“Fur where there was no fur before”
“So, just you and the dog then?” the real estate agent asked.
Jim replied, “Yes, is that some sort of problem?” all the while thinking that if it was going to be his house; he could certainly have a dog. “Is there some sort of neighborhood association thing?” He had been planning to buy a few chickens, a childhood dream realized, and didn’t want to get on anyone’s bad side. Small towns can be the best towns or the worst towns, but it’s all in how you handle the residents.
A small, tight smile from the agent, “No, no problem. People here don’t normally keep dogs.” This said without looking Jim directly in the eye, as if he couldn’t for some reason.
“Hey, thanks for getting me a lower price on this place. I know it’s worth a lot more.”
The agent mumbles a thank you and quickly drives off, not bothering to remove the “For Sale” sign in the yard.
Jim sighed and began the slow and weary business of unpacking a life.
The first weeks were smooth and quiet. Jim had time to reflect back on them and realized that there had been a rhythm and tranquility he had never known. There also had been signs, but he had willfully ignored them. It’s startling sometimes what we refuse to see in our desire to be happy.
Jim wondered why the house was so cheap when he bought it. A two-story, A-frame house in perfect condition, sitting on a 12-acre lot. It was close enough to the town that he could ride his bike, but far enough away that he knew he would be able to write uninterrupted for long stretches. He had always been a rather solitary fellow, preferring even as a child to stay inside and talk to his stuffed animals. He would hear the other children outside and wonder about their play, but he was content. Jim had spent most of his life being content. He thought it was the kind of life that would go simply, and easily, with no great highs or lows. That was true, until he moved to Millford. It was such a picturesque town. It had a meandering river that ran through the center of town, past the old mill that had given the town its name. Jim really thought he would like it here. He really thought it was the place where he would grow old.
There was a small general store where townsfolk congregated, sighing and rocking in chairs on the porch. He went the day he signed the final papers for the house, ostensibly to purchase a few odds and ends. The thing about small towns is, everyone knows everyone else. Jim thought he could wait until the gossip about his arrival had done its work, creating a furor. Instead he decided to pretend to be the adult his body had become and go introduce himself.
The eldest of the men sitting on the porch smiled as he approached.
"Hi. I'm..." Jim started to say.
"Jim Brown," the man finished, "Bought the old McCready place."
"Paid too much too," muttered the man sitting to his right.
"Yes. I did." Jim replied, giving the other old guy a sidelong glance that he hope implied some of his discomfort and displeasure, but only succeeded in making him look a bit cross-eyed.
The oldest man look at him and said, "You seen any rabbits yet?"
Jim looked at him puzzled and said “A few, why?”
“They been acting funny?” the first old man asked, while his counterpart slowed the rocking of his chair to lean in intently and listen.
“I don’t think so,” said Jim. “I’m a city boy though. I’m not certain I know how rabbits are supposed to act.”
The first man nodded at this. The second spat a stream of tobacco across Jim’s shoes, nearly hitting them before landing neatly in the spittoon just to Jim’s right. He said, nodding to Jim’s dog, “Just keep an eye on him, you hear?”
Jim smiled, quite puzzled at this exchange and nodded once, twice and then went inside to do a little shopping so no one would think saying hello had been his main intention.
Talking to others in his neighborhood, though not on his street, all the houses surrounding him were deserted, curious in its own right, Jim would hear an astoundingly similar refrain in the days and weeks to come. He would ask questions and never seem to get answers. He assumed it was politeness, or reticence at talking to an “outsider,” but after a while he was less and less certain.
"The McCready place, huh? You heard about the rabbits?"
"Do they tear up the gardens?”
"No, no, the gardens are fine. My wife has a beautiful vegetable plot. I'll have her cook you some of her famous ratatouille"
“Sounds delicious.”
Jim has time to think about all the clues, as he’s crouched down in the closet. He knows it won’t be long now, but he’s still trying to think of some avenue of rescue. He remembers when the chickens were killed. He had thought it attributable to weasels, a fox, or another carnivorous creature. The property abutted a field on one side and a copse of trees on the other that extended behind the house. It was reasonable to assume it was a small, hungry animal, living in a burrow somewhere. The thing Jim had not seen, had tried not to see, was that the chickens had appeared more mutilated than eaten. Almost as if it had been done for the sport and not the food. The carnage was unbelievable, an explosion of blood and feathers. The telltale signal, what he should have noticed and didn’t, the deep-set tooth marks in the wood.
Now it is too late, now he wants blood. At least, Jim thinks it’s a he. Could be a girl. Damn rabbits all look the same. He sits there, paws up, ears back, scenting the air. He’s all soft brown fur and big black eyes like straight out of a storybook. Little pink nose twitching in that curious way only rabbits have. He scented Jim’s blood. Jim had nicked himself shaving that one spot on his neck, just above and to the left of his adam’s apple, always tricky in the best of circumstances. He had been spooked by a knock at the door and the razor had jumped just a little, just enough to draw blood. It was the rabbit that knocked. Damned if Jim knew how. Curled up his paw and rapped on it maybe, like he’d just arrived from Wonderland late for tea. Jim stood in shock, one hand on the door knob, one hand still pressing the white square of tissue to his throat, blooming red flowers filling in the negative space. The screen door with its delicate latch seems like such a thin thing. Jim had never thought about how thin before. It was all that was between him and the beast.
A white flutter caught at the corner of Jim’s eye, made him look out into the yard instead of the apparition at his door. It was a cottontail. Little bits of Easter rhymes were competing with the sound of blood pounding in his ears. “I’ve got to get a grip on myself.” The yard is slowly filling. There’s one by the hedge, two more near the ditch, another creeping from underneath the porch. Jim makes a move to shut the door and the rabbit there cocks his head, one beady eye focusing directly on Jim’s. Jim has just enough time to think, “oh shit” before the rabbit lunges, powerful legs launching him into the air and directly at Jim’s throat. Thank god for that screen. Jim falls back, stumbling over himself, and landing hard on his butt. There will be a bruise there the size of a watermelon, if he lives long enough for it to form. At the moment he isn’t thinking about bruises. He is on his hands and knees, scrabbling to gain purchase and get himself upright to run. The rabbit had banged against the screen, claws catching briefly before falling back to the porch. Now Jim could see with mounting horror that the rabbit was using his powerful jaws to gnaw a hole, partly through the screen but also partly through the doorframe. Jim has gained his feet and runs toward the back door and his car. He stops suddenly, skidding on the area rug he’d just bought at the antique mall last weekend. There is a rabbit at the back door, no, two. He has just a moment to register this before their small bodies begin slamming into the glass.
Jim checks his movement and runs upstairs. He has one chance, to get to the attic and call for help. He takes the stairs two at a time, falling again at the top and bruising his knee this time. Terror makes us clumsy in a way that nothing else can. Jim lunges toward his bedroom, toward the closet and the ladder to the attic. He manages to slam the closet door behind him just as he notices brown ears appear at the top of the stairs. “Why didn’t I close the bedroom door?” he thinks, just as he reaches the ladder to the attic. He climbs rapidly, wheezy and full of adrenaline from his flight. He gets to the top and hastily pulls the ladder up after him. He fishes the phone from his pocket and dials 9-1-1. As he listens to the phone ring, and ring again, he hears another noise. It is the rabbits and they are coming up the walls.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
She met him on a Tuesday and the world stopped. By the time it started spinning again, she was lost, tossed into an unknown world by the force of his being.
They were outside of her favorite coffee shop, she, standing, and he, sitting with a mutual acquaintance. It was spring and the light was affecting her in strange ways. It made her feel freer, more open, less afraid. They said hello and their eyes met. They were the same color, a green that’s almost blue. She was startled, thunderstruck. He smiled and looked away first, disinterested, or playing the part.
She told him everything. She spilled all of her secrets, like an overflowing bucket. She couldn’t empty herself quickly enough. She felt like a sinking ship in a storm, desperately throwing rainwater over the side, knowing she would drown.
There were many different types of smiles. The closed-mouth, upturned corners given to strangers. The stoic, straight-line head nod to acquaintances across a room, in the same aisle at the store, at a show. The fake, all tooth, wide grin in photographs, showing its falsehood by the lack of any corresponding emotion in the eyes, by its too-wide, too-toothy nature. The genuine smile, given to lovers and close friends, only seen in completely unguarded moments. It was characterized by its crookedness and the sparkle radiating from every line in her face. She hated that smile. She loathed its imbalance and perceived imperfections. It was the smile for which she was loved, adored, and she hated that too.
They crawled beneath the covers, drunk from the wine and the closeness of each other’s bodies. She tucked the covers under her toes and the edges of her shoulders and pulled her legs in close, far from the corners of the bed. He smiled at this and asked her why she did such a thing. It was summer. It wasn’t cold. She smiled, half on her side, half on her back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s from when I was young,” she shrugged, “a bad habit I had of pretending I could make myself be ok.” He said, “I don’t understand.” She looked at him and half-smiled. “You know, when you are young, when the bed was safety and everything else was a dangerous land, when there were monsters, in the closets and under the beds. If you were tucked in, if you were far from the corners, you were safe. Don’t you remember?” He gathered her in his arms and said, “Now, you’re safe. You don’t need the blankets. No corners can harm you.”
They were outside of her favorite coffee shop, she, standing, and he, sitting with a mutual acquaintance. It was spring and the light was affecting her in strange ways. It made her feel freer, more open, less afraid. They said hello and their eyes met. They were the same color, a green that’s almost blue. She was startled, thunderstruck. He smiled and looked away first, disinterested, or playing the part.
She told him everything. She spilled all of her secrets, like an overflowing bucket. She couldn’t empty herself quickly enough. She felt like a sinking ship in a storm, desperately throwing rainwater over the side, knowing she would drown.
There were many different types of smiles. The closed-mouth, upturned corners given to strangers. The stoic, straight-line head nod to acquaintances across a room, in the same aisle at the store, at a show. The fake, all tooth, wide grin in photographs, showing its falsehood by the lack of any corresponding emotion in the eyes, by its too-wide, too-toothy nature. The genuine smile, given to lovers and close friends, only seen in completely unguarded moments. It was characterized by its crookedness and the sparkle radiating from every line in her face. She hated that smile. She loathed its imbalance and perceived imperfections. It was the smile for which she was loved, adored, and she hated that too.
They crawled beneath the covers, drunk from the wine and the closeness of each other’s bodies. She tucked the covers under her toes and the edges of her shoulders and pulled her legs in close, far from the corners of the bed. He smiled at this and asked her why she did such a thing. It was summer. It wasn’t cold. She smiled, half on her side, half on her back, staring at the ceiling. “It’s from when I was young,” she shrugged, “a bad habit I had of pretending I could make myself be ok.” He said, “I don’t understand.” She looked at him and half-smiled. “You know, when you are young, when the bed was safety and everything else was a dangerous land, when there were monsters, in the closets and under the beds. If you were tucked in, if you were far from the corners, you were safe. Don’t you remember?” He gathered her in his arms and said, “Now, you’re safe. You don’t need the blankets. No corners can harm you.”
Misunderestimated
Mary met Elroy at a club. He was charming and talkative. He wore a tie. Mary spotted him while he was talking to a few other girls. She decided to be bold. “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing his hand. He was mid-conversation with a very startled looking blonde, but he followed Mary willingly enough. She was pretty in the way that few girls her age are pretty. There was maturity about her features that implied a certain kind of wisdom, without the travesty of age. Mary led him out onto the dance floor. They tried to make conversation, but the music was stifling. Elroy was successful in making Mary laugh a few times before she grew tired of the noise and the crowd, even if she was enjoying the way that his breath tickled her ear when he spoke. "I have a flask in my purse!" she shouted. He smiled and led her to the front door.
Holding hands, they stepped outside. The summer night was warm and humid and the stars seemed almost to be viewed from underwater. They walked to the car, their heels crunching sharply in the gravel of the parking lot. Mary shivered in the dark, an unusual sense of foreboding. She pulled Elroy’s hand closer to her and shivered again. He seemed not to notice, his mind on where they were headed. Their conversation was punctuated by quiet laughter and the soft voices that occur when you begin to realize the person you like might like you as well. As they walked they had been aware of a rhythmic clanging sound, which was growing louder with every step. It began on the edges of their perception and suddenly filled their awareness, stopping Elroy mid-sentence. They rounded a corner and saw a figure at the edge of the bright circle cast by the streetlight. He was slamming his fists against a metal dumpster. He seemed to be in a kind of trance, punching and muttering to himself. Mary gasped, “Paul!” escaping her mouth before she even knew what she was doing. The figure turned toward them. She dropped Elroy’s hand and started a step or two farther down the path, before stopping abruptly. Elroy started to say, "You know this guy?" but was immediately silenced by the look in Paul's eye. It was pure loathing, anger and disgust. Paul took a step toward them, “How long has this been happening?" Elroy tensed and turned to leave, but Mary stopped him, saying to Paul, “How long has what been happening?” “This, the two of you together. It makes me sick.”
Mary laughed, a shrill giggle escaping her lips before she could clamp a hand over her mouth.
Elroy looked at Paul like he was crazy. “Are you kidding man? I only just met her.” He started to walk away and Mary grabbed him. “Are you leaving me?” she rasped, some of the surprise of seeing Paul giving way to fear that she would be left alone with him. Elroy shook her off and started back toward the club. “Nice to meet you both,” he said as he disappeared back into the shadow, the smoke from his cigarette trailing after him.
Paul had been edging closer to Mary while he was talking. Now he quickly reached out his hand and grabbed her wrist.
“What is your problem!” she shrieked.
“I thought things were going so well. I thought we were getting along so nicely. Then you had to go and ruin everything. Now I’m going to have to punish you.”
“It’s really a shame,” he said, brushing the hair out of her terrified eyes. “Why do you make me do this? Why do they always make me do this?”
Mary noticed a sharp glint of metal. She had mistaken it for Paul’s lighter, but now she realized it was a very small knife. He was waving it back and forth as he spoke, his movements becoming more erratic with every word. She had liked Paul immediately. She had never been the kind of girl to back away from a challenge and everything Paul represented called to the gladiator inside of her. Paul had a leather jacket, and a tough attitude. She was charmed by the way he smiled, the way he held a cigarette. She had thought there was something sleek and dangerous under his soft-spoken southern drawl. She had been disappointed when, after three dates, it failed to manifest. She hadn't seen or spoken to him for a week. Like most young girls, she assumed that once she was through with a boy, he was also through with her. She was soon to find out how very, very wrong she was.
Mary met Elroy at a club. He was charming and talkative. He wore a tie. Mary spotted him while he was talking to a few other girls. She decided to be bold. “Let’s go,” she said, grabbing his hand. He was mid-conversation with a very startled looking blonde, but he followed Mary willingly enough. She was pretty in the way that few girls her age are pretty. There was maturity about her features that implied a certain kind of wisdom, without the travesty of age. Mary led him out onto the dance floor. They tried to make conversation, but the music was stifling. Elroy was successful in making Mary laugh a few times before she grew tired of the noise and the crowd, even if she was enjoying the way that his breath tickled her ear when he spoke. "I have a flask in my purse!" she shouted. He smiled and led her to the front door.
Holding hands, they stepped outside. The summer night was warm and humid and the stars seemed almost to be viewed from underwater. They walked to the car, their heels crunching sharply in the gravel of the parking lot. Mary shivered in the dark, an unusual sense of foreboding. She pulled Elroy’s hand closer to her and shivered again. He seemed not to notice, his mind on where they were headed. Their conversation was punctuated by quiet laughter and the soft voices that occur when you begin to realize the person you like might like you as well. As they walked they had been aware of a rhythmic clanging sound, which was growing louder with every step. It began on the edges of their perception and suddenly filled their awareness, stopping Elroy mid-sentence. They rounded a corner and saw a figure at the edge of the bright circle cast by the streetlight. He was slamming his fists against a metal dumpster. He seemed to be in a kind of trance, punching and muttering to himself. Mary gasped, “Paul!” escaping her mouth before she even knew what she was doing. The figure turned toward them. She dropped Elroy’s hand and started a step or two farther down the path, before stopping abruptly. Elroy started to say, "You know this guy?" but was immediately silenced by the look in Paul's eye. It was pure loathing, anger and disgust. Paul took a step toward them, “How long has this been happening?" Elroy tensed and turned to leave, but Mary stopped him, saying to Paul, “How long has what been happening?” “This, the two of you together. It makes me sick.”
Mary laughed, a shrill giggle escaping her lips before she could clamp a hand over her mouth.
Elroy looked at Paul like he was crazy. “Are you kidding man? I only just met her.” He started to walk away and Mary grabbed him. “Are you leaving me?” she rasped, some of the surprise of seeing Paul giving way to fear that she would be left alone with him. Elroy shook her off and started back toward the club. “Nice to meet you both,” he said as he disappeared back into the shadow, the smoke from his cigarette trailing after him.
Paul had been edging closer to Mary while he was talking. Now he quickly reached out his hand and grabbed her wrist.
“What is your problem!” she shrieked.
“I thought things were going so well. I thought we were getting along so nicely. Then you had to go and ruin everything. Now I’m going to have to punish you.”
“It’s really a shame,” he said, brushing the hair out of her terrified eyes. “Why do you make me do this? Why do they always make me do this?”
Mary noticed a sharp glint of metal. She had mistaken it for Paul’s lighter, but now she realized it was a very small knife. He was waving it back and forth as he spoke, his movements becoming more erratic with every word. She had liked Paul immediately. She had never been the kind of girl to back away from a challenge and everything Paul represented called to the gladiator inside of her. Paul had a leather jacket, and a tough attitude. She was charmed by the way he smiled, the way he held a cigarette. She had thought there was something sleek and dangerous under his soft-spoken southern drawl. She had been disappointed when, after three dates, it failed to manifest. She hadn't seen or spoken to him for a week. Like most young girls, she assumed that once she was through with a boy, he was also through with her. She was soon to find out how very, very wrong she was.
Burgeoning
The winter nights have become her cathedral.
She stands alone and unfettered,
free in a way she has never been
and terrified by the responsibility.
A girl alone has to knit her life,
make her decisions and pinpoint
the moment things unravel.
It was in the way he washed the dishes.
How his hands moved in the soapy water,
Scrubbing each piece of flatware and holding
them all in a bunch. A silver and white bouquet.
They knew each other for always,
in her mind and in their molecules.
Symbiosis on an atomic level.
The outcome not forthcoming.
She prays for rain as he once
prayed for ruin. Both lost.
Her pants come down and she hopes
desperately, violently for a bloom.
A shadow, a silhouette.
Finding nothing.
The fabric remains white, virginal.
Unlike the girl.
Her stomach swells and aches
and she wishes for disaster.
The winter nights have become her cathedral.
She stands alone and unfettered,
free in a way she has never been
and terrified by the responsibility.
A girl alone has to knit her life,
make her decisions and pinpoint
the moment things unravel.
It was in the way he washed the dishes.
How his hands moved in the soapy water,
Scrubbing each piece of flatware and holding
them all in a bunch. A silver and white bouquet.
They knew each other for always,
in her mind and in their molecules.
Symbiosis on an atomic level.
The outcome not forthcoming.
She prays for rain as he once
prayed for ruin. Both lost.
Her pants come down and she hopes
desperately, violently for a bloom.
A shadow, a silhouette.
Finding nothing.
The fabric remains white, virginal.
Unlike the girl.
Her stomach swells and aches
and she wishes for disaster.
The Year He Spent In Prison
He moves like a boxer, or a stevedore.
A dancer in iron shoes.
Tied to the earth.
Hands, hardened, scarred, tattooed.
Always loose fists at his side,
Spoiling for a fight.
A wild animal inside a home,
The only cage his own devising,
His own limitations.
Thinking he doesn’t know how to
Be graceful, or gentle, or
Accept the hugs, praise,
given freely
by everyone he knows.
The snakes have no defense
Against his many charms
Trouble with a capital T
That comes with a grin
Teeth slightly askew
And eyes like raw emeralds
You could have guessed his future
Before it happened.
Live Fast, Die Young
Aspiring to be one of the greats
Somehow now 33,
hairs cropping up in strange places
Drinking to dull the pain
A cliché of a cliché of a cliché
He moves like a boxer, or a stevedore.
A dancer in iron shoes.
Tied to the earth.
Hands, hardened, scarred, tattooed.
Always loose fists at his side,
Spoiling for a fight.
A wild animal inside a home,
The only cage his own devising,
His own limitations.
Thinking he doesn’t know how to
Be graceful, or gentle, or
Accept the hugs, praise,
given freely
by everyone he knows.
The snakes have no defense
Against his many charms
Trouble with a capital T
That comes with a grin
Teeth slightly askew
And eyes like raw emeralds
You could have guessed his future
Before it happened.
Live Fast, Die Young
Aspiring to be one of the greats
Somehow now 33,
hairs cropping up in strange places
Drinking to dull the pain
A cliché of a cliché of a cliché
NPR
This isn't going to win. They wanted actual ghost stories, which is fucking dumb. Here's what I wrote.
"Some people swore that the house was haunted."
Jeremy read that line and laughed. He was sitting in the lobby of the Seagram Building, sprawled across a chair. One gray-woolen clad leg thrown carelessly over the arm, the magazine that had recently caused such amusement dangling from his fingertips.
The people streaming between the banks of elevators and the revolving door took no notice of his loose posture. They had places to be. They had reason, motivation, and momentum. Jeremy had none.
He had wandered in a few minutes ago, sat and picked up the first magazine lying in a careful arrangement on the table beside him. It fell open to a story about ghost-hunters. He read, caring little for what was imparted. He just wanted the feeling of doing something. The laughter came as a bit of a shock. He had forgotten that there was anything left that could cause amusement. He had almost forgotten what amusement was.
He sat and watched and waited. The bustle of people began to slow as the day wore on. He watched the light change across the lobby floor. He thought about crossing to the coffee cart and buying a cup, but lacked even the basic motivation of desire. He no longer knew how to want, or what wanting meant. He only knew the words. He knew that he was supposed to feel hunger, or thirst, or pain. He knew he should want comfort, shelter, or companionship. These meant nothing. He knew a blank. He knew a cold, damp fog that enshrouded him.
The laugh had startled his heart awake enough to think about coffee, to remember how he had once loved watching her green eyes through the steam that curled over the top of her mug. His laugh made him think of her laugh, and that, coupled with a nascent image of her smile, of their mornings together, brought a pain sharp enough to make him gasp aloud. He retreated to the fog.
He had loved her. Even now he loved her, in a way that he knew was meaningful, or should be meaningful. She saved him, once, quite literally. To act without regard for personal safety, to sacrifice, is held as the highest of values. When you lead a life where your actions are a perfect embodiment of your values, you become a bit reckless. She wanted him to live. Jeremy wanted to murder the doctor who had allowed the blood transfusion, but knew it was not really his fault. She never mentioned her condition. She had only seen him, anemic and declining and made a choice, his life for hers. The doctors tried everything to save her.
He knew this and still could not contain the anger. He was angry with her for thinking his life held more value. He was angry with the doctors for failing. He was most of all angry with himself for his current thoughts. He looked up and thought of thirty-eight floors. He thought of steel, and glass. “That’s what I’m made of, steel, glass, concrete.” He thought of the chill beginning to creep across New York, people turning up their collars and donning gloves against the rawness in the air. Not quite winter, but creeping beyond fall.
He thought again of the height, five hundred and sixteen feet. He pictured the asphalt, the cars whizzing by on Park Avenue, busily approaching Grand Central, or the tunnel under the MetLife building. He thought it would be cold. That was appropriate. He stood.
Nothing was ever the same again after that.
"Some people swore that the house was haunted."
Jeremy read that line and laughed. He was sitting in the lobby of the Seagram Building, sprawled across a chair. One gray-woolen clad leg thrown carelessly over the arm, the magazine that had recently caused such amusement dangling from his fingertips.
The people streaming between the banks of elevators and the revolving door took no notice of his loose posture. They had places to be. They had reason, motivation, and momentum. Jeremy had none.
He had wandered in a few minutes ago, sat and picked up the first magazine lying in a careful arrangement on the table beside him. It fell open to a story about ghost-hunters. He read, caring little for what was imparted. He just wanted the feeling of doing something. The laughter came as a bit of a shock. He had forgotten that there was anything left that could cause amusement. He had almost forgotten what amusement was.
He sat and watched and waited. The bustle of people began to slow as the day wore on. He watched the light change across the lobby floor. He thought about crossing to the coffee cart and buying a cup, but lacked even the basic motivation of desire. He no longer knew how to want, or what wanting meant. He only knew the words. He knew that he was supposed to feel hunger, or thirst, or pain. He knew he should want comfort, shelter, or companionship. These meant nothing. He knew a blank. He knew a cold, damp fog that enshrouded him.
The laugh had startled his heart awake enough to think about coffee, to remember how he had once loved watching her green eyes through the steam that curled over the top of her mug. His laugh made him think of her laugh, and that, coupled with a nascent image of her smile, of their mornings together, brought a pain sharp enough to make him gasp aloud. He retreated to the fog.
He had loved her. Even now he loved her, in a way that he knew was meaningful, or should be meaningful. She saved him, once, quite literally. To act without regard for personal safety, to sacrifice, is held as the highest of values. When you lead a life where your actions are a perfect embodiment of your values, you become a bit reckless. She wanted him to live. Jeremy wanted to murder the doctor who had allowed the blood transfusion, but knew it was not really his fault. She never mentioned her condition. She had only seen him, anemic and declining and made a choice, his life for hers. The doctors tried everything to save her.
He knew this and still could not contain the anger. He was angry with her for thinking his life held more value. He was angry with the doctors for failing. He was most of all angry with himself for his current thoughts. He looked up and thought of thirty-eight floors. He thought of steel, and glass. “That’s what I’m made of, steel, glass, concrete.” He thought of the chill beginning to creep across New York, people turning up their collars and donning gloves against the rawness in the air. Not quite winter, but creeping beyond fall.
He thought again of the height, five hundred and sixteen feet. He pictured the asphalt, the cars whizzing by on Park Avenue, busily approaching Grand Central, or the tunnel under the MetLife building. He thought it would be cold. That was appropriate. He stood.
Nothing was ever the same again after that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
