Words continue to spill out of me onto the white of the screen as tears build in my eyes. I cannot stop the feeling that comes when I write academic papers. I have tried but each attempt marks a failure. My fingers have begun to feel heavy against the letters of the keyboard. Each word pounds outward from me in a rhythm that escalates faster and faster until I shove the keyboard away and tip my head backwards.
I must stop writing for the day. I need to stop writing and push myself away from the glow of the monitor. I cannot stop writing. My breaths are drawn in deep and expel like an erratic bellow. There is fire in my stomach that creeps up my throat. I want escape somewhere; I want to be someone I am not. My breathing calms and I focus my attention so that my eyes will open onto the screen. I observe each word that I have written and try to repress memories that threaten to overtake me.
I research for a book that I am analyzing. The soft cover feels smooth and comforting in my hands. Red heat continues to seep further upwards from my stomach as I thumb quickly through the pages. I see letters but I do not see the words. My hand flattens against a page where I had folded down the edge. Bob was proud of my accomplishments but I do not believe he understood. He created. I observe the creation of others. I am trained to only look upon the text and avoid the author, to say words to people who know what they mean more than I do.
Reading the passage I will quote I consider my argument. I use evidence like an unskilled carpenter uses nails. The more I pound into the paper the more I convince myself that my rhetoric is sound, it is real. I tell myself this to bring my hands from the book to the keyboard. Typing passages I enjoy, this is the joy I find in writing papers. Words of others wash through my mind and drip off my fingers as I dance their touch across the keys and watch letters extend into beautiful sentences.
I do not close the book when I put it face down, the spine groans and the pages begin to crease. The published word has never held the value with me as it does with others. One copy of Ann Petry has the same words as another, the typeface will change and the introductions will have different editors but the words will be identical. The passion will not change. I follow the words as I try to remove myself from my writing. I am not clear but my prose must be. My argument must be understood.
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My mop is chasing the red to the edges. The image I had been creating is no longer before me as I soak the red into pink and stain the bathtub darker. One task given to me I have completed and now I must focus on the work I began. Once again I my life I destroy my art. When I was young I tore it apart, I cut it, I burned it. Now I wash it away with a mop. I dilute it and soak it into the brush I have chosen. This is art, the opposite of art. I perform art in reverse and erase what I created.
The red grows thicker in places I have not touched. I think of the color as paint, I think of the red as only a color that covers the floor and not the source. Bob fills the room and I must deny the knowledge that I can never forget. I am surprised by the lack of smell that the red creates. Biting my lip I hope to taste the copper that my senses anticipate but the flesh does not break, so I stop.
My cleaning grows easier as I sweep the mop back and forth along the tile. No longer are streaks of beige left in the red, now there are only random trails of pink that must be attended to. The floor clears with every arch I direct until the mop becomes unwieldy for the task. I open the cabinet beneath the white sink to retrieve the bucket I began with. Placing the deep brown plastic container in the basin of the sink I turn on the faucet and stare at a small paper cup sitting on the counter. My only thought is that it will not hold enough water for what I need. Reaching under the sink I pick up a stiff sponge that is half faded blue and half evergreen. Turning it over in my hand I can feel the fiber that have worn loose from the repeated uses.
When the bucket fills to the brim I remove it and feel the weight pulling at my arm. My shoulder strains for a moment before I stiffen the muscles and lower the sloshing container to the floor. Clear water spills over against the pink streaked tiles and forms pools rimmed with red. Lowering down to my knees I soak the sponge in the hot waters that burn at my hand. I lean forward against the toilet and begin to scrub the red from the white.
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I always feel the ending coming like a rushing of energy. Words peel out of me as I see the conclusion of my argument approaching and I discover increasing clarity. My tongue begins to deflate and my stomach unravels from the tightness. I drip with synonyms as the final period of the paper rapidly comes upon me.
The ending crashes against me like a wave. My work is not accomplished. I see the long hours of editing and polishing my sterile words until they shine like a hospital floor. My prose is not perfect and never will be. I think about perfection as a nightmare. It is not real despite the claim of many that it exists. Perfection is figment of my imagination and my words are only the absence of light on the monitor. My works block the light and create shadows of meaning. I close my eyes as I lift a cigarette to my mouth and inhale deeply. Chemicals tingle along my tongue drying the inside of my mouth, the smoke runs cool down my throat in collision with the red heat that rises from my stomach. For the moment I feel at ease.
Tomorrow I will begin to work again. I will read my words and see my faults glaring at me with an unconquered superiority. Tonight I stop. My hand reaches for the television remote control despite the darkness that has fallen outside. I do not unmute the image that already plays across the screen and I do not change the channel. Staring at the silent image of Jon Stewart I imagine him making me laugh about terrible realities that other people live. People who are not me, but I do not feel like myself.
I feel relief but anxious. I can feel Bob; he is filling the room and surrounding me. He is larger than life even in death to me. Bob engulfs my thoughts as I slouch in the brown cloth of the chair and smoke. My brother casts a shadow as long as the words I hope to write. I must walk through that shadow with the knowledge that there is light at the end, like a period at the end of an argument.
Tonight I sit and convince myself that I will worry about my work tomorrow. I lie to myself and this is easy to do. My voice forms within my mind and explain that I have a first draft of a final paper not do for another two weeks. The thought rattles my stomach and I realize I have not eaten today. I have nourished myself on anxiety, work, memories, and cigarettes. Lifting from my chair I feel heavy and I walk to the door. The hall is dark, my mother coughs, and the eyes of a cat shine at me from the staircase leading down. I remember my mother telling me that she had cooked dinner as I rest a hand upon the banister and touch the polished wood that guides my steps. Tonight I will eat and sleep. In the morning I will wake and confront my words.
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Jenkin's Funeral Home is white like the smoke and steam that spills from me into the cold mid-November air. I watch my friends who try to fill the void within me with their words. I no longer have room for words of my own.
"So what's up after this? We're goin' back to your place and then comin' back here later, right?" Jim asks lacking anything to fill me with. He has been by my side throughout the day and he is struggling to continue with his own illusion. I can see my friend has realized that I refuse to recognize the funeral home for what it is.
"Yeah. It's a gallery showing that we're running twice today. You'll see." I tell him he will see but I am not convinced that he will understand.
"Well I'm comin' to both and the .... what did you call it that's happening in between?"
"The party."
"Yeah. I'm coming to the party too." His voice quakes around the word that I supplied. He does not understand. I cannot mourn Bob, my parents cannot mourn Bob, Jeanine cannot mourn Bob. The emotions are too real and the reality is too unimaginable. We will not cry today. Today we will celebrate and invite all to celebrate with us. In our celebration we will hide from our pain.
I turn and crush the orange-red glow of the cigarette beneath the heel of my shoe as I walk up the steps and through the door. My coat does not keep me warm and I do not want to remove it. My mother is standing with family, she is laughing. She explains that my father is in the hospital but that he is alright. I want to believe her; she appears so confident that I feel hollow and thin. Removing my coat I hang it up and walk into the crowds that surround the art that my brother created.
"I am so sorry."
"I am sorry for your loss."
"I'm certain this is terribly for your family."
"It is such a tragedy, I'm sorry."
The same condolences break upon me as I stare at each delivery. I do not know how my mouth moves or how I smile in the face of each. Each is sincere but selfish. They are sorry, they know how this feels, they give their condolences that I am expected to accept. I lie to each as I forgive them for the transgression they make. There is no forgiveness for their apology within me. I am hollow and thing so I float through the presence.
Late in the day I stand before a wood box sitting on a table. Around me people talk and laugh, the forget their selfish apologies. I look up and my smile is genuine as I see an old friend of Bob's approaching me with his brows lifted high.
"Hey man! I was standing right there admiring that box when Jeanine came up and told me he's in it."
I feel the emptiness push up against my throat.
"What?"
"His ashes, your brother's ashes are in that box. Didn't you know?"
"Yes." I lie. My experience has taught me to lie because words do not express the truth. Words only express and interpretation. So I lie to someone who I do not need to lie to.
Turning I walk away from the box that is too small to hold someone too large for the room. I walk away from Bob's friend, from the laughter of my family, from the confidence of my mother and break open the seal of the doors to feel coldness crest over me. I do not stop for my coat, I know I will return.
"John! Hey John you headin' back to your place?! I'll follow you over!" Jim is calling to me as he traced my escape from the funeral home that I refuse to accept as a funeral home.
I reach my car and open the door. Sliding into the seat I do not wait or give conformation to my friend. He will follow me to my house as I smoke and stare at the world without seeing the world. The curb at the base of my driveway wakes my attention and brings me to a halt. I do not see Jim but I know he will arrive. My walk to the front door is brisk, my cigarette burns at my fingers and I toss it into the cold mulch of the garden. I do not watch the color of the ember as I usually do.
Swinging open the door I hear friends of my mother. They are preparing the house for the party ad I cannot speak with them. My words are gone so begin up the stairs and into the bathroom. Closing the door I stare into the mirror and look at my eyes. They are hollow and thin and they force me to look away. So I look at the small paper cup sitting on the counter. Red fills me inside and burns at my throat. I drop my hand onto the cup and crush it flush to the smooth white surface of the counter.
As I cry I think of work, the semester is ending and my brother is dead.
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Alright, there is a full short story in five parts. Feel fortunate I could have turned it into six and had you opening and closing even more tabs. So if you comment, and I encourage you to do so, try to avoid the simple I like/hate this statement. Tell me what you liked or hated about it, I'm interested in both. What about the language did it for you or didn't? What about the subject matter? How's the narrator come across? What about temporality? Does time flow in an understandable capacity? Is there a present you understand as present? A past that exists as past? All initial questions to ask yourself before leaving a comment.
Again I encourage you to leave a comment. When reading doesn't lead to discussion the purpose of reading falters.
Also I request pardon on any wickedly obvious spelling or tense errors. I transcribed this due to technical reasons that I didn't feel like overcoming.