The Burn Journals

by Brent Runyon

  What did I do? “Yeah.”

  “Did you write that on the bathroom mirror?” Who else would have written it?

  “Yeah.”

  “That was so sweet, honey. That was so sweet.” She's crying. “Did you show Dad?”

  “No.” Why would I show Dad? It was supposed to be a surprise.

  “Honey? Don, come and look at what Brent wrote on the mirror.”

  “Okay, I'm coming.” Dad runs up the stairs and I walk behind him.

  Now he's standing in the bathroom, staring at the mirror. He's hugging Mom. He's crying.

  “Brenner, that was so nice. Thank you.” He can't really get the words out.

  Mom says, “It's so nice to have you home.” She's crying even harder.

  “We love you so much, honey.”

  “We love you so much.”

  They're both hugging me, but I didn't want this. I wanted to do something nice, but I didn't want all those tears. God, that's the last time I do something like that.

  After breakfast, Dad comes back into the kitchen and says, “Brenner, what do you want to do today?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Want to go outside?”

  “Not really?”

  “Want to go to a movie?”

  That could be fun, except I don't want to see anyone. “No thanks.”

  “Rent a video?”

  Well, I could do that. I bet it wouldn't be that big of a deal to do that. “Sure.”

  We get in the car and drive over.

  “Do you want to go in, Brenner, or do you want to tell me what you want?”

  “No, I'll go in.” I reach up and unstrap my face mask. It sort of suctions to my face and makes a popping sound when I take it off. Must be because it's so hot and I'm sweating a little out of my forehead. I open the car door and put my legs out. Shit, I wish I wasn't wearing shorts because now everybody can see my Jobst garments and the big zipper going up the side.

  I'm stiff from being in the car. I stretch my back and get a couple of good cracks out of it. That's better. I stand up and get a head rush. I hope I don't pass out. No, I'm cool. I'm cool.

  I'm glad I'm not wearing my face mask. I think people would stare at me if I was. This shouldn't be too big of a deal. Just walking into a video store, but God, I just thought of something—what if I see someone I know? That would be terrible. Then I'd have to talk to them.

  They changed this place all around. The new releases used to be over there on the right, but now they're on the back wall. And now comedy is where classics were.

  Don't see anyone I know.

  Do I know that little kid? Oh. No, he's staring at my face. Don't look at me, kid. Don't look at me. Stop it. I move farther down the aisle. I can feel him looking at me, even though I can only see him out of the corner of my eye.

  Stop it. Stop it. Okay, he's not going to stop. I've got to find a movie and get out of here. A comedy, definitely a comedy. How about Kindergarten Cop, with Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  “You ready, Brenner?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What'd you get?”

  “Uh, Kindergarten Cop. It's a comedy.”

  “What's it rated?”

  “Oh, I don't know, PG, I think.”

  “Okay. Let's go.”

  Dad gives the guy the card and the money, and I stare at the carpet and my shoes. Hurry, hurry, hurry, let's get out of here. Let's get out of here before someone says something. Come on, come on, come on. Why is it taking so long?

  Okay, here I go. I'm at the door. I'm outside. I'm back in the car. Thank God. I did it.

  This really is the life. I sit in the chair and watch movies. Mom and Dad get me whatever I want. They wait on me like I'm the king of England and all I have to do is sit here and relax.

  I should have a little bell that I can ring in case I need an ice cream sandwich or I need them to put in the next video. I'm just going to sit here all day and watch movies and no one is going to bother me.

  All this time I didn't want to come home because I was so worried about how it would feel, and now I'm home and I don't want to leave. I don't want to go back to the hospital tomorrow.

  Lying here in my bed feels so much the same. I feel like I'm lying here going to sleep back before everything went bad.

  It's hard to go to sleep when you're thinking about everything. I always had trouble going to sleep, even when I was a little kid. I couldn't stop thinking about the things I'd said during the day. All the stupid faces I'd made and the dumb jokes I'd made. And then when I got older, I started thinking about really bad stuff. I used to think about killing different people. Like one time, after my brother beat me up, I told my friends I was going to go down into his room in the middle of the night and kill him with this knife I kept under my bed. I really thought I was going to do it. I could picture it so easily. Slipping into his room. Putting the knife in his chest.

  I also used to think about going down into the basement and opening up the furnace and pouring a whole bunch of gasoline in the furnace and then leaving, and when somebody turned on the furnace, the whole house would explode.

  I'm glad I didn't do that. I'm glad I didn't do anything like that to anybody else. I only killed myself. That's one good thing.

  Mom is driving back to the hospital. It's hard to think of things to talk about, so I turn on the radio and listen to music. Mom can never understand the lyrics to the music. She says she's a visual learner, but that's really no excuse for how bad she is at understanding them. For years she thought that song “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” was actually called “Shake Marilyn Monroe.”

  I say, “Let's play a game.”

  “Okay.”

  “We'll put on the radio and the first one to guess the name of the song wins.”

  “Okay, but you know I'm no good at this.”

  “I know, but let's do it anyway.”

  “Okay.”

  I turn the channel until I find what sounds like an oldies station, just to give her a little advantage.

  She should know this first one. Easily.

  Ooh, I bet you're wonderin' how I knew

  'bout your plans to make me blue.

  She should know this. This is the song she sang at our school Christmas party when she and all her teacher friends dressed up in black trash bags and sunglasses and pretended they were raisins. God, that was so embarrassing. Why did she do that?

  She says, “Wait, I know this. I know this.”

  “Do you know it?”

  I'm just about to lose my mind. Honey, honey. Yeah.

  She says, “I do know it. Shoot, what is it?”

  I say, “‘Heard It Through the Grapevine.'”

  “Darn.”

  We wait for the next song. Some other Motown-sounding thing.

  People say I'm the life of the party

  'cause I tell a joke or two.

  She says, “I think I know this one. Is it ‘Tears of a Clown'?”

  I say, “Wait. No. It's ‘Tracks of My Tears.'”

  “Shoot. This isn't fair.”

  “How is it not fair? This is all your music. It's practically the entire Big Chill sound track.”

  She smiles. “I'll get the next one.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  What's this one? Some acoustic thing.

  If I could save time in a bottle.

  She says, “Jim Croce, ‘Time in a Bottle.' Yay, I got one.”

  Shit, a song she actually knew.

  She says, “I beat you. I beat you.” She's really rubbing it in.

  “Mom, just because you know the lyrics to one song in the entire world that I don't know doesn't mean you're some all-star lyricologist or something.”

  She stops talking. I can tell I hurt her feelings. Fuck, why am I always being mean to my parents?

  It's so depressing to be back at the hospital. Latroy is leaving. His mom and brother are here taking all his stuff out. I just lie in my bed and watch them. I wonder if I'll ever
be discharged.

  His mom takes down a picture he has on his bedside table of a girl that he used to go out with. I wonder where she is.

  Mary, the nurse that got into a fight with Latroy that one time, comes in. She gives him a big hug and then tries to kiss him through his halo. She has a hard time figuring out how to get her head through the bars. She finally does and gives him a little kiss on the cheek.

  Ben and I are going upstairs to the school together to do some work. He's the guy that broke his neck in the motorcycle accident.

  Ben's gotten really good at the whole wheelchair thing. He can do a wheelie and hold it forever. I can do one too, but I'm not as good as he is.

  We get in the elevator, press our button, and wait for the doors to close. Just as they start to close, one of the janitors runs down the hall, yelling, “Hold that elevator or I'll break your neck.”

  I press the doors open button and he gets in.

  “Thanks,” he says.

  Ben looks up at the guy from his wheelchair and says, “You know, you should really watch what you say around here.”

  The guy says, “What?”

  “Watch what you say about breaking people's necks. It's a sensitive subject.”

  “I didn't mean it like that.”

  “Whatever.”

  Ben and I get off at the fourth floor and head for the classroom.

  “That fucking guy. That fucking guy. I can't believe he said that to me. That fucking guy.”

  Ben's really upset, but I sort of think he's overreacting.

  Mark Motherfucker Miles wants to give me some tests. Tests. I don't know what that means exactly, but I do know that I have to sit in a room about the size of a supply closet and answer his stupid questions. I always thought this room was for the janitors, but there's a sign outside that says Psychological Testing Room. This is going to be fun. What an asshole.

  He says, “So, Brent, if you were an animal, what kind of an animal would you be?”

  God, what a dumb question. This is like Barbara Walters.

  “Um, I don't know.”

  “Well, don't think about it too much. Give me the first thing that comes to mind.” The first thing that comes to mind is that you're a complete asshole.

  “Maybe a dolphin.”

  “A dolphin.” He nods and writes something down. “Why?” I don't know why, I just said it so you'd get off my back.

  “Um, because they're graceful and they're smart and they seem, I don't know, kind of free or something.”

  “And what kind of an animal would you hate to be?” Jesus.

  “A cow.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they're slow and ugly and just sit around eating grass and throwing it up again.”

  “Okay. Great. That was just a little warm-up. Next I'm going to show you some cards with some ink stains on them, and you tell me what you think they're pictures of, okay?”

  “Okay.” We're doing inkblots? I read a book about this once, and it told you how to beat the test. Let's see if I can remember. Oh yeah, all the little inkblots are supposed to look like penises and vaginas, but you're not supposed to notice that, otherwise they'll think you're crazy. He's got his notepad and pen ready.

  “What might this be?” It's the one that looks like a butterfly. I wonder if I should say that or if I should make something else up.

  “A butterfly?”

  “Okay, where is the butterfly?”

  “You mean you want me to tell you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, those are the wings and those are the antennae.”

  “Okay, how about this one?”

  I'm going to say two people playing pat-a-cake.

  “Two people playing pat-a-cake.”

  “Okay. Show me where you see that.”

  “There's one person, there's the arm, there's the leg. Same on the other side.”

  “And this one? What might this be?”

  This one is weird. It's got two people, like the last one, but they both have penises and breasts, and there's a big red butterfly between them. I'm not saying any of that stuff.

  “Looks like a horseshoe crab or a beetle.”

  “Where?”

  “That kind of looks like a horseshoe crab, and these things kind of look like a beetle's pincers.”

  “Okay, and what might this be?”

  Oh Jesus, this one looks like a man with a giant dick and no arms. What a weird picture.

  “Looks like a dinosaur with a huge tail. Like a stegosaurus.”

  “Where?”

  “That's the tail. That's the legs. That's the head.”

  “And what might this be?”

  “This one's definitely a bat. Head. Wings. Feet.”

  “Okay, and what might this be?”

  “This doesn't look like anything. Maybe a woman giving someone a hug. Or a boat. Or an animal skin. It doesn't look like anything, really.”

  “Okay, and what might this be?”

  “A woman looking at herself in the mirror, but she doesn't really have a body, so maybe a statue or two statues.”

  “Okay, and what might this be?”

  “Do you have to say that over and over again? It's kind of annoying. Um, this one doesn't look like anything either. Maybe a big black inkblot.”

  “Okay, see anything else?”

  “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Okay, last one.”

  It's just a big mess of a bunch of stuff. It kind of looks like a man in the center on fire, but I'm not going to say that. Sea urchin. Pelvis bone. Tangled mess of seaweed. Okay, that's good enough.

  “Tangled mess of seaweed.”

  “Okay, anything else?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, good.”

  “How'd I do?”

  “You did fine. There are no right or wrong answers.”

  “Yes, there are. I read a book about it once.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. I think I passed.”

  “There are no right or wrong answers.”

  “Right.” Dickhead.

  Mark has a bunch more tests for me to do. I have to answer some general knowledge questions first, then do some analogies. Tuna is to fish as grizzly is to ______. It's all pretty easy. After that I get some lunch and then back to the tests.

  I don't understand what the point is of giving me all these tests. I mean, like, what exactly are they trying to find out by making me fit some shapes together? Do they want to know if I'm crazy? They should ask me because if they do, I'll tell them I was crazy, but I'm not anymore. I don't know why I was crazy, but I was. They never ask me the right questions.

  I've started doing magic. Mom and Dad bought me a book from the gift shop called The Klutz Guide to Magic and it's pretty cool. For one thing, you can make a handkerchief disappear into your hand. Another good one is tying a knot in a rope without letting go of either end.

  The sleight-of-hand stuff is really hard to do with the Jobst gloves on. I take them off to do some of it, but then the jacket I have to wear pushes all the blood down into my hands and they turn purple and start to itch. It's a real pain in the ass. Plus when I take off my gloves, my hands are really fragile and weak, and when I'm trying to do a trick with a coin, my hands start to shake.

  Every morning I wake up, take a shower, get in my wheelchair, and zoom down the hall for my morning massage with Gina. I get this thing going as fast as a motorcycle, it's such a long hallway. I should be in the Special Olympics. But they'd probably find out I can actually walk and kick me out.

  When I get to the corner, I grab the left wheel and take the turn so tight, the chair almost tips over.

  I love these morning massages with Gina. I love hearing all her funny stories about what's going on backstage at Peter Pan. She got her hair cut even shorter and she's really starting to look the part.

  When it's all done, she helps me into my Jobst garments and then comes upstairs with me. I like it because she sits in t
he wheelchair on the way back up and lets me rub her shoulders as I push her around. She's got really strong shoulders. And the skin on the back of her neck is so smooth. I don't know, it makes me feel romantic. I know she doesn't feel anything like that, just by the way she talks, but to me, it's great.

  We're standing at the elevator, waiting. I'm rubbing her neck. I'm singing, “‘There's something happening here; What it is ain't exactly clear.'”

  She says, “You like Buffalo Springfield?”

  “Who?”

  “Buffalo Springfield. You were just singing their song.”

  “I was?”

  “Yup.”

  “Hmm. I heard it in the preview for that movie Born on the Fourth of July. Did you see that?”

  “Nope. Did you?”

  “No. I don't know if I want to. I mean, I like Tom Cruise and I think Top Gun is probably one of the best movies ever made, but I don't really want to see him in a wheelchair.”

  “Did you just say you think Top Gun is one of the best movies ever made?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You're kidding.”

  “No. Have you seen it?”

  “Sure. It's stupid.”

  “What?” I'm laughing.

  “It's the stupidest movie.” She's laughing too.

  “The stupidest movie? It's great. Tom Cruise flying F-14s. It's awesome.”

  “Please.”

  The elevator's here. God, she's so cool. If I ever get married, it'll be to someone like her.

  Jodi and I are playing basketball. Well, trying to play basketball. I don't have the right shoes, and even if I did, I can't get my stupid arms above my head to make the stupid ball go into the basket. The other thing that's hard about basketball is jumping and shooting at the same time. There's no possible way to get my body to jump up and shoot the ball.

  I feel like one of those really uncoordinated kids on the team that can't even make a foul shot. I can't even make a layup. I guess playing one-on-one with Magic Johnson is out.

  Miles and Sheslow have an appointment with me today. Christ, when are they going to get the message that I'm not going to talk to them?

  Miles says, “So, Brent, I want to talk about something different today.”