Normality.

How do you hang on to something that is slipping away from you?

            I’m trying not to look at your dingy, grayish teeth as you yell at me, at the droplets of spittle rocketing from your lips and falling onto the cracked hardwood floor. It’s hard enough to pull my eyes away from your yellowed eyes, shot with crimson from nights spent awake, pacing the dirty floors of your too-small room.

            I have to keep you in that room, for your own safety. Or else you might get out and kill another neighborhood animal, like the night Abbie Slade got up to take out the trash and found you slamming the old, soft body of their fifteen-year old cat against the dull spikes of their fence. She said the blood looked like black rain, bursting upwards from Mr. Mellow’s split skin and sailing back down to collide with the chipped white paint of the stately border of their yard. The only white picket fence on the street, vestigial remains of a block of baby-boomers who have long since killed the juice on the paddles once glued to the dead chest of the American Dream.

            I look at the glass on your table. You drink a lot of water these days, and don’t seem to want the juices and sodas you used to consume, even when I bring them to you. No one in the family is quite sure why. It doesn’t seem to affect you in any way besides always having to use the toilet. Uncle James read somewhere that when people are sick, their bodies subconsciously try correct the problem and the person will find themselves craving and consuming things without knowing why. I countered that water wasn’t a cure for anything, and he just shrugged and mumbled something about dehydration. Dehydration isn’t a disease. And really, neither is what you have. None of them approve of the way I refuse to take you to a doctor. The men, anyway. All the women find my determination to care for you alone romantic. A truly unrequited love.

Your head turns sharply to the right and I shoot a glance your way. The way you stand---shoulders tensed, arms half raised like a raptor’s, lips pulled back---it’s no wonder you no longer have visitors. Some sliver of pity is awakened deep in my chest, weak and insubstantial like a plastic bag in the desert. Your head snaps back as if you feel me looking. Your lids drop, which make your yellow corneas more prominent. For a split second, the light catches your eyes and I feel like they are looking through me. They almost seem human. You nearly recognize me, tilt your head to the side, lips part---Haven’t I seen you somewhere? But the look quickly vanishes. Like always, my fear of you returning to some normality, regaining some memory, has not been realized. My hand grips the tiny bag clasped between my thumb and forefinger, and I back out of the room, locking the door behind me. A second later I hear you throw your slight form against it, and I put the bag back in my pocket. My hand is shaking.

An hour later, I creep back to the door and hear your snoring. I take the bag and tear it open, spilling the powdery white substance over the glass of orange juice I hope you’ll drink. Hope that this dose doesn’t send you over the edge. Because you can’t drown this with water.

Hearing your light snores, I can almost imagine the way you used to look: lying beside me with your red hair thrown over your face, back rising and falling with each breath. It almost encompasses the image of the way the blood drew back from your skin when you walked in on Stanley and I in that same bed that you slept in the night before. And the image of you throwing clothes into your beat up, sticker-plastered suitcase before you set them next to the door to be taken with you in the morning. And the way your eyes filled with rage as I, standing with two glasses of orange juice in my hand, asked you to stay. And when you said, The only way I’d stay with you is if I were completely f*****g insane.

Reviews

[Kevin Chelsea]

For a purging exercise, this is pretty good. I went from, and you'll have to forgive me for being like all guys are, "hehehe looking at his dingy" to "...what? That's it? Over?"

I can't ask for more, trying to force a story from small ideas can go wrong. I'm sitting here trying to think of something wise or clever to say and nothing comes to mind. I'd tell you where the mistakes are, but when I read through and you've already fixed most of them in the first run, you already see them. I guess all that's left is...

Thanks for showing this.
Makes me want to write.

[Jim Parson]

This is brilliant! Wonderfully conceived and perfectly delivered! I didn't see it coming and I always see it coming. Your visuals are terrific...you made me see exactly what you wanted me to see with no room for wandering. I love this!

[Farrah Grahm]

It's nice to see something new, but of course, i want more! You've got such talent, you should flaunt it. While your style is quite dark, it's got a very literary quality, and I think you should explore that.
Great job!

[Griffin Hill]

Very nice. it pulled me right in. Your style is very visual, I like that. I felt like I could see the experience you've written about. Dialogue and more characterization would make this stronger, but I realize that was not your goal as a purging exercise. Who are these two people and how did they get to this place in their lives?

Overall, a very enjoyable read. Great descriptions (good showing); please purge more. ;-)

Grif