Untitled Document

[THE UNSAID EVERYTHING]

Noise|The reflection of the headlights shivered with the rattling of the windows as Neil pulled his Lexus into the driveway. "I never should have bought him that damn stereo," he muttered. "Don't the neighbors complain about being subjected to this crap?" He had just come back from the Opera, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was the profanity his son labeled as music. The front door gave way and before it slammed shut he was halfway up the stairs. He was about to pound on the door and attempt to project his voice above the cacophony that was ensuring premature hearing loss for the both of them, but his knuckles stalled in the air. A large chunk of the door was missing. In its place was a puckered hole with chips of paint gone from around the splintered edge. Through that hole he saw Mark sobbing in the arms of some girl. He was sure he had never seen her before; he couldn't forget a face with that much metal protruding from it. She was rubbing Mark's back and saying something; it was drowned out by the music. Neil didn't know what to do. Ever since the night Cheryl died, he always felt he didn't know what to do. She had had a serious drinking problem ever since the miscarriage. She'd been in and out of counseling, but she would always go back to her vodka. She used to fight with Mark so much; he couldn't stand to watch. But that was all he could do. He had tried talking with Mark about it, but more often than not, it was he who ended up vomiting up his anxiety. Mark was a good son, he would listen, and at just the right moment he would say something, or do something and it would be exactly what Neil needed: a hug, maybe a comforting hand, a smile. He had always wanted to be able to do the same for his son, but things never worked out like that. He knew Mark was hurt on the inside, hurt bad. He had been really close to his mom. Whenever Mark had a problem, she listened. He never had a hurt she couldn't cure. They were like best friends; they did everything together. Every Christmas, Mark would wake Cheryl up leaving Neil to sleep while they both opened their stockings. On long car trips, she would sit in back so Mark could fall asleep on her lap. Neil had always felt out of place, even when they tried to include him. They had a bond, and he couldn't be a part of it. He always felt like someone on the outside watching his family's joys and their sorrows, always watching, never sharing. Even during the worst phases of his wife's problem, Neil never remembered Mark ever coming to him; it was always the other way around. Neil felt close to his son during Cheryl's trouble. He always thought that by sharing what he was feeling, he and Mark would grow closer. He never understood the rift between him and his son. He had tried to be there for him, when he could. Maybe it had just been too little too late. He decided it was best to let this girl comfort Mark; she was clearly better a it than he was. He brushed his teeth, and went to bed, all the while telling himself he would talk to Mark in the morning.

Vent|I didn't tell him that I saw the headlights in the driveway; he was crying so much I thought he was broken. I just held him while I whispered comfort into his ear. I doubt he heard it; the music was pretty loud. I didn't know what to do, I was crying too. He had all this pain, all this guilt. Once he started talking about it, I saw a part of him he hadn't shared with anyone, and he had desperately needed to. I didn't stop him when he smashed the chair into the door. I just sat there when he knocked over his bookshelf full of Poe and Dostoyevsky. I stopped him when he picked up the knife; I didn't want to know what he had intended to do with that. When he had said he wanted to share something with me, I was honored. We'd been sort of seeing each other for a couple of weeks, and already I had spilled so much of my own pain on him. He was so sweet; he'd just listen and maybe held my hand or gave me a hug. No matter what he did, it helped. So when I saw that I could give back what he had done for me, I felt so good, because I could help. When he brought me into his room, it felt like everything had a story to tell. The piles of dirty laundry garnished with random crumpled papers, his zebra striped boxers, a CD titled Caring and Killing right next to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. All this clutter, this contradiction to sanity; I knew what it was like, it was like my room. But his was not my suffering; they were two different breeds. Once he started talking, it all came out. I felt swept away by the depth of pain in his voice. His mother had always wanted a daughter. It had taken years, but when she finally learned to accept Mark for what he was, her son, they became inseparable. He recounted through tears, the first time they went to the symphony together. He told me of picnics in the park, scavenger hunts in the backyard, birthday parties and all those things, which bond a child's heart to their parent's. "I remember her coming home from the hospital," he had said, smiling. "Her belly was all swollen with pride. She told me, "Mark you're going to be a big brother. Come here. Listen." I put my head up to her roundness, but I couldn't hear anything. "Mark do you hear your sister in there? That's your little sister." I asked Mom why she was crying. Was she sad? She said they were happy tears. I don't ever remember seeing happy tears after then. His smile had fled and he couldn't go on. Mark doesn't have a little sister. I knew he wrote poetry, I had looked through some of his beaten up collections. His scribbly handwriting always gave me a hard time. He told me he wanted me to read some that he wrote during the first years of high, during the height of her drinking. He reached into the junkyard that was his desk and easily found the book he was looking for. It was bound in duct tape to support several expansions. I couldn't read most of them. This time it wasn't the handwriting; the first few lines were usually enough to blur my vision. We talked about them for a bit, then he took a deep breath. He looked me right in the eyes and told me that he was about to tell me what happened the night she died. "If I remember correctly," he had said, "she had read one of my poems and didn't like the fact that I had referred to her as 'a drunken pointless waste.' I tried to tell her what I meant but...." He couldn't finish the sentence; the tears wouldn't let him. He told me about how they had just yelled at each other for close to an hour. The whole time, his dad just sat at the kitchen table crying into upturned hands. She slapped him, and then he told her he wished she would just be his mom like she used to be, and that he didn't love her anymore. That was the last time he saw her. I put my arms around him and we both cried. I cried because I saw my own sad memories in him. They were different, as different as brother and sister; but that didn't change the fact that both were ours. I had been holding him, listening, for quite some time when I noticed the headlights. I didn't say anything; he was telling me about how the guilt ate him up at night. How he wished he had had the chance to tell her he did love her, and that he had just wanted her to get better. I held him and we cried, after a while I noticed what I assumed to be his dad crying in the doorway; he gave me a weak smile. Then he turned and left. Mark had told me his dad didn't know how to handle the situation. That it was he who usually ended up keeping his dad together. I guess Mark just didn't want to add the weight of his own problems on to those of his father's. When he turned his back and walked away, I wanted to yell. I wanted to tell him that his son needs him; that he's falling apart. But the music is loud and I don't think I have the strength to yell right now. So I spent the night comforting that man's son.

Release|Her name is Annette, but nobody calls her that. I love her more than I can say. She is just sitting here, with her arms about me. She's saying all the right things, I don't know what they are, I can't hear them; but I know that they are beautiful and I love her for saying them. My room is in ruin; there's a hole in the door where the chair hit it. Books are scattered over the pile of dirty clothes, and in the corner the bookshelf lies overturned. Once I started telling her, telling her about everything that was eating me up; I lost control. I had sat her down, very gravely told her that there was something I needed to talk about. The next thing I remember is throwing my bookshelf across the room and being disappointed it didn't break. I turned to Mimi and tell her about how my dad had done nothing the whole time, how he just tried to go on with life as usual. He had just got an important promotion or something, so he had little time to deal with mom. He would cry a lot though, he didn't want me to know that, but you can't cry as much as he did and not have your kid know about it. I wanted him to do something about it. I yelled at him one day and he just broke. I never really realized how much he was suffering, and how deep he was burying it. But I held my dad, shivering and coughing as he cried. After that he would talk to me a lot about Mom, he would usually end up in my arms. Mom never noticed. I told her about those last couple of years with my mom. About how I started writing poetry and found that I could say things there that I couldn't tell dad. Mostly I wrote about Mom.

Doppelganger|A woman there was, A woman named Mom. To the hospital she went all abuzz. That woman never came home. They sent a clone It bears her face I am all alone. This is what I thought of who my mother was. I knew it was her, but I didn't recognize all that things that made me so glad she was my mom. I wanted to tell her that the drinking was tearing me apart. Just seeing her swallow what remained of her life, then stare emptily at nothing. Dad couldn't bear it either. Didn't she realize she was killing the whole family? I don't remember picking up the knife I just remember Mimi taking it from me. I put my head on her shoulder and let her hold me. Then I took a deep breath and told her the worst of it. I told her about the night she died. I relived that night so Mimi could know. "What is this?" She shook my poem in front of my face. "A poem." If she wanted to be angry with me, then she was going to have to deal with my anger. "I see that it's a poem, but is this any way to talk about me? I used to have a mom, but now a drunken pointless waste occupies her place. And so I have none. Is this what I am too you? This is no way to pay me back for raising you, for giving you a house to live in." I didn't let her finish. "What, so I owe you for putting me through this hell? I don't think so, Mom, I don't fucking think so. I don't owe you a Goddamn thing. You're tearing me and Dad apart." She was louder than I. "I think your father can speak for himself, young man. And don't you use that tone with me. As long as you live in my house you will address me with respect." "I would but you don't deserve any! You need to talk to somebody, Mom. You just fucking sit in your room and drink all day. You scare the hell out of all my friends. Mom, I need you, dad needs you. Don't you see it? Why are you so fucking blind?" I had never seen a look like that before. I had done it, I had touched that part which she had buried, that she didn't want any of us to see. My head recoiled from her reaction. My mom had never slapped me before. I didn't know how to deal with that. It was the first sign of animation I had seen on her part in quite a long time. But I knew it was because I had hurt her, which is why it stung. I lost all control. I got right up in her face. "Fuck you, Mom! Fuck you! Don't you care about what you're doing to your own family? You haven't been my mom for years now. It makes me sick to see you. I tried and tried to help you, but the only thing you care about is your next drink. Fuck you! Fuck you! You're not my mom and even if you are I don't love you anymore!" I ran up into my room. I heard her pull out of the driveway. She drove off, and the next time I saw her, she was covered with a white sheet framed with blue and red flashes of light. There it is. The big, throbbing secret that I choke on every time; I just coughed it up. I don't know what I expect Mimi to do with it. I certainly don't want her to try and swallow it. I just don't want it anymore; I had to get it out. I am so sorry I put her through this. It takes me a bit but I realize she's put some music on. She knows my mood and the music matches well. It's kind of soothing, to hear someone screaming about how unhappy they are. I can't scream anymore, my throat hurts so much; at least it's just my throat right now. Feeling Mimi run her hands through my hair and rubbing my back reminds me that there is more than just that intangible weight. Ever since Mom died I had confused that weight with life. It felt so good telling her all that. I feel so spent, so empty and at the same time so warm. I look into her eyes and I see that she listened and she knows now. Compassion bridges the physical distance between us. I feel warm. It's late and I don't want to be alone again, so I tell her to spend the night. We don't have sex; it seems like it would be sacrilege. Her shoulder is my pillow, her arms my blanket. I can't sleep. I can't stop thinking about speeding to your death knowing that. You've lost the love of your son. And I can't stop being sorry, so sorry for making the last moments of your life so miserable. I love you, Mom. We can't fix what went wrong, not now, not ever. But it's OK, Mom, I love you. I just want you to be proud of me and to love me again, like you used to. -Ray Symonds

entry02>the_management >nasdaq_tip >illusion >Andy_Mac >the_powers_that_be >f.stop >retroboard >u.s. open >pandamonium >Beatbox >product|media-tion >In Focus >the_unsaid_everything >the end