by Chase Connor
“Fine.” Dally grumbled. “Be in a mood. Ruin the carnival, too. Just like you ruin every damn thing we do.”
What came over me at that exact moment, I had no clue, even to this day. I don’t know why I turned to my friend and shoved him so hard he nearly fell on his face. And I don’t know why I shoved my face into his and screamed at him. At the carnival of all places, too. But high school was over. This was the last summer that I would be forced to endure my friend. The friend who had forced me to feel like the only way to get a reprieve was to go into a mental hospital without any fight when my mother said she was going to sign me into one. The friend who made me anxious and depressed. The friend who made me start lying. The friend who didn’t care how it affected me.
“I’m never coming back here for this fucking carnival!” I growled in my friend’s face.
“Jeeeeeesus.” Dally corrected his stance as I shoved my face into his.
“Ever.” I spat. “I’m never coming back here.”
Then I started to walk towards the concessions again. There was a breath’s pause and then Dally was running up alongside me again. I ignored him, didn’t react to his reappearance at my side.
“What the hell did I do?” He whined.
Continuing on my way towards the concessions, I felt myself getting angrier and angrier, though I felt guilty, too. Lately, I had been lashing out at everyone, especially Dally. Everything was building up and making me act erratically at very unexpected and inopportune times. The slightest thing, such as the mention of the possibly coming back home to spend the summer with Dally, whom I was trying to escape, made me angry. Even though Dally suggesting that thing was him being kind, it made me want to be as violent as I could. I wanted to punch my friend.
So, I did.
Right there in the middle of the carnival with the corn dog concession stand less than ten yards away.
And I didn’t even feel bad when I saw him hit the ground and hold a hand to his jaw. I didn’t feel bad as everyone turned to watch the spectacle unfolding before their eyes right there in such a joyous place. I didn’t feel bad when Dally’s eyes started to well and he leapt to his feet and ran off in the opposite direction. I felt bad later. When I realized that was one of the last times I would ever see him alive and momentarily happy again.
For days after the carnival, which I ended up leaving right after Dally ran away, I found myself mentally tearing myself up. I didn’t necessarily feel bad about having struck Dally, but I couldn’t understand why I had reacted so violently so spontaneously at such a small slight. Well, such a small perceived slight. Dally had done plenty of things over the years to deserve a punch to the jaw. But I had never punched anyone before in my life. Not even John, though I should have. Even if it had caused worse problems for me and Dally, he definitely should have been at the end of my fist—if not worse.
And, a few days later, I realized what the problem was. I never wanted to come home once I left, not even for holidays or vacations or…anything. Because Dally would be there and I would be forced to lie. If I stayed away from home, no one would know anything about me, about my history with Dally, no one would ask if I had enjoyed my time at summer camp. No one would ask why my friend and I were tied at the hip, like brothers, but in a really creepy way. I could have an identity apart from Dally. I could have an identity apart from what had happened during The Summer of John.
So, I decided that it was all over. I had hit Dally. He had it coming, even if that moment wasn’t when I should have hit him. And I would be leaving for California at the end of summer. And I would never look back. I would stop lying. I would start telling the truth as soon as my feet hit fresh soil. I would be Tom as he was supposed to be and leave everything behind. And if someone ever asked if I had an experience with sexual assault, I would say “yes” but not explain. Then no lies would have to be told. I would never have to lie or pretend or protect Dally’s shame. I could just be Tom.
And it was a good plan.
It was a plan that made me smile and brought joy to my very soul.
And it would have been perfect.
If I hadn’t looked up while handing cash to the guy at the movie theater.
Because that’s when I came face to face with John again.
And that’s when the lies got bigger.
Closed Doors
“I’m tired.”
“Well, you look tired.”
“Do you always have to agree with me when it’s something bad?” I asked my mother.
“Are you taking your medication?”
“Yes.” I said blandly. “I’m taking my medication.”
She took my chin in her hand and lifted my face up to look at her as I sat there at the kitchen table.
“You did the right thing.”
I cocked an eyebrow.
“When you told Dally’s parents what happened to him.”
“Jesus Christ, mom.” I pulled back so she wasn’t touching me anymore. “I don’t want to go through this with you again.”
“I just wanted you to know.”
“And I want you to know that all of these little tips and tricks you and the doctors and counselors talk about behind my back are not magic spells that will suddenly make me better.” I spat. “I’m not wrong in the head because of guilt. Okay? And I’ve denied it enough times over a good enough length of time that you all should start believing it.”
“Well, you yourself told your doctors that you lie a lot.”
“I’m glad they chose to discuss the things I tell them behind closed doors with you of all people.”
“I’m your mother.”
“I’m a fucking adult.” I snarled. “Fuck you. And the doctors.”
I went to work.
the gravity of nothing
When I’m in bed at night, all by myself, I think about who I have become.
Who I was before.
Would I be the same person I am now if things had been different at summer camp?
How irrevocably damaged was I after John came into mine and Dally’s lives?
Is John the reason I am the way I am?
The reason I lie?
The reason that Dally asked me to start lying?
Or am I just a liar?
A coward?
Someone who failed to protect his friend?
But I was fourteen.
I was a kid.
A kid preyed upon by a grown man.
A kid who just wanted to survive.
A kid who could do nothing more than let things happen and pray that the sun rising in the morning would chase away the shadow of John.
the
gravity
of
being
a kid
The gravity of being someone I don’t want to be. That’s how I feel most of the time when my thoughts scatter around my head like ping-pong balls. When there’s nothing but silence and I’m left to think and think and think and think and
I feel crazy in those moments.
I really do hate silence.
Silence doesn’t allow pretense or lies or subterfuge or pretend.
Silence is truth because it won’t allow anything but the truth to be told.
And my head is full of truth.
Lies
Lies
Lies
I’m scared at night when I’m not working. Which is why I work a lot—whenever I’m asked. Because there’s always noise at work. Even if it’s just the fountain drink machines kicking on and off. Or the register beeping every now and then. I’m not left alone with the truth.
The
Truth
Will
Set
You
Free
But first it will anchor your ass to the ground. It will force you to feel everything or nothing and it’s up to you to choose.
Everything is a tidal wave towering over you as you stand on the beach, unable to run fast enough to get away.
Nothing
It holds you in place
Weighs your ass down
No one can escape the gravity of nothing.
A Shell of Blood
So, let’s go over this from the top, shall we? That’s what the cop said as I sat there, my hands, my arms, my chest, my chin smeared with blood. I felt cold, like it was my body that had lost all of that blood. Blood is slick immediately, hot fresh from a wound, turns cold quickly, suddenly sticky, then dry and flaky, like rust falling off of you. My body was the side of a ’57 Chevy left to slowly decompose in a field. Flakes. Flakes. Flakes. But it wasn’t just blood smeared on me. Fresh, gushing arterial blood had spewed across my hands and arms and chest and a lot of my torso. It had soaked part of my jeans. So, that blood wasn’t flaky yet. It was like a thick layer of life slowly trying to dry into a hard shell against me, seal me in and protect me against this moment. Dally’s blood was trying to put me in a bubble.
Just like his lies had done.
We need you to tell us exactly what happened again. Dally is at the hospital. They’re doing everything they can for him. It’s lucky that you were here with him. Might have saved his life. Are you okay, son? Tom, we really need your help. We need to know what happened. Your friend, Dally? He’s seriously injured. Are you hearing what we’re saying, Tom? We really need you to tell us everything once more. Slowly. Steadily. Let us know exactly what happened between you, Dally, and John, Tom.
Dally and I were out here like we always are.
Hanging out.
Swinging.
Talking.
We had come out here for fresh air and to, I don’t know, just talk about life because I’m supposed to be leaving soon.
I don’t know where John came from.
He stabbed Dally.
He stabbed him so many times.
Then he just ran away.
I don’t know why he didn’t stab me.
I did everything I could to stop him.
He was so fast.
So…he was here, he was stabbing.
Stabbing.
Stabbing
Stabbing
Stabbing
Stabbing
Stabbing
Stabbing.
And then he was gone. And I grabbed Dally and tried to stop the blood but it wouldn’t stop. I looked at my hands and my arms and felt how my shirt was stuck to me like a second skin. Later, when I would peel it off in my bathroom, hair from my chest would peel away with it. And I just screamed for help.
They heard you screaming, son. Thank God they heard you screaming. You’re a brave young man, Tom. Dally is lucky to have you as a friend. They’re going to do everything they can for him, we promise you that.
Look.
Your mom is here.
Everything will be okay now.
I hated that dream. It wasn’t a nightmare. It was a dream. Because it was true. And I always woke up in a panic. I had to double my dose of anxiety meds the morning after again. It never helped enough.
A Cacophony of Silence
The planter outside of the community center was like a block of ice, even though spring was coming. Early morning in spring it’s still kind of chilly and the planter was tangible proof of that. I had smoked three cigarettes as I waited for group to begin. I didn’t go to Dally’s grave before group because I never go on the mornings after I have the dream about the night Dally was stabbed. I can never force myself to face his grave on those mornings. And group had been moved to nine in the morning for the week due to some scheduling issue Jeff had. I’m not sure what ex-meth-heads have going on in their afternoons, but apparently Jeff had things to do. So, group time got changed around for the week.
Whatever. I wasn’t sleeping much lately anyway. So, nine in the morning was as good as two or five in the afternoon or even nine o’clock at night. I wasn’t like the other kids who had been ordered by the court to show up for group five days a week. As long as I got to at least two of them, my doctors and my mom would leave me alone. As long as Jeff’s reports about my participation in the groups were okay, I could continue on with life the way I had begun to structure it. Day in, day out, my days were generally the same. I lived my life in a way that it could be put into a T.V. Guide.
Everything was beginning to boil over. I’m not crazy. I knew that feeling nothing for too long was eventually going to result in feeling everything. And my pills weren’t working as well as they had in the past even though I was doubling them. I was going to have to tell my psychiatrist that. He’d increase my dose or we’d try a new medication—and I could go back to feeling nothing. To feel that anchor again. I refused to cry, even though sitting on the planter, waiting for Jeff and the other kids to show while my ass got colder and colder made me want to cry.
I didn’t want to face group.
I didn’t want to tell anyone how I felt—especially a bunch of kids with drug problems, an anorexic, and Jeff. Telling myself how I felt was bad enough and knowing that I would have to admit all of that to my psychiatrist later in the day was already making me anxious enough. And I was beginning to feel depression start to seep into my gut. It was making other parts, besides my ass, cold. It was beginning to talk to me in my head. To tell me lies about myself, about others, about life, about how life had no value. And the anxiety was telling me that I had to listen to the depression but also worry about whether or not I could remember my work schedule for the following week. My anxiety told me to worry about whether or not the heat was working in the community center today because it would be horrible if it wasn’t since it was so cold, I was already cold, and being in a cold room for an hour would just make it worse. I would start to shiver and shake and if I couldn’t control my tone and my voice, I would get a bad report back from Jeff to my psychiatrist and mother. I didn’t want that to happen because…
Okay. I am crazy.
I didn’t want to lie to myself about that anymore.
Maybe I’m not a landmine waiting for someone to step in just the right spot accidentally.
Maybe I’m a nuclear bomb, counting down backwards, ready to send out a shockwave that would obliterate lives.
There had been too much silence lately. Too much time to myself so that I couldn’t ignore my own mind. I couldn’t ignore the lies. Not the ones Dally had asked me to tell, that I had agreed to tell, and that I was still telling, but the ones my mind made up without my permission. The ones about how I was worthless. The ones about how everything was my fault. The ones about how I had betrayed my friend. The ones about how I wanted to do things to myself that were both beautiful and horrifying to my sick mind. I wanted to see my blood seep to the surface of my split skin. I wanted to know what it felt to drift off to nothingness and have that moment of realization that this is what eternity feels like. I wanted to throw myself from some high place and see how glorious those moments before the big stop were.
Not being suicidal is always a lie. Don’t let anyone who says that they don’t care if they live or die tell you differently. If you don’t care if you’re alive, you are suicidal. Because, eventually, you’ll stop lying to yourself and just admit that, yeah, you want to be dead. Maybe you aren’t making a plan about how to make that happen. Maybe you aren’t actively trying to kill yourself. But maybe you won’t look both ways before crossing the street. Won’t check to see if you turned the gas off on the stove before you go to bed. Maybe you will accidentally pour oven cleaner into your coffee. Oops. Looked like creamer.
Not caring if you live or die is being suicidal. Period.
I had lied about that, too.
But, then again, I couldn’t really remember what things were lies and what were truths anymore.
Fuck.
Even that was a lie.
I knew the truth. But it stuck in the back of my throat, felt like bile trying to rise, like heartburn that no medication could ever alleviate. It constantly burned and sizzled right there, right beyond the space where my tongue could get hold and push it out
of my mouth. The truth was always with me just as much as the lies in my head.
Goddamnit.
I wanted to reach in and grab that truth and yank it out, hold it aloft, and scream at everyone:
HERE’S THE GODDAMN FUCKING TRUTH AND I DON’T GIVE A SHIT IF IT BLOWS EVERY FUCKING ONE OF YOU TO FUCKING PIECES! I’M TIRED OF TAKING ONE FOR THE TEAM! I’M TIRED OF LYING FOR DALLY! ALL I CARE ABOUT IS NOT FEELING THIS WAY ANYMORE!
My foot was jiggling like I was one of the meth-heads from group, trying to not show how geetered out they were half of the time.
“You’re here early.” Isaac laughed as he approached me.
My head was down, so I only saw him from the waist down. Still looked like a scarecrow wearing pants.
“Yeah.” I said. “I couldn’t sleep well, so I just came and waited for group to start.”
My voice was calm and steady. I was still able to ignore most of the thoughts in my head. That made me proud.
“Can I bum a smoke?” He said in the sing-song teasing voice he had adopted around me lately.
The fucker was enamored with me.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“Sure.” I stated simply, digging into my pocket and then handing the pack of cigarettes and lighter to him. “Help yourself.”
“I’m not used to getting up this early.” Isaac started to sit beside me on the planter and leapt up immediately. “Jesus! That’s fucking cold. How are you sitting there?”
He laughed loudly as he rubbed his, undoubtedly, bony ass.
“It’s like sitting on a block of ice.” He said. “Usually I sleep ‘til noon because I don’t want to drag myself out of bed before then. And even then it’s hard. But fucking Jeff, man.”
I nodded. “I wasn’t sleeping anyway.”
“You look tired.” He agreed.
“Well, that’s ‘cause I am.” I tried to chuckle.