It all started when the psychiatrist asked what I had done with the cat. In reality, I hadn't done much with the cat, I sort of hit it a few times, kicked it around, but mostly, just played a bit too rough with it. The way he was looking at me, I knew exactly what he wanted to hear. Looking at the ground with my hands falsely shaking I regaled him with a tremor in my lip on how I had butchered my neighbors cat.
Truthfully, I thought he would leave it at that. From my previous experiences with pseudo-psychologists, whenever they felt they had gone too far, a backing off would be in order. However, as I finished my story and raised my eyes, the look on his face told me otherwise. He had relished in my story; his eyes demanding more. I knew that I would be found out for my lie if I stopped there, so I continued.
Beginning with the stories that floated in my head at night, I began to tell him fanciful tales of how I had watched my neighbor die. The look in his eyes as he overdosed with methamphetamine was something I explained that I'll never forget. Stories of how I had seen the gangs kill a member at the end of my block came forth as he pressed me on in earnest. I began to realize that this was a hole that I could not dig myself out of. He demanded me to proceed in the same gentle voice he had greeted me with.
As the stories progressed, I found myself running out of false ideas. Somehow, the time had slipped by me and we had been together in his small room for hours talking. While I searched the far corners of my brain for more lies to tell him, I realized that I was beginning to throw truths into the falsehoods of the stories. The sight of my friends younger brother laying beaten on the ground had slipped in there, as had when the gang killed my brother's friend. The sight of the closed casket and his mother crying were told with such veracity, I almost feared that he could tell a truth from the lies I had given.
The day surged into night, and I began telling the stories that I had reserved for no one but the far reaches of my mind. With detail, I explained the rape, how I had been forced to do ungodly acts. I showed him the scars that the burns had left on my skin, the wounds that had been hidden by years of regrowth. My mind felt like a sponge as I told him each passing story. No longer was I telling him lies but truths that I had hidden even from myself. The torture, the pain, everything was given to him on a platter. There he sat in his chair, taking them from me with the same soft spoken manner that he had used all along.
As I rose to leave his room, I realized that all this time he knew what my stories were about. The dead cat was merely my frustration, the murdered friends were my abandonment. In his own way, he had earned my trust by allowing me to believe him to be a man who couldn't see my lies. I felt secure in the fact that I could still retain my sense of self without his prying mind scouring it. He had gotten exactly what he wanted, and so had I.
To this day I do not believe I would have ever answered a single question of his truthfully. Yet, he never had to ask a single question to elicit the truth from me. It was inside of me all along, waiting to be told. All he had to do was listen.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Flight of the Matchstick Man
Orlando to Dallas. Three o'clock.
Dallas to Memphis. Nine forty five.
Memphis to Chicago. Eleven thirty.
Chicago to Detroit. One fifteen.
I sit there on the place, after an entire day of take-offs and landings, staring out the window. Each city is exactly the same. Through the small, thick glass, I looked out over each place I had been in. Houses, buildings, apartments, cars, trains; each one of them containing lives. Each life contains a story; one I will never know.
The entire day seems like a blur. My job sends me all across the states. However, due to the economy, I'm forced to make numerous stops in cities to catch connecting flights. Each stop is always the same. Families with children, worn out men in cheap suits, soldiers returning home. I want to stop and talk to any one of them and just find out where they're going; figure out what makes them want to leave where the are and travel to another place. But each time I go to approach them, I stop. To talk to them would introduce me to another person I will never again be able to experience life with.
The take off is the worst. Most people are excited, watching the city become smaller as we fly closer to the heavens. All I can think about while the plane rises higher is how each life down there is so disconnected from the others. I've never much cared about human life until I realize that I can not connect with any of them. So much potential, wasted in commutes, driving, boring jobs, fights with a spouse. I don't think I could bear to even begin to help any of them. I close my shade as I hear the stewardess repeat the same speech I've heard four times previous today.
The turbulence always calms me for some reason. As I look around the cabin, I can see other passengers reactions to it. Some are nervous, other annoyed. But subconsciously, they're all thinking the same thing. What if the plane were to hit the ground? What if the shaking is really the engines quitting and we're all about to die? It's in the fear that I can see who they really are. The impending sense of doom always helps bring out a person's true emotions, if only for a moment. That flash in their eye, the hugging of a loved one, even the arm placed across a child's chest; it all shows who they are inside.
The shade stays shut until I can hear the pilot thank us for such a nice trip. Everyone seems happier now, relieved that we made it safe and sound. Now they can return to their usual emotions; the ones that mask how they really feel. The mother berates her child for fidgeting, the man shouts on his cell phone to his lazy employees; we have landed.
As I stare at the baggage going round on the carousel, I can't help but notice that mine isn't in there. It's been twenty minutes since the buzzer sounded and my dark brown bag still hasn't risen from the hole. Thirty minutes pass and the buzzer sounds again. It doesn't even bother me. I fish my keys out of my pocket as I walk towards the exit. My bag has my name on it. Someone will find it and mail it to me. Maybe they'll even deliver it personally. At least then I'll get some mail.
The street is barely lit as I pull into my driveway. The city still hasn't fixed the light at the end of the street. Somehow the dark calms me instead of inducing the usual fear. I don't even turn on the lights as I sit in my chair. The room is so empty, just how I left it. I look left at my answering machine on the floor. No missed messages. The remote is still missing, and I'm too tired to even get up and turn on the TV. Darkness envelopes me as I finally drift off to sleep. I am alone but at peace.
By the time I wake up the sun is almost setting. I've missed an entire day sleeping in. My work always gives me three days off to re-adjust after returning from trips. As I mull around the house, everything is exactly like I left it. The wall socket sparks as I plug the microwave in. Three minutes of waiting until the food is ready. There are only advertisements in the mailbox. No one really writes me any more. It never bothers me much, seeing that I don't write them.
As I watch the sun finally set behind the clouds, the thought occurs to me. What am I still doing here? I've spent seven years working for the same company, traveling for them, giving them my life. They're not a bad company to work for. The boss is quite nice and I'm always invited to the office parties. But it just feels like something is missing; like they've all got an understanding of what life is supposed to be. Here I am, standing outside of an empty house, bank account full of money I will never spend, wondering if this is what life was supposed to be.
Four cigarettes and a box of matches. That's my worldly possessions at the moment. The smoke spindles off of the end, escaping into the night sky. I wonder if this is what teachers meant when they said go chase your dreams. Did I really aim so low that I've accomplished everything? I am in want of nothing, everything I desire is in my possession. My last cigarette glows brightly as the match meets the tip. A life time of dreams completed at the age of twenty six. The match leaves my hands and falls to the ground. The flame burns brightest before it is snuffed out. I turn my back on it, returning to look at the dark sky.
The sound of the fire engines draw near. One of my neighbors must have called them. I stand on my sidewalk with the dead cigarette in my hand just watching as my house burns down in flames. A fireman tells me that the origin of the blaze was right in front of my porch, that some old leaves had caught fire and blew into the open crawlspace. He asks me if I'm alright. I cannot help bursting into laughter. A paramedic is called over to evaluate me. I am still laughing as he checks my vitals. That one match never went out. It survived to become the blaze that is before my eyes right now. My delight only increases as the roof collapses. It is beautiful. The match never burned out.
I feel alive as I walk away from the policeman. His confusion is understandable. Normal people don't laugh as their entire lives burn to the ground. But that house, that couch, the microwave, stove, answering machine; they weren't my life. That match was my life. It never went out.
I am alive.
Dallas to Memphis. Nine forty five.
Memphis to Chicago. Eleven thirty.
Chicago to Detroit. One fifteen.
I sit there on the place, after an entire day of take-offs and landings, staring out the window. Each city is exactly the same. Through the small, thick glass, I looked out over each place I had been in. Houses, buildings, apartments, cars, trains; each one of them containing lives. Each life contains a story; one I will never know.
The entire day seems like a blur. My job sends me all across the states. However, due to the economy, I'm forced to make numerous stops in cities to catch connecting flights. Each stop is always the same. Families with children, worn out men in cheap suits, soldiers returning home. I want to stop and talk to any one of them and just find out where they're going; figure out what makes them want to leave where the are and travel to another place. But each time I go to approach them, I stop. To talk to them would introduce me to another person I will never again be able to experience life with.
The take off is the worst. Most people are excited, watching the city become smaller as we fly closer to the heavens. All I can think about while the plane rises higher is how each life down there is so disconnected from the others. I've never much cared about human life until I realize that I can not connect with any of them. So much potential, wasted in commutes, driving, boring jobs, fights with a spouse. I don't think I could bear to even begin to help any of them. I close my shade as I hear the stewardess repeat the same speech I've heard four times previous today.
The turbulence always calms me for some reason. As I look around the cabin, I can see other passengers reactions to it. Some are nervous, other annoyed. But subconsciously, they're all thinking the same thing. What if the plane were to hit the ground? What if the shaking is really the engines quitting and we're all about to die? It's in the fear that I can see who they really are. The impending sense of doom always helps bring out a person's true emotions, if only for a moment. That flash in their eye, the hugging of a loved one, even the arm placed across a child's chest; it all shows who they are inside.
The shade stays shut until I can hear the pilot thank us for such a nice trip. Everyone seems happier now, relieved that we made it safe and sound. Now they can return to their usual emotions; the ones that mask how they really feel. The mother berates her child for fidgeting, the man shouts on his cell phone to his lazy employees; we have landed.
As I stare at the baggage going round on the carousel, I can't help but notice that mine isn't in there. It's been twenty minutes since the buzzer sounded and my dark brown bag still hasn't risen from the hole. Thirty minutes pass and the buzzer sounds again. It doesn't even bother me. I fish my keys out of my pocket as I walk towards the exit. My bag has my name on it. Someone will find it and mail it to me. Maybe they'll even deliver it personally. At least then I'll get some mail.
The street is barely lit as I pull into my driveway. The city still hasn't fixed the light at the end of the street. Somehow the dark calms me instead of inducing the usual fear. I don't even turn on the lights as I sit in my chair. The room is so empty, just how I left it. I look left at my answering machine on the floor. No missed messages. The remote is still missing, and I'm too tired to even get up and turn on the TV. Darkness envelopes me as I finally drift off to sleep. I am alone but at peace.
By the time I wake up the sun is almost setting. I've missed an entire day sleeping in. My work always gives me three days off to re-adjust after returning from trips. As I mull around the house, everything is exactly like I left it. The wall socket sparks as I plug the microwave in. Three minutes of waiting until the food is ready. There are only advertisements in the mailbox. No one really writes me any more. It never bothers me much, seeing that I don't write them.
As I watch the sun finally set behind the clouds, the thought occurs to me. What am I still doing here? I've spent seven years working for the same company, traveling for them, giving them my life. They're not a bad company to work for. The boss is quite nice and I'm always invited to the office parties. But it just feels like something is missing; like they've all got an understanding of what life is supposed to be. Here I am, standing outside of an empty house, bank account full of money I will never spend, wondering if this is what life was supposed to be.
Four cigarettes and a box of matches. That's my worldly possessions at the moment. The smoke spindles off of the end, escaping into the night sky. I wonder if this is what teachers meant when they said go chase your dreams. Did I really aim so low that I've accomplished everything? I am in want of nothing, everything I desire is in my possession. My last cigarette glows brightly as the match meets the tip. A life time of dreams completed at the age of twenty six. The match leaves my hands and falls to the ground. The flame burns brightest before it is snuffed out. I turn my back on it, returning to look at the dark sky.
The sound of the fire engines draw near. One of my neighbors must have called them. I stand on my sidewalk with the dead cigarette in my hand just watching as my house burns down in flames. A fireman tells me that the origin of the blaze was right in front of my porch, that some old leaves had caught fire and blew into the open crawlspace. He asks me if I'm alright. I cannot help bursting into laughter. A paramedic is called over to evaluate me. I am still laughing as he checks my vitals. That one match never went out. It survived to become the blaze that is before my eyes right now. My delight only increases as the roof collapses. It is beautiful. The match never burned out.
I feel alive as I walk away from the policeman. His confusion is understandable. Normal people don't laugh as their entire lives burn to the ground. But that house, that couch, the microwave, stove, answering machine; they weren't my life. That match was my life. It never went out.
I am alive.
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