The Gravity of Nothing

by Chase Connor

  I always found myself wondering, as I sat there, what it was like six feet down for my friend’s old body. What did it look like? It hadn’t been that long ago that he had been buried, and what with the way bodies were embalmed, maybe the body still looked like Dally? Maybe if the coffin was dug up and the lid flipped open and I was allowed to look down at the Dally-body, I would feel something. Maybe I would feel like Dally wasn’t really as gone as he was.

  They had said that Dally had fought for his life at the end.

  I want to believe that.

  I really fucking want to believe that.

  That he had found strength and courage and had come back to himself and hadn’t been the shell of a human being he had turned into towards the end of his life. Hopefully, in those few moments before he died, he knew who he was again, before John had changed his life. I hope that he found that warmth and strength and everything Dally-like that had made me want to be his best friend when I had first met him. And I hoped he looked Death in its eyes and told it to go fuck itself. Even if he hadn’t been strong enough to survive, hopefully he didn’t die feeling weak.

  But more than anything, I hoped that he didn’t feel alone.

  I hoped that he didn’t feel that I hadn’t loved him.

  Dally and I had sex.

  A lot.

  But it wasn’t like that. We didn’t have sex because we were in love with each other or we were boyfriends or even had romantic feelings for each other. Many times we had kissed for hours, put our hands on each other in ways that weren’t chaste, found ways to join our bodies that weren’t chaste. But it wasn’t being in love or being sexually attracted to each other that guided those moments. It was the need for solace and to be taken away from the inertia that only a trauma like ours could create.

  Every instance of our sexual encounters was predicated on an emotional or mental breakdown on his part. Sometimes mine, I suppose. But I didn’t breakdown like Dally broke down. Dally could go from calm and collected and even apathetic to murderous and raging within a matter of seconds. Dally did a one-eighty like nobody’s business.

  And those moments tore me to shreds.

  I had been torn apart so many times by so many moments that I didn’t even know where the pieces were anymore. I felt that I would never be whole again from all of those moments of nearly absolute destruction. Even if I could sit on Dally’s grave and sense him in any way, would it really change that fact? How long would I feel whole again? A moment? A minute? An hour? Maybe even a whole day?

  A whole day of feeling complete—I would give almost anything to feel that. But, deep down, buried beneath all of the nothingness, I knew that once that feeling went away again, I would feel further down the rabbit hole than I had before. What’s the point in comfort and wholeness if it’s the calm before the storm?

  The calm.

  That is one thing I did feel at Dally’s grave. Maybe it was a lie that I felt nothing when I visited his gravesite because I did feel peace when I was there. Almost as if I could disconnect from the rest of the world, Dally’s gravesite felt insulated from everything around me. The constant dull pain that nothingness provided was severely lessened when I sat there and tried to feel some sense of my now dead friend.

  At Dally’s grave I never felt like I had to pretend that things were fine or that I was holding up okay or that I wasn’t constantly being drug down into my own grave by all that nothing. I didn’t have to pretend that I was fine for the sake of my mom, Dally’s parents, my group, my boss and coworkers—for anyone. I could take a breath. I could breakdown if I wanted to, though I never did. I could tell Dally how hard it was from moment to moment to not let the rest of me rip apart and flutter away like confetti on the wind. I could tell Dally how much I missed him and how much I wished that I could have taken all of his pain and suffering away from him. How he had been the best and only true friend I’d ever had. How I wish…how I wished that we had never been friends.

  Because being friends with me is what had led to his death.

  That was my secret.

  Well, I guess it was Dally’s secret, too.

  Only three people knew the truth about why Dally was laying six feet under me as I sat there on his gravesite. Two of those people were dead. And, whenever my time came, I would take that secret to my grave, too. Because anyone that would be affected by that secret would be torn to shreds by it, too. There was no reason that everybody else should have to be weighed down by the gravity of a secret like that.

  I knew why Dally was dead. Everyone just assumed that they understood why Dally died. But…sometimes people lie. And sometimes when they start lying, they can’t stop. Sometimes I lie to myself. So, I understood why Dally had chosen to lie to himself as well. It’s not always a desire to hide the truth, lying. Sometimes lying is the only way that we can convince ourselves that we can survive from one moment to the next. If we deny a painful truth or a devastating fact. Sometimes, lying is the only way you can start to accept the truth.

  We All Lie Sometimes

  Jeff held that girl’s hand, whose name, I had just found out, was Crystal (ironic? No.), as she told us about the first time she smoked meth. I couldn’t figure out these kids in this group who had chosen to smoke meth. As I listened to their stories, it became apparent that they didn’t come from exceptionally bad homes. None of them were beaten or molested or had their T.V. privileges taken away for an exceptionally long period of time. I tried really hard to not be judgmental. Really. I really, really did try. But these kids were just a bunch of fucking assholes.

  Look, I know that I’m white and a guy and come from a family from a higher socio-economic class than the other kids in my therapy group. I was definitely privileged, compared to these kids. But the kids were just assholes who decided to do drugs because…well, I couldn’t figure out why, actually. None of them actually gave an underlying cause as to why a kid with a decent life would one day start shooting up heroin or pick up a meth pipe…or whatever dealer’s choice was that day. Most of their stories were fairly banal and ended with, “and then I smoked meth for the first time.” You can figure out where those stories ended. We were in group therapy where I was the only one who hadn’t been ordered by a judge to attend, after all.

  I hated group therapy.

  I truly and completely hated it.

  Even if the other kids in the class—I don’t know why I was still alluding to myself in my head as a “kid”, I was just about to turn twenty-years-old—weren’t total assholes, I would have hated class. And maybe they weren’t actually assholes but kids with mental problems. However, I just wanted to be alone. I wanted to feel all of my nothingness on my own and be allowed to do that. It’s kind of hard to be alone with one’s thoughts when a meth-head is crying about getting caught and being forced into probation and therapy or jail. I mean, you did it to yourself, right?

  Stop being such a prick.

  God, I was such a mental asshole.

  I lie. These kids do drugs.

  Both are bad.

  Why judge other people’s shortcomings?

  So, I listened to Jeff lead group and let each person talk about whatever it was they felt they wanted to share in the moment. Some of it made absolutely no sense, leading me to believe that not all of the kids were managing their sobriety well. But some of them were lucid, just annoying. When it came time for the kid who had bummed the cigarette from me after the previous group session to share, my eyes rolled further back into my head. Well, at least when he was called upon by Jeff.

  But when he started to speak, I was surprised by his candor.

  “I started smoking meth a year ago.” He said simply. “It was something to do.”

  “What made you use drugs as an escape, Isaac?” Jeff had asked, nodding, urging the kid—Isaac—to continue.

  He shrugged. “Boredom, I guess.”

  That I understood. Because it was genuine.

  “Just…boredom?”

  The kid rol
led his shoulders again. “I graduated from high school and I had the summer until college started…and, it was just my parents and me. Some friends asked if I wanted to do it. So, I did. And it just, I don’t know, took ahold of me. I ended up not going to college. Getting into trouble, going to court, and now I’m here. I haven’t used in two months.”

  “Well, that’s good.” Jeff frowned as he nodded.

  Jeff was probably as bored with these kids as I was. He was probably used to kids who had been molested or beaten or who had parents who dealt drugs or were prostitutes and pimps—or a million other traumatic childhood events. These kids, their drug problems aside, were boring as could be. It seemed like boredom or a need for attention or just being brats was the underlying cause of their drug use.

  Moment of honesty, I never have used drugs. I have nothing against them, since I hadn’t tried anything to have a real opinion, but I had never really felt the urge to use any drugs either. Other than my prescribed medications, I had never taken anything to alter my mind. Dally and I had experimented with alcohol once or twice—but he enjoyed it more than I did. Mostly because it helped him to forget his sorrow those few times that we had actually drank it. But even he hadn’t become addicted to the stuff. It was hard for me to get addicted to substances such as drugs and alcohol when my favorite drug was nothingness. That shit really fucked me up.

  Drugs and alcohol, for me, was easy. Maybe injecting something into a vein took a bit of courage and adrenaline—a desire to be a badass. Dealing with the feeling of nothingness entirely sober—that was a fucking blood sport. To go through each day raw and exposed and bleeding from an invisible wound and yet still crawl out of bed the next day? That was a high that no drug could ever match. Sure, you may have shot heroin into your fucking veins, but have you ever tried to crawl out of bed when you’re so empty you’re not even sure you are actually alive anymore? That’s an experience.

  Then again, I lie to myself often.

  “Tom?” Jeff turned to me after letting go of Crystal’s hand.

  I sat up slightly and looked across our little circle of misfits to him.

  “What did you want to share today?” He asked.

  Shrugging, I replied. “I guess it’s the same as always. Anxiety and depression. Nothing really new with my diagnoses.”

  “How are you managing?”

  “Minute to minute.”

  “Have you seen your psychiatrist or even your doctor since last group?”

  “Since last week?” I frowned.

  “Yes.”

  “No.” I did my best not to scoff. “I only see them once or twice or month.”

  “You ain’t got insurance?” Crystal was involved now.

  “I have insurance.”

  “They only pay for so many visits or something?” Jared, the talkative kid from the previous week asked.

  Isaac was watching like this was a tennis match.

  “I just see them once or twice a month.” I shrugged.

  “Okay.” Jeff held his hands up to stop the cross-talking. “How are you doing with medication, any therapy…?”

  “Um, I do CBT and my medications are okay I guess.” I replied blandly. “I take Xanax and Paxil. They seem to do the job I guess.”

  “Any side effects?”

  Shutupshutupshutupshutupshutupshutup.

  “No.”

  “That’s good.” He nodded, the frown still on his face. “Anything else you want to share?”

  “No.” I shook my head.

  Jeff stared at me for several moments before finally turning his head away from me.

  “I guess we can conclude group then, folks.” He shrugged. “Unless anyone had anything else…yes, Isaac?”

  Isaac had raised his hand as if we were in class.

  “Um, aren’t you going to tell us more of your story?” Isaac turned his eyes from Jeff to me. “More about Dally and John…and everything?”

  Crystal and Jared chimed in with their desire to hear more of the story I had told the week before. I glared at Isaac. Well, mentally I was glaring at him. In reality, my facial expression didn’t change, though I did stare at him intensely. He seemed to shrink before me, further into his seat, which was quite an accomplishment considering the fact that we were sitting in plastic folding chairs. Jeff didn’t say anything to reprimand Isaac for his question or Crystal and Jared for encouraging this behavior. Obviously, I wasn’t just being goaded by the other attendees but also the leader of this misfit group.

  “I told you the story.” I replied evenly.

  “You said Dally was dead, though.” Jared jumped in. “Did John fuck him to death or something?”

  Jeff actually spoke up then and reprimanded Jared. My expression still stayed blank.

  “What happened to Dally?” Crystal started asking before Jeff had finished chastising Jared. “I mean, we know John, like, molested him and shit…but you said that was just the first time. So, something even bigger must have happened to Dally since he’s dead. He didn’t just die that night when John molested him.”

  “Nothing happened to Dally.”

  That wasn’t a lie.

  “But he’s dead.” Isaac chewed at his lip. “So…he didn’t just wake up dead one day did he?”

  “No.” I frowned. “Dally didn’t die of natural causes, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Fucking hell.” Jared groaned. “Then what was it?”

  “I’m not here because of Dally.” I sat back in my chair. “I’m here because of depression and anxiety.”

  “Because of what happened to Dally.” Crystal said quickly.

  “You’re all just putting words in my mouth.” I shook my head. “I didn’t say anything like that. I don’t have depression and anxiety because something happened to Dally. I don’t have depression and anxiety because he’s dead. I never said that.”

  “What the fuck happened to Dally?” Jared bellowed in frustration.

  “Nothing happened to Dally you fucking assholes!” I screamed back. “I told you the story and you know Dally is dead! What the fuck do you want from me?!”

  Everyone sat back in their chairs, their eyes wide as I sat forward in mine, snarling at all of them—even Jeff. Finally, I eased back and turned my eyes to Jeff.

  “Is group over now?”

  “Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to talk about, Tom?” Jeff asked gently as everyone became a little less gape-mouthed around us. “Do you want to talk about how you feel about Dally’s death?”

  I couldn’t help myself. I rolled my eyes and slumped back in my seat.

  “I’m not here to entertain all of you.” I shook my head. “I feel nothing at the moment. Dally’s death makes me feel nothing.”

  “That’s fucking cold.” Jared shook his head.

  My head snapped to the side to look at him.

  “You don’t have the first clue about me, kid.” I snarled at him. “I feel a lot of things about you right now.”

  I don’t know what facial expression I had used, but Jared sat back and didn’t respond with an equally threatening comment.

  “You ain’t gon’ do shit.” Crystal snorted.

  My head turned to her.

  “You ever inject meth?” I asked her.

  “Yeah.” She snorted.

  “Was it hard pushing the needle beneath your skin the first time?”

  “I mean, I guess, a little, yeah.”

  “Ever inject someone else?”

  “No.” She shook her head.

  “Wanna know what it’s like to stab someone with something besides a needle? Something that’s not designed for the task?” I growled at her.

  All of the kids’ eyes grew wide again and they all turned to Jeff. He wore his own worried expression. I wasn’t threatening or taunting—just making a point. These kids didn’t know me from Adam and didn’t have the first clue what I was or wasn’t going to do. Because until a little over a year prior, I hadn’t known what I was capable of in
a moment of passion. But I did know what it was like to stab someone. Stab someone so deeply and thoroughly that I felt hot blood gush up around my fist. The way fresh, hot blood is both slick enough to make you nearly lose grip on your weapon and also sticky enough that you feel you may never wash it off.

  “I think we should all calm down.” Jeff held his hands up in what I guess he thought was a neutral, calming manner. “Why don’t we all take a little break to collect ourselves and then we’ll continue?”

  I rolled my eyes and jumped to my feet. I wasn’t going to walk out and leave before Jeff dismissed us. The last thing that I needed was for Jeff to tell my mom or my doctors that I had ditched a group. But I wasn’t going to collect myself in front of the others. Instead, I walked directly through the circle of attendees and out of the front door. I found my spot on the planter and pulled my cigarettes out of my pocket. Within seconds I had one lit and was puffing away.

  Smoking had become a habit in the days after Dally’s death. I lie to myself, but I wasn’t lying about not using drugs and not enjoying alcohol that much. So, I decided that killing myself slowly was the route to go. Cigarettes. That became my method of destruction. It didn’t draw as much concern from my mom and doctors as drugs and alcohol would have, even if they didn’t approve. I bought my own cigarettes with my paychecks and I was old enough to legally smoke, so it was really moot for them to say anything anyway. They were more concerned with my mental health than they were with this relatively harmless habit.

  The first time I smoked a cigarette was right after Dally’s funeral. I had bummed a cigarette off one of his cousins who had come to attend the services. Inhaling deeply, I choked and coughed until I was red in the face and nearly passed out. But I took another deep drag. And I choked and coughed. Then another drag. The choking and coughing lessened with each deep drag. By the time I had smoked the cigarette down to the butt, I was nearly a pro. Pain didn’t deter me from doing what I felt I needed to do. Smoking was no big swig.