Before I could just sit back, pretend to listen, come up with answers that she would want to hear, and be done with it. It was group-therapy and being in a group allowed me to sneak by. Avoid ever having to really discuss what was going on with me. Why should I, it would just be ammunition to be used against me later on. But that all changed when she felt it would be better for my development if I had one-on-one sessions. Not with her, of course. I was too damaged for her level of education.
That’s when I was sent to meet with Doctor something Sacklow. Legit, that’s his name. No gayness intended. A published psychologist, he thought he was the shit in his field. Told me so on several occasions. Didn’t give him a reason to, he just did. And yet here he is working as a guidance counselor/social worker in some shithole high school within a shithole borough of the city. Clearly, he was going places.
I hate these sessions. They’re nothing more than an hour spent sitting in a cubicle-sized office within a room crammed with filing cabinets filled with who-knows-what. I tried to get out of the sessions, was willing to even go back to gym but it was a no go. It was mandatory if I wanted to stay in school. I could care less, but what I wanted didn’t matter. So I went to them.
I’ll give it another year before I make a permanent decision as to what I’m going to do. Until then, I would play the recovering truant and make it seem like I’m putting an effort into my high school education. Play the part, play the mental screw-up trying to get back on track to make everyone else happy. Or at least try to ease their burden of having to do with me and—
“So, what do you think? Does that make sense?” He’s been talking since I got here, and while I was nodding my head seeming as if I was paying attention I wasn’t. Usually I’d listen in every now and then to get what he was trying to say, but I hadn’t even been doing that.
So I do what I do best, “Yeah, I think that actually does make sense.” I say what he wants to hear, a true giver, to the very end.
“Ok then tell me.”
“Tell you what?” I ask, playing with the chain that straps my wallet to my belt loop. “Tell you how my day is going?”
He nods his head, he’s disappointed. He knows I haven’t been paying attention, “Ok,”—he goes with it anyway—“tell me how your day is going.”
“It’s going good. Never better.”
“Better than the last time we met?”
“Is that true?”
“That’s not true is it? Because if it was you wouldn’t look like you do.”
“How do I look?”
“You tell me.”
I could give him something. Make up an answer that wouldn’t be the whole truth. Just provide him with enough to get him off my back. Give him some satisfaction that he’s doing some meaningful work. But I don’t. I drift off and try thinking of something else. I escape into myself. Not because I don’t like the focus on me, but it’s mainly because I don’t like him. I don’t like anyone. The feelings are mutual—despite the phoniness—and should be acted upon.
“Are you going to answer?” Shit, not paying attention and jots it down in his stupid pad. It’s going to give him a reason to call home, say something negative about me and blame it on my parents. Bring on another argument. Now I’m going to have to go straight home and erase the message, fucking prick.
I snap out of it. Start to pay attention. Get out of my head and listen. “What was the question?”
“I was asking you to describe how you feel about the situations you’re currently going through. Situations at home or at school. How would describe your….” He starts to ramble, wants me to describe how I feel when faced with one of my problems that’s led me here. Thinks using symbols and all that would help understand it. Mainly, he wants to determine what he’s working with, thinks he can actually help me.
I’m tired of people saying how they want to help me. They say it more for themselves to feel better since they really can’t. Not just any random person you pass by on the street—although they are susceptible—I’m talking about the people you meet. The people who supposed know you but don’t really care to.
“I feel like a caged lion.”
“A caged lion?”
“Yeah, an antsy caged lion who just wants to get out.”
“And destroy everything around him. I just want to break out and tearing everyone that comes into my sight.”
“I want tear into that fucker in my World History class who thinks it’s fucking hilarious to call me ‘Fat Bastard’. I want to destroy his bitch of a girlfriend who asks him to do his impression of me as if it’s the only thing that gets her wet. I want to show the fucker who thought it’d be cool to out me so I’d owe him one.
I want to fucking terrorize my Spanish teacher who thinks it’s going to do something for the class to put down the Spanish boy who doesn’t speak Spanish. I want to hunt down that asshole gym motherfucker who likes to put his little pep squad of basketball turds on me since I’ve emasculated him as the failure he is.
I want to show that prick neighbor who caught me at the park and thinks just because we’re into the same thing I’d be into him. Use it over my head as if I care about losing the shit I have in this world. I want to fuck up those assholes who are friends of my father but punks to me the minute he turns his back. I want to show my parents that I may not be like the pricks they hang out with but I’m better than they are.
I want to get out and find the son of a bitch who said he was my friend and used the things I told him to continue three years of endless bullshit. I want to stand up to motherfuckers who jumped me because they thought they could because I wasn’t like them. I want to corner the turd that convinced me what we were doing was normal and ok as long as no one knew and then sold me out the second a rumor got around.
I want to finally stand up and ask the one thing they never told me, I want to ask my—”
“So are you going to tell me how you feel?” He asks again, it takes me a moment to realize the outburst wasn’t so much as out but in.
For a moment there, I want to repeat it. It felt somewhat good letting that out, mentally. “I feel like,”—I think about what would happen if it’s finally out—“I feel like a bird who’s flying,”—And I back away from doing so—“and trying to find stable ground to land on because he’s ready to stop fluttering around.”
“Interesting, symbolically philosophical.”
I know. “I know.” I tell him something reasonably cliché, but something that could possibly be said by me. He says it again, ‘interesting’ and jots down some observation. He thinks he’s making headway with me. Finally broke through my defenses. I let him think so. He goes on to analyze my response, how I’m starting to change for the good and all that. I listen to him, while a part of me makes the countdown. The countdown to when I can get the hell out of here.
My words are what warmed you, My words are what I gave.
Comfort was what you needed, Comfort is what I gave.
A evening’s filler is what you sought from me, A evening’s filler is what I gave.
Raw is what you wanted, Raw is what I gave.
My thoughts are what you ignored, My thoughts are what I gave.
Friendship meant casual flings, Friendship is what I gave.
Love is what you didn’t want, Love is what I gave.
What makes me laughs the most — the deception we played— Was the need to feel satisfied By what one gave and the other takes.
“I thought you don’t write about me.” I asked, waking him from the confinement of his book. He looked at me perplexed as to what I was talking about. It wasn’t until he saw his webpage on my laptop’s screen he understood the question.
Sighing, he returns to his book uninterested, “I don’t write about you.”
“So ‘Giving and Taking’ isn’t about me? Isn’t about us?”
“No, no it’s not.” He’s lying.
“Bullshit,” Setting the laptop on the coffee table I turn on the couch to face him, “that’s about us. Me, to be exact and what went down—”
“Don’t.” He laughs looking up at me. The smile fades from his face to make his next point clear, “Don’t get all excited, cause it’s not about you or me. And, what you mean is ‘it’s about me through you’ ok. It’s what it is: a poem.”
“Yes, a poem.”
“You don’t write poems unless you are trying to—“
“Trying to what?”
“I’m not that deep.” His eyes return to the book, I can tell his getting slightly irritated. I want to stop but I’m too interested to turn away from it now.
“Yeah you are. You just don’t like to show it.” He mutters something and looks back into the book he’s reading, I laugh a: “What was that?”
“Nothing.” He glances up at me, “It was nothing.” He really doesn’t want to answer it. I can respect that. But the awkwardness that’s settle in makes me continue.
“Come on.”—I crawl over to him, crawling on top of him forcing him to lower the book he pretends to read. Looking deep into his eyes—“Tell me.”
He tries looking away. Tries to play indifferent and casual, but he’s failing to hide the fact that I’m starting to discredit the one thing he attempts to hold over everyone’s head. Understanding him. “Is it about what you felt about me?”
His eyes come back into mine, “It’s at the reader’s discretion to decide—“
“Don’t give me that writer’s bullshit,”
“It’s not bullshit.” He pinches my bottom lip in a playful manner. It’s his attempt to move on from the subject.
“’Filler’,”—It doesn’t work this time—“you used ‘filler’.”
“So?” He sighs unhappily that it didn’t work, tries looking away to show he was over the conversation.
“That’s what you use to refer to yourself, ‘filler’.”
“So? I’m sure many people do.”
“They could, but I don’t know many people and the people I do know you happen to be the only one who described yourself as being a ‘filler’.”
“Maybe you don’t listen to people as much as you think you do.” A jab at me, again. I’m getting to him, and he doesn’t like it.
“Just tell me.”—He looks at me. He’s breathing heavy under me. I can’t tell whether he’s breathing heavy because he’s angry that I’m bothering him or he’s feeling cornered by my need to want to know the truth—“Is it?”
“Yes.” He exhales.
“You—still feel this way?”
He leans up, kisses me softly. He rubs his face against my cheek, moving his lips closer to my ear to whisper: “— ~**~ “What are you writing?” He asked him, attempting to look at the laptop screen. But his finger was faster at lowering the window before his eyes could survey what he had been writing. “Oh come on let me see it.”
“You will, maybe.” Biting his lower lip he repositions himself on the couch, the back of the laptop facing his curious observer.
His quizzical slanted eyes observe him, “You’re writing about me aren’t you?”
“When I’m done with it you can see it.”
“Fine. Keep your secrets, just a waiting fan and all.”
“Mmhmm.” He jumps onto the couch and slowly moves towards him in a mischievous manner, “Huge fan.”
“I have many fans,”
He shoots him a unhappy glance, disinterested by that comment, before stating, “I’m the super one though. The one you write about.” He attempts to move around the laptop to sneak a kiss.
He keeps him back, “It’s not about you.”
“I can’t lie. I suck at it. I smile too much.”
Head back, eyes gazing at him in an interrogative manner, “You’re writing about me?”
“No.” He smiles.
“Lie.” He stands up, “I’m gonna read it, I have my ways.”—before exiting the room he asks over his shoulder—“Want a drink?”
With a swift move of his finger the window of the blank document returns, “Sure,”—He hits the exit button—“Why the hell not.” Shutting the lid of the laptop close, he joined him after denying the window’s request to save the document and the short he’d just written.
They kiss atop a rustic mausoleum while locked within a constricting embrace. The rain washes over them, washes away all the vacant space. Chipping and pulling away the graveyard, her cherished home, farther away.
Its cleansing death to the forces of nature is the farthest thing from her mind, the girl who brings death in the shape of a kiss, since she’s far too wrapped up lost in the bliss of Carl Lumen.
She desired everything about him: the moisten plateau of his red lips, the sleek shell of his obsidian skin, the glass hue of his brown eyes, were all keepsakes which kept her blind to the things she cherished in her very own life.
He had done the one thing no other could do, capture her soul and ignite it anew. She’d once again was able to believe in something she assumed wasn’t true.
They met several passing nights before. Young Carl had wandered into the cemetery, lost and isolated from all that he had known. The girl had taken him in, and upon hours spent chatting learned all she could about him.
The two were one in the same. Both had seen the bleakest things that life could offer, enjoyed them silently until they eventually faltered. Both enjoyed the prospect of the coming end, enjoyed confiding their thoughts concerning what awaited them.
With a shared interest in all things of a darkly matter, the girl and Young Carl soon shared more of the body manner. All was well among the two, not a single flaw could be uncovered. The girl soon believed she had finally found the one.
Pulling back from each others’ warmth, they stared into each others’ eyes. They were transfixed in their place that is until Young Carl takes slips which he unintentionally is forced to take a plummeting dip.
Knees scrapping against the jagged roof the mausoleum, she watches him with an utmost perplexing stare as she watches him bob up and down while choking on watery air.
He held his strong hand out for her to grab, swimming wasn’t a skill he had. Unfortunately for Young Carl Lumen, within that very moment she lost all interest. Sadly, it included the notion to save his life.
Cradling her knees, she sat under the weeping skies and watched her latest love bid a goodbye.
After the water left the graveyard in its wake, the girl jumped down from her safest place and kissed her former lover upon his balmy and bloated face.
Heading back to her resting place, she gave directions to the humbled day keeper to where a new body waited. Finding his body mangled underneath a tree, the keeper grunted at the sight of a smile upon Carl Lumen’s pasty chapped lips…
.. … …. ….. ~~~~*breathe*~~~~ ….. …. … .. Victim #10…Carl Lumen. She took his breath away.