9: Shade of the Tree

Everybody has hobbies.
Everybody has interests.
Everybody has opinions.
Everybody has dreams...

Unless you don’t.
Then they’re beat out of you.

My dream as a kid?

Normal. That’s it. Simple, right?

Though — how many of us actually are normal?

I don’t think I’ve ever met a normal person in my entire life.
It’s really something to behold if you ever catch a glimpse.

I always knew how to fit in. Anywhere. For short times.
Everyone seemed to like me,
for no particular reason that I could discern at the time,
other than I was just there.

Socially, that’s how it went.
That’s how it goes.

I want to be.
So one day I will be.
So I am now...

static

head throbbing
heart pounding
eyes focused narrow and wet

my muscles strain to make but a single movement
as i forget to breathe

the pounding now lets up
only to have the electricity between my ears
wretch my body in pain

over the paper
over the recording
over the reliving

I had not known this before —
what vibrancy had been bestowed upon me
by the personification of color
that graced my grey and black world.

As we lay, legs intertwined —
it’s cold,
so we cuddle together for warmth under the blankets.

Her head on my chest.
Hair under my chin,
tickling my cheek
as I speak.

I now know what it feels like
to be a man for the first time — aware.

Not afraid.
But knowing that fear exists.

That I would be able to be safe and vulnerable with someone,
and hold them.

Not because I am lonely.
Nor because I need someone.

Simply because I yearn for it.
To be you.

So badly
that I pray to a god I don’t believe in —
every god I don’t believe in.

The devils and the demons too.

That if they did want me to believe...

Now was their fucking chance.

“What do you love most?”

Her ears discern the offbeat rhythm from my heart.
My hands tremble. My eyes adjust.

I say,

“This.”

You — laying together after — aware, smiling.

“I love to be here.
I love that I can laugh with you, and be intimate.”

“I love that it feels like we will be friends forever.”

“We will,”
as if you read my mind.

I am an open book.
And I will be here to read for you
if you are here to read for me.

As many chapters as we can handle together.
And write a story.

So that’s how the images began.

Luminous.
Vibrant.
Bright.

Warmth taught me how to feel empathy and compassion for myself,
so that I may share it with others.

I had a friend.

And it wasn’t just myself —
but I could be when we needed to.

Normal.
Independent.

We could belong
anywhere.

Because we belong everywhere.

Best friends.

My simple-minded torment and ruinous thoughts no longer
engulfed my days —
hour by hour,
minute by minute,
second by second.

They were beautiful.
Luminous. Radiant. Vibrant. True.

When we are in sync
we could show the world a love story…

The last one we will ever want…

But still —
from somewhere in the static —

“I’m sorry…”

Not all my pictures are so luminous.

So... Tragic...

“Have I ever told you about my first kiss?”

“No, I don’t think so,” she looks over from the bed. "Well…?"

"My first kiss was supposed to be with this girl I went to a concert with.

We played a game.

I carried mints all the time, and whoever got the last mint got a kiss.
And they choose who they want in the group."

Only I ever had mints really.

“So I had to play. There was no way out.”

A small smirk comes across her face.

“Well yeah, of course you had to play. This was a setup. You really didn’t know?”

“I knew I had mints. And they couldn’t play without my mints. So they let me play… because… the mints…”

She giggles.

“The mints were mine so I got to play,” I say, embarrassingly.

“I don’t know if that’s sad or cute. Maybe both.”

“I hope so,” I say. “…genuinely, I didn’t know…”

“But you won, right? How many people played?”

“I didn’t win.”

“I don’t get it. How did you get your first kiss if you didn’t win?”

“Well… it wasn’t really my first kiss, I guess.”

“So… what happened?”

"We were out in a parking lot.

My back against a big van.

The door cold.

I felt her breathe on my skin.
Hair on my neck.
Warmth on my hips."

click

“She didn’t hurt me… or anything. She was my friend. She was nice to me. I just…”

I felt afraid.

“I don’t know…”

But I do.

I felt cornered.

“I didn’t let her kiss me.”

I felt regret before she tried.

We had been friends for quite some time.

I never want to be home.
There isn’t much there for me.
I don’t belong there.

I have a hammock in my room.
A desk that my dad made.
A radio.

Sometimes a color TV.
Sometimes a computer.

A couch from the side of the road.
Luxury.

I liked the camper some. At least it was away from everyone… sometimes.

Nobody really notices I’m gone much anymore.
So it’s easier to sneak in and out.

My sister was ten years younger.
We used to be close.
But that doesn’t really mean anything to people like us.

We’re all loyal to betrayal.
No backbone.

The dogs belong to the rodeo.
Some in more obvious ways than others.

I don’t believe in luck.

But I trust people
to have patterns.

You find the pattern,
you find the person.

Usually I would consider that… unfortunate.

But it works more often than I expect.

She kept me alive.

static

I didn’t know where to go. Ever.

I had been to seven different schools by sixth grade.

I can fit in.
But I don’t belong anywhere.

I’m surprised I’m in school.

I just belong to the rodeo.

I hate the rodeo.

It persecutes me for my independent wants.
To question it is to betray.

but we must always answer

I loved the animals.
The things it taught me were useful. I can say that.

click

But for some reason she was there.

Drawing on my hand.

Behind me to the right I hear a voice.

She always has the best lines.
Like a movie.

But I can’t remember her anymore.
And I don’t know why.

I look for her everywhere I go.

“What’s your favorite candy?”

Butterfinger.

“I’ll try that one,” I say.

My family started dying.
As people tend to do.

Most of us try to procrastinate about it.
We stall.
We pretend it isn’t happening.

Others — the real ones, I thought then — do it.

Interview Section

“I bet she felt bad.” — Interviewer
“It’s how you learned to survive.” — Interviewer

I guess.
I don’t know why anyone ever chooses me.

I have identity problems.
It’s like I’ve been programmed.

My actual first kiss was a different girl.

We were friends for a long time.
Went to high school together.

We were wrestling on the couch in my room.
I didn’t have a bed.

Acting like she was biting me.

She kisses me.

She was nice.

I didn’t want to.

I thought we were playing.

She wasn’t mean to me.

But I was afraid.

I couldn’t say no.

I would also be intimate for the first time with her.

But I forgot.

I’d rather not remember.

My parents separated a few months into first grade.

So we move.

But at some point right before we move —

It’s like I’ve forgotten this story.
But remember it now somehow.

It feels fake.

Programmed in.
Like software on a computer.
Or an edit in the page of a book.

I remember a sliding closet.
The doors were mirrors.
Gold trim borders.

We could see the bed in the reflection.

I open the closet.

There are shoes.
A dress.

I’m in my parents’ bedroom.

And I don’t know who they are.

There were three girls.

I don’t remember how old they were.
How big.
How small.

They say things to me.

I don’t remember what.

Just words.

They grabbed me.

Then I was on the bed.

I was little.

They held my arms down.

One girl got on top of me.

They held me down easily.

And that would have been my first kisses.

And…

After that—

click

Sorry.

The first time there would have been sex involved
in some form.

And we didn’t remember it.

I don’t remember everything about it.

I was wearing a dress.
Or some form of white clothing.

I was like six.

I remember multiple different times.

Different ways.

For years.

I can’t really see their faces.

Or who is on me.
Or who is in us.

The girls were scary.

They were being nice.

I didn’t know what to do.

I just did what they told me.

We could tell they weren’t real.

They were always softer than the men were.

But I’m not sure if that’s better.

That’s the programming.

No was not acceptable.

I didn’t know what to do.

I just did what they told me.

If I didn’t—

The men beat me.

And we did it anyway.

The girls trained me
so I was unable to say no.

We were their dog.

click

breathes

yeah

...

click

yeah

“This happened more than once?” — Interviewer

Stuff like this happened for years.

I don’t always remember very well.

Unless I don’t want to.

Especially when I try to be intimate with another person.

I don’t like people touching me.

I can do it now though.

“What do you think has changed?” — Interviewer

I don’t think we like the answer.