Thrashing and gasping, the body erupts. A cyclone of fear and pain. Struggling to grab hold. Desperate to breath.
Exhale. She stands listening, waiting. I lay remembering, preparing. The floor creaks as she shifts her weight, trying to be silent. She is afraid to leave me, but after a minute she turns and lifts her bag from the table. I turn on my side as I hear her take the five steps across the room, open the door, and step out of the house. The door closes between us.
Going is a gift. Absence presents opportunity. I do not think, I simply begin the motions already in place. The click of the latch as she closes the door raises my head from the pillow. My body follows it and soon I am standing in the middle of this room. Couch cushions from the hide-a-bed thrown hastily in the corner as she prepared for my arrival. Framed pictures pushed aside to make room for my things. I re-arrange the items, fold up the bed, and attempt to make the room forget I was here.
Routines of washing and dress are slow, methodical. Socks and undergarments are retrieved from the suitcase and laid out on the reassembled couch. A light-colored shirt and dark slacks are gathered together with the rest of the clothing as I head to the bathroom down the hall. On the table sits the patient release forms my sister had to sign. Beside them is a note telling me to make myself comfortable and to feel free to help myself. I pick the pen up off the table and write the words, “I Cannot.” In the bathroom I disrobe and the chilly air causes my body to shiver. My sister’s still wet towel hangs next to the clean one she left out for me. Steam slowly fills the room. I step into the scalding stream and raise my face to meet the water as it leaps from the faucet. My mouth opens and fills to the brim. I am drowning.
Now dressed, this clothing hangs lifeless on my thin frame. I am a scarecrow with no field. I pace the house and meticulously replace all items I touched during my stay, erasing myself completely. I do not sit and eat; this pretense is unnecessary with my sister gone. I remove her spare set of keys from the hook by the door and glance through the window to check that her car is still parked in the driveway. She takes the bus to work. I pick up my bag and take two steps. A picture on the wall shows us sitting together, smiling. My face is unrecognizable. I remove it from the wall to reveal the more familiar empty space.
The house key turns in the lock, and then reverses itself. Protection seems pointless. There is no more in or out. With the front door ajar, I descend from the porch. My stride is quick as I pass to the car, averting my eyes from those of the neighbors. This is no time for human contact. The engine ignites as my foot settles down on the pedal. My hands begin to turn the wheel. My body forces itself forward to its final destination. Passing by office buildings, restaurants, and homes made out of trailers. The car moves perfectly centered between two yellow lines. Through intersections, around bends, it accelerates as it reaches the foot of the bridge. In the distance, the hillside is dressed in colorful leaves that are preparing for their fall.
Distance becomes malleable. Stepping on to the bridge pavement startles me in to awareness. “Is this it?” A slight pause, but the question soon fades. The car idles peacefully in the middle of the lane with hazard lights blinking. Somewhere underneath a ringing bell alerts whoever should arrive that the keys are still in the ignition. Darkness returns. My hands grasp gray metal trusses. My feet balance upon a rusty iron railing. Steel girders bisect the sky. The gray river moves silently to nowhere.
I stand at a confluence of beginnings and endings. There is no need to take the final step. Arrival occurred the moment she left the house. This point is not the highest, it just happens to be exactly where I am this moment in time. Three smokestacks loom in the distance like scarecrows. A car approaches in the other lane. A gust of wind blows. My fate descends.
The compulsion to move is replaced by movement itself. Outside shatters cool water. Inside continues the fall.
It is an image of the lauded Japanese writer Yukio Mishima posing as St. Sebastian. Yukio apparently used Sebastian as a trope to describe homosexuality in his writing. He later had this picture made and eventually committed suicide by slicing himself open. I have not yet and of Mishima’s novels but I have ordered them from the library.
Me and Mr. Jones 