant, the librarian.

Could they read it in his eyes?  Pleading with them even as he smiled at them?

He collapsed onto the sofa in his apartment, giving a weary sigh.

"Hard day?"

"Same as usual, I suppose," he shut his eyes and draped an arm across them.

"I worry about you, bro.  Maybe you should consider the dorms--or a roommate."

"We'd end up killing each other.  I can't live with anyone anymore.  Plus, I don't want to."

"You're stubborn."

"You're dead."

"Inconsequencial."

"Says you.  Go away.  I want to be alone."

"That's the last thing you want," even as he said it, he faded from view.

The boy opened his eyes and looked grumpily out the window at the descending darkness.  The room sank into shadows around him and he found himself watching a family in the adjacent building.

"It's times like this when I actually miss them..."

"It's times like this you forget what they did to you."

"I thought I told you to leave?"

"I promised you that you'd never be alone.  If I left, I'd break that promise."

"If I had a time machine, I'd tell the eight year old me to add a clause for personal space into that promise."

"It's not good for you to dwell."

The boy sighed.  "I know.  But... it's hard.  Sometimes, all I can remember are the good times."

"Would you like me to remind you?"

"Only if I start to call them."

"Fair enough."

"Hey?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you love me?"

The room got a little warmer, wrapping itself around the boy.  "Always."

------------

It was the only thing vivid in his mind anymore.

The dark blues and purples, bursts of red, streaks of golden yellow.  Orange mingled with pink, making a seamless symphony of color draping its way across the horizon above the waves.

Every instant before had become a blur of half-forgotten, faded memory.  The figures indistinct-the places, the objects-all mixed and abstracted.

The hours after passed in his memory in an instant--fast forwarded with brief snatches of dialog and saltwater.  And pain.

He remembered the pain.  But it was disjointed--as if the cause was interjecting his memory at random--a sting here, a stab there.

Time escaped him now.  His memories were unable to be filed in order.  They were shuffled.  In the hospital, he tried to reorganize; to sort and order; while he was in the medicated haze.

Third grade: dressed as Thomas Edison, report on light bulbs.

Summer camp, age 12: Maddy kissed him by the campfire.

His first steps.  Soccer practice.  Uncle Mike's funeral.

Chronology became impossible.

His bandages were wet.  The drugs were wearing off.  He was terrified of the world without them.

A hand slid into his.

"Michael, are you awake?"

"Would you hate me if I said I'd rather not be?"

She laughed softly, then added, "Have you heard the diagnosis?"

"No.  They had me on really good drugs."

"Yeah.  It was a morphine drip."

"How bad?" he asked, trying to sound like his stomach wasn't in knots.

"Bad.  Do you want to hear it from me, the doctor, or mom?"

He took a shaky breath.  "Tell me so that I don't break down when mom is here."

She squeezed his hand tightly.  "The rock cut deep--straight across your eyes.  They saved your eyes, but... not your sight."

He let it sink in, clutching her hand.  "I'm blind."

She nodded, then spoke.  "Yeah."

"Well, on the up side, my tear ducts still work."  His bandages were wet again.

"Michael..."

He felt the bed shift beside him and pressed his face into her shoulder, crying quietly against her.

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Scottie would be throwing things or screaming out his frustration if he thought it wouldn't attract the unwanted attention of his mother or brother.  He paced the room in sharp, measured steps.

One.  Two.  Three.  Turn.  One.  Two.  Three.  Turn.

He caught his reflection in the family photo on the wall.  The shine of his scalp brought bile into his throat.  He took the photo down and threw it onto the bed.

"In one of your hateful moods again, are we?"

He glared at the taller boy leaning idly on his door frame.  "What do you want?"

"To talk.  And, mom's worried you're going to pace right through the ceiling."

Scottie's eyes softened and he looked down at the well-worn path on his floor with a faint blush.

"Sit down, Scottie.  Let's talk."

He obediently moved to his bed and collapsed onto it.  The fatigue that'd been held off by his anger latched onto him as his brother took a seat on the edge of the bed and he propped himself up against the headboard.

"Keep anything down tonight?"

"For about a half hour," Scottie said.

"You look pale."

"I'm tired.  And sick.  And sick of being sick..."  he would have kept going, but a lump was forming in his throat.

"Scottie..."

"Chase, this is stupid!  I'm dying and I'm going to die sick and bedridden like an invalid!"  A wave of sickness washed over him and his face burned.

Chase picked up a bucket off the floor and offered it to him, but Scottie waved it off, putting a hand to his stomach.

"Calm down, Scott.  It's okay."

Scottie covered his face and took a few deep breaths.  "It's not.  The chemo is making it worse and I'm miserable and I don't want to die like this..."

"Don't talk like that.  If you really hate it that much, stop going."

"Mom would never let me..."

"It's your body, Scottie.  Nobody can make that decision for you.  If you honestly think it's not helping and don't want to do it, I'll sit down with you and we'll talk to mom together about it, okay?"

"Really?" he relaxed a little, his stomach unknotting itself.

"Yes.  Scottie, having cancer does not mean that you forfeit all rights to make decisions on your own.  It's still your life, even if it is a bit shorter than we originally thought."

He smiled lightly to him.  "Thanks, Chase."

"No problem.  Now, before you pass out on me, I have a present for you."

"What?"

Chase smiled and stood, leaving the room and coming back a moment later with a golden retriever puppy.  "He was the runt of the litter and reminded me of you..."

Scottie's eyes got wide as he accepted the wriggling animal from his brother.  "Oh my god, he's awesome.  I can't believe it..." he giggled as the puppy licked his face.

"He's all yours, so you gotta walk him and feed him and everything.  I'll walk with you until you get your energy back... deal?"

"Absolutely.  Thank you so much, Chase."

"Don't thank me till after he's house broken," he said with a laugh.  "Here.  I'm going to take him out for you tonight.  I'll bring him back in a few.  Think about the chemo thing.  If you want, we'll talk to mom tomorrow."  He ruffled his little brother's hair with a grin.  "Sleep well, kid."

    "Tyler?"
    He pulled his eyes away from the gravestone and looked at the man talking to him.  Ty blinked from his reverie as he recognized the camouflaged uniform and then the face of the young man.  "Oh.  It's you.  I'm sorry.  I didn't think anyone was going to be here."
    "Don't be sorry.  You didn't come to his service."
    "It was a family matter... I didn't want to intrude."  His eyes wandered to the picture of the young man standing next to the stone.  "This is a nice plot."
    "You should have come.  As I understand it, you were close to my brother."
    "Yeah..."  He looked out around the cemetery and then back to the other boy.  "Still..."
    "We found a lot of pictures of the two of you in his stuff."
    Tyler fiddled with the flower in his hands.
    "Did you love him?"
    He blinked, taken aback by the question.  Opening his mouth, he closed it again and considered his answer, but the other wasn't done yet.
    "It's red."
    "Excuse me?"
    "The rose.  Red is for love.  White is for friendship."
    Tyler looked down at the pedals of the rose, then nodded.  "Yeah.  I loved him."  He spun the stem between his fingers a little, then looked back at him.
    "Did he love you?"
    Ty's heart wrenched and he looked back down at the stone and the smiling picture of Greg.  "It doesn't matter much anymore, does it?  I don't know."
    "You don't know?"
    He suddenly found himself wishing he were alone again, allowed to wallow in his misery.  But the other had no intentions of leaving and he sighed.  "No.  I don't know.  But he's gone.  So whatever happened while he was alive doesn't really matter anymore."
    The other closed the gap between them and shoved Tyler so hard that he dropped the rose and fell over, looking up at the other.  "What the hell was that for?"
    "Who are you to say that his life doesn't matter now that he's dead?"
    "You idiot!  I never said his life doesn't matter." Ty shoved himself back to his feet.  "Whether or not he loved me is inconsequential from here on in--not that it's any of your business to begin with!"
    "I can answer that for myself now," the soldier said, glaring at Tyler.  "My brother would have never loved anyone as cold as you."
    Tyler felt his stomach clench as the other turned and walked away, his breath and voice caught in his throat, hands in fists at his sides.... and then his hands loosened, his face softened, and he looked at the grave and felt his chest tighten and tears at the corner of his eyes.
    He picked up the rose, slightly smooshed from one of them stepping on it and laid it on the tombstone.  "God, I hate you for leaving me."