- Oct 4, 2002
- 83
- 0
- 0
I'm not sure what kind of response I'll get here, but I just wrote this fictional short story narrative type thing. I was wondering how you interpret it, if you interpret it at all - and what sort of reaction you got after reading it. Thanks.
I was wondering why you were calling me so late at night. I mean, what are you doing here? Your voice, I mean. I mean, I miss you so much. When are you coming home? To me, of course. Of course. I know. Yes. I miss you. Do you know what love is? Cause I sure the hell don?t know. You drained me of any possibility of knowing that. Tone down my words? To loud for you? To goggamned loud? Hell, words are the only thing I?ve got. That and your voice. I mean. When you were here last. Yes, before, uhuh, before you left me. I mean right before you left me, before the world came crashing down like a box of nails on my head. You know, I really had a headache that day. You really gave me a headache that day. The pounding. Yes, I imagine it must have been painful. I mean. I mean that day you left me.
Ok. Back up. wait a second.
Why so late at night? Why did it have to happen so late at night? I mean, love had nothing to do with it. You know that. That?s not why I did it. No. Of course not. How could love, of all things, be the one thing that causes me to finally act passionately? Doesn?t passion come before love?
Remember. Did I ever tell you about that time I stepped on a nail? I was young. Ten or twelve maybe. We were converting the garage into a living room. Boards were strewn all over. Nails facing up. It was an impossible maze for an ADD kid like I was. But, I needed something in there. Who knows what it was. Doesn?t matter. But I quested my way about halfway through the garage. And then, a foot lands wrong. I was wearing rubber soled tennis shoes. I still remember the doctor sticking those tweezers into my foot, picking out those little bits of rubber. And my mom was so comforting. Dad was at work probably. I cried and screamed, and hopped on one foot. I remember my face was red with tears. Screaming their way down. Down my face. Just like that night you left me years later.
I was so sure. I was so sure that I loved. you. I mean, tears were boiling down my face. I mean, I understand what they say about crying rivers. Of course, it wasn?t your fault was it?
I never had the courage to be romantic. Not enough anyways. I was always caught up in the moment. The power of simply being around you silenced me. I didn?t know what to say. I just knew that being around you felt good. But you made me cry. You didn?t share the way you felt about me. You didn?t tell me you cared. You didn?t tell me you loved me. I wanted the courage to ask. I mean, I wanted to know why.
I had a nail in my hand that night. After you left me. The pounding in my head was driving me towards extinction, and I needed an answer. I needed an answer to my boiling tears. My numb body writhing inside. My hot red blood pouring through. Through, after I picked up that nail.
I needed an answer.
Your voice, I mean. In my head. Haunting me. Why are you calling me so late?