Segment 3

         “Hey . . .”
         Weight descends on me again, like swallowing bushels of rocks. The soft lighting of another time greets me, I can see the room but I can’t move my head. I feel younger, older, the way it looks when two galaxies collide, irregular, brightness and oblivion mingling together unevenly. The room drifts on me like old dust. I know where I am, even without fully looking. My house. I’m in my home, before I left it all behind. When I still had things to leave behind.
         “Hey, are you all right? I let myself in, you left the door open.”
         I can feel my face but it’s too loose, like I haven’t grown into it yet. My hands are in my lap and I’m not moving. I’m aware that I’m not moving and there’s a slow burning in my chest that keeps threatening to erupt out of my throat. But part of me knows that as soon as it touches air it’ll dissipate, ice crystals in the sun, hardly existing long enough to glisten, let alone survive. My whole body has fallen asleep, my throat hurts, my eyes are dry and constantly tingling. It’s not happening to me now. It did once. I know why.
         “Are you the only one home? I don’t hear your dad anywhere. Listen, come on, please, say something . . .”
         I can’t see you, but I know you’re there. Your voice, as always, the small bounce when your light weight dropps down on the couch next to me. You’re leaning close, I can almost feel the pressure of your shoulder near mine, the gentle wash of your breath near my ear. I’m not looking at you, I wish I could but I’m constrained by how it went. And this is how it went.
         Even down to my words. “No, he’s not here . . . I think he’s still down at the hospital,” I say, and I’m startled at how hoarse I sound, at how much effort it is to get the words out, like I’ve collapsed in on myself and not even light can escape. The lightness of our talk. With one hand I grind the heel of my palm into my eye, leaning away from you as I do so. “I don’t know what he’s doing there. It doesn’t matter, now. It’s over, it’s done.” The night before, I had gotten maybe an hour of sleep. Maybe. I remember that. Nothing felt real, nothing feels real now, I’m overlapping with myself, a single vibration apart from manifesting fully.
         “I heard.” That’s all you say at first. I can feel you shifting on the couch, uncomfortably, maybe debating what to do with the silence. I’m sorry I wasn’t more help. My head was empty, I had nothing. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see you in school and then when I got home my mom told me and . . .” You stop, cutting yourself off, maybe feeling like you’re talking too much. No, that was never it. That was what I needed. The distraction. Another anchor. “I’m really sorry. I don’t, I can’t imagine how you feel. How it feels.”
         “I don’t know how it feels,” I whisper. And I don’t, it’s all been numbed by distance. I could feel it, but I’m not here. Not really. I let out a ragged sigh and allow my head to fall back against the couch, my eyes searching the ceiling. You’re sitting there in my peripheral vision, a hazy reflection, more implied than seen. “The last time I saw her, I don’t . . . I don’t think she knew who I was.” My throat is so dry. A desert of emotion. “She might have thought I was a doctor. She kept asking me when she was getting out, when she could go home.” Even from here, from my vantage, it hurts to say this. Like swallowing thorns, they get stuck in the mouth, keep jabbing you in the cheek. All you taste is blood and eventually it just becomes another flavor. Copper blandness. “I think she forgot that too, by the time I left. She kept begging me not to leave, to stay with her and not leave her alone.”
         Next to me I hear you gasp, a quiet expulsion of air. You’re trying not to be intrusive but you’ve already stumbled into my life and not all the machetes in the world are going to let you hack your way out. “It’s okay,” you whisper, desperate to comfort. That was you, always trying to cushion it, throwing yourself over the pit of spikes in the hopes that your small body might be enough to deflect the fall, when it came. “It’s over now.” How are supposed to provide comfort when we don’t know anything about what we’re comforting? Now, I’m all too experienced. I could give a lecture, stretch it out over a year and still have material left over. But it would teach you nothing. It’s just something that has to be seen.
         I don’t think I hear what you say because I don’t remember the words clearly. I keep talking like you were silent. “Outside her room, I heard two nurses talking, they, they were saying how . . . how patients, people know when, ah, when the time has come . . . ah, they meant dying, but they said, that’s how they put it, they . . .” I laugh at nothing and swat at my hair, trying to get an annoying strand away from tickling my forehead. “I guess they know what they’re talking about, how people know and . . .” it’s too warm in here, even without you close by. Everything is too close, I need to be outside, in the cool air, beyond the town, beyond the trees, beyond the water. In the end, the planet wouldn’t be big enough. “My mother knew, and she . . .” something clutches at me then and my face falls into my hand, I can see the floor through my fingers. It’s all so familiar. Who lives in my house now, since we’re all gone? Do they ever wonder about us, those who departed? I never thought about the people who lived here before me so I guess it’s only fair. Do the neighbors still talk about the nice couple who died not that far apart and their boy, the one who disappeared and was never seen again? Does anyone even notice? Or is it like when you die and six months pass before people realize they haven’t seen or heard from you in a while? “I think I said goodbye,” I said, through compressed lips and clenched words. “But I don’t remember.” It would be years before I recalled it right. I told her I’d see her tomorrow. Because I was delusional. Because I didn’t want to believe. But I can’t tell myself that now. There’s nothing I can say.
         “It’s okay,” you say again, pressing your cheek into my shoulder. I feel a touch and I see the shadow of your hand, feel the pressure of it on mine, squeezing. The sensation forces a memory to eject but it goes by too quickly and I don’t know what was in it. “Don’t do this to yourself. Please. Just . . . don’t do it.”
         “I’m not doing it,” I respond, maybe a little harsher than I intend. You jump and your chest rests against my arm for just a second. Your heart. It’s so fast, it never fails to amaze me. Maybe that’s why you went when you did. Maybe you used yourself up. “It’s being done to me.”
         “Who’s doing it to you?”
         “Life. The world. Who else?” I snap, and I feel you jump again. A scatter of skipped beats. It’s not an excuse, to be so brusque just because of the way things are, but I don’t know if anyone could blame me either. Was I supposed to smile? “Do you think I want to feel this way? Do you think I asked for any of this?”
         “No,” comes the quiet reply. “I guess you didn’t.”
         “I didn’t,” I repeat, roughly. “And I want it to stop, and it’s not going to until it does and . . .” I don’t want know else I was going to say. Sometimes you build up a good head of steam and it just goes nowhere. “It’s just how it is,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.
         You’re quiet for a while. I’m not sure how much time passes while we’re sitting there, I can’t see any of the windows from my angle and so I’m not sure how much light has faded. No clocks in sight either. I can’t get a handle on time, on my position in it. Signals are getting crossed, I’m myself and not myself, two photographs from opposite ends of age fused together, melted in the fire. The same and not the same.
         Tentatively, you say, “Do you . . . do you want to get something to eat. Or . . . something? You know, just to get out?”
         I don’t have the energy to move. It’s all gone, I’m just physical inertia. I remember that much from the day. Laughing bitterly at science lecture. Objects at rest remain at rest. I resisted all outside forces. Becoming the background, no more substantial or engaging than the color of your wall. Just there. Existing. But I don’t want to admit that, and so I settle for other, false reasons.
         “I don’t want to go out,” I say, without turning. I don’t know how you look. You always had an expressive face, flexible in its smallness. “I don’t want to stay here, I just . . . I want the last six months of my life erased, I don’t want any of it to happen.” My lips press together and my frustration bubbles forth. “I don’t want people bothering me, trying to tell me how to feel.”
         “Oh,” you say. I can only imagine what you must have looked like when I said that. Even on edge as I am, it’s going a bit far. Your voice bristling, I hear, “Is that what I’m doing then? Annoying you?”
         I realize my mistake almost immediately but some things always come too late. Realizing you’ve been shot long after the echo has already settled. Sighing, I mutter, “I don’t know what you’re doing. You’re here, that’s all I know. That’s your-“
         ”I’m here because I didn’t think you’d want to be alone right now,” you say and I can tell you’re trying to be kind, that you want to be gentle because of what just happened to me, you’re trying not to upset me further but . . . damn, I think I struck a nerve. You should have just let me have it, this would have been the best time. You could have sawed off pieces of me right then and I don’t think I would have noticed or felt it. I was in another place, all my nerves torn out and cauterized. If there was ever a time to air greviances and tell me what an asshole I had been, this was the day.
         “Did you even ask?” I inquire and now I’m just trying to push buttoms, desperate to make myself feel something, even if it’s just the reflection of a friend’s pain. Part of me wants you to hurt me, to take out whatever knives you have and impale me with them. Just to prove that I can still bleed, that it all hasn’t turned to dust inside of me.
         “I didn’t think I needed to,” you say, raising your voice a little. In this hushed household it’s like a gunshot. “I thought my friend wanted some company, that he wouldn’t want to be alone.” You lean away and the temperature drops. It’s all in my head. It’s the only way I can relate.
         “You just assumed that, you don’t know for sure.” I’m lashing out now, tossing out accusations like old confetti, not caring where they fall or what they hit. You start to cough a little bit, but I don’t even pause. “Not everyone wants to be suffocated by everyone else when something bad happens, in the hopes that it’ll make them feel better.” I gnaw at my lip, hoping that it will give me some sensation. There’s nothing. “I don’t want to be crushed in some group hug or sit around crying so that everyone can feel better about themselves.”
         “That’s not why-“ Indignation rising, mixed with a bit of surprise. This wasn’t what you expected, was it? Strange how events can change us, you thought you’d see me, weary and worn but still smiling, ready to greet any comfort. But death warps you and you draw inward, desperate to escape its touch, any hint of its presence.
         “Tell me that’s not the reason,” I nearly sneer, unable to look at you but unable to stop myself either. “Tell me that you didn’t come here expecting me to cry on your shoulder . . . tell me it wouldn’t make you feel like a better human being, all sensitive and caring, cramming kindness down my throat. That’s why you’re here,” I stab out, my body spasming with the effort of my venom. “It was never about me. Never.” I’m angry at my mother for going away and I don’t want to admit that. In the haze of the day, it’s the only clear thing but I refuse to see it.
         Under me, the couch shudders quietly. You’re coughing and trying to suppress, to not do it too loudly. Perhaps you think I’d snap into my own zone of concern and respond and feel manipulated somehow. I don’t look at you, I’m not sure what I see. I’m sure I hurt you and I don’t think I wanted to. But I did what I did and I’m just watching myself here, looking for a way out.
         “So,” you say, when you finally catch your breath, “do you want me to leave?” There’s a hoarse numbness to your voice, from the coughing and I think partially from shock. You expected someone to clasp your outstretched hand and instead found nothing more than a slap. I’m still trying to get used to the fact that I only have one living parent. Every time I try to think of it my mind recoils, it seems to go against nature, against all genetics. We come from two. We can’t come from just one. It’s trying to square the circle, it hardly seem possible. But I’m not able to make you believe that, or see how it screws you up. To know, you have to experience it. It’s a knowledge that isn’t transferable.
         “Leave. Stay. I could care less,” I spit out, not wanting to have to make decisions like this. “Do what you want.”
         The couch bounces a little as you rearrange your posture on it. “Maybe I’ll stay. For just a little while.” I don’t know if you’re talking to me or not. Maybe you’re crying now and don’t want your family to see you like this. Your father would beat the living hell out of me if he knew. He’s as protective as they come, as any father.
         “Fine, that’s fine,” I say, running a hand through my hair, trying to move and not to move and not really succeeding at either. “I told you, I don’t care. Do what you want.” My voice softens a little bit, almost against my will. I didn’t want it to go this way, I know I didn’t.
         “All right,” you reply. Out of the corner of my eye, I see you kneading your hands together. Maybe you’re looking for an excuse to leave but don’t want to get up abruptly and depart and look uncaring. Not that anyone could blame you. Not that anyone could blame me. She’s dead. The scars are still healing, I’m still trying to move with the bleeding. Even motionless, it burns.
         “I didn’t mean to upset you more,” you say, after a few seconds of silence. Your tone isn’t so much contrite as matter of fact. “That wasn’t what I wanted to do. It really wasn’t.”
         “It’s okay,” I hear myself say. “You didn’t know. You had no idea what it’s like.” I still don’t turn toward you. You could be gone now and I wouldn’t know. You are gone, at a certain reference point. I just came from there. You’re on your way as we sit. Even without moving, you’re going there. I can’t stop it. I can only follow.
         “I just, I guess I assumed from . . .” you take a deep breath, one that rattles in your tiny chest. You sound so tired sometimes, like everything is running down, you’re fighting a losing battle with yourself, with your body. We all are, but we’re all losing to different degrees. I found a way around and you’d all hate me for it, if you knew. “When my grandmother died, I, I felt really alone, for some reason, and I found that just talking to people, that it, it helped a little bit. Made it easier.” There’s a giggle in your next words. It’s all implied. I infer nothing. “I kept you up one night, if I remember right. You have a lot of patience.”
         “Really?” I can feel myself frown. Sometimes I look in the mirror and I’m surprised by what I see there. It’s not what I expect at all. “I must have been asleep. I don’t remember that at all.”
         “I’m pretty sure it was you,” comes the answer, gently insistent. Maybe you’re right. I’m not one to say.
         “It’s possible,” I answer, sighing and closing my eyes. Part of me wishes I could exhale until there was no breath left anywhere in my body, until I was completely empty, all pressure gone. Maybe I would just invert. Sadness turned around. “I just don’t remember.” Something stabs at me then, inside and I feel something start to tear. “I remember all the wrong things.” I’m too light, it’s all evaporating, boiling out of me. I’m rising, twisting like silk in the wind, almost invisible unless you’re looking just right.
         “I’m sorry,” I hear you say, but all sound is suspect, all my vision is wrapped in gauze. It’s just automatic, the things we say. I want to see your face, I want to see comfort in friendly eyes and grab hope from it. But I don’t. I never did. I was always staring into the wrong places. The wrong corners. “I didn’t want to come here and upset you. I’m sorry.”
         “It’s a pre-existing condition, I’m afraid,” I say with odd humor. “There’s nothing anybody could do. It’s not your fault.”
         The tiny bonfire that is you leans closer. “How’s the prognosis?” you ask and I can almost feel your breath on my neck. Is that you, touching my hair? “Is the patient going to be okay?”
         I shiver, and it’s someplace between an actual chill and dry laughter. I’m bent over the arm of the couch, like I’m trying to get away from you, away from everything, draped over it like I might snap in half, or even eject everything inside of myself like rancid vomit, right over the side, to just lay in a pile in front of me. “Despite our best efforts,” I say, “he’s an incurable bastard. I think it’s terminal.”
         It’s your hand then, I feel, right on top of mine. Through you, I feel so thin, papery and grey. I wonder how anyone can stand to be around a mopey asshole like this, to tolerate this wispy wreck of a man. But it’s just temporary, I tell myself and of course I can’t hear. Everything you know is temporary, except for yourself. Everything goes away.
         Including you. Including you.
         “Well then,” you say, and I don’t know where you are, “I guess that makes two of us, doesn’t it?”
         Maybe I answer. I wouldn’t know. No, I do. I did. But there’s a shift and I sink, gently wrenched away, and I try to turn at the last second, as I’m taken, as I take myself, to just see you, just a glimpse. But the angle is set and all my efforts just take me further out. A moment passes that isn’t a moment and it all phases out and I leave myself. Your touch takes me away. So I go. And I’m gone. I’m gone.