I realise I have used the word denial over ten times since I’ve sat down to write this entry. That’s fine by me. Anything done in repetition becomes muscle memory. It’s like becoming ambidextrous. Soon you forget what it felt like to write with your other hand. It’s easier this way, rather than hoping that love and safety and warmth are properties that stick around. Oceans and lakes. The sun. The moon. The air we breathe. These things are permanent fixtures. Some things just aren’t built to last. Forgetting about them is easier than mourning their loss. I am feeling very cautious about Dale. He’s a good friend and all, but maybe I’m no good for him. I mean, I can create and destroy my own imaginary lover. Imagine the damage I could do with an already scarred best friend? If mine is the face of empathy, Dale’s is disillusionment.
I must find some purpose to all the death and destruction which follows in my wake. It’s not enough to create some hopeless girl I can feel sorry for. I need something real. I need someone slightly less messed up than me who thrives, despite living and breathing and choking on the same sorry thoughts as me. Justice needs to be done, but more importantly, seen to be done. I learnt that in my senior year of Legal Studies. Nowadays all I learn about in college is tribal justice; the unseen and immoral justice which goes unseen. This type of justice only makes sense to those who dispense of it.
I can’t deny evil thoughts unless I deny good thoughts also. I don’t want to forget her, but I don’t have a choice. It’s the only way I can stop wrecking everything. Tribal justice is barbaric, but it serves its purpose. That is to keep the natural order. In this way, denial is plausible. It allows me to function on a day-to-day basis. Denial keeps my darker thoughts spilling over.
Maybe tomorrow I can write about something positive for once. That’s easier said than done when your head is permanently wrapped up in cotton wool. Lately, I don’t seem to feel anything when I tell myself to smile. I ask myself if this a new phenomenon, or has happiness always been difficult for me? Maybe I just don’t have it in me. Sometimes I feel like someone probed my brain and placed all these random memories inside of me. Does that make me some kind of drone? I feel like I’m in a bad movie. All the characters are tired and boring and sick of the spotlight. They just want to retire and lock themselves in a dusty old mansion. My head feels huge, so expansive and empty and as featureless as the surface of Mars. That’s what I am right now. I’m a Martian.
The glass wall holds me back from her. Her, who no longer exists. It also keeps the real world from seeing me. My dreams mean nothing. My life means nothing. I know people can see me, but they don’t really see me. Not like she did. Is any of this actually making sense? Oh god, I’ve gone and confused myself now. How do I explain this? The ability to see someone, as opposed to seeing someone. It’s a fundamental difference, really. Like how you hear a Nickelback song, but listen to a good song. All this then leads to one very odd question? How did Dale see me? No, even better. Why did he see me?
CHAPTER 9: A Good Judge of Character
I hung out at Dale’s place today. It was good, it gave me a chance to escape my own rat’s nest for a while. I could tell he was a little wary of showing me his house. I tried my best not to judge. It was exactly as I pictured it in my head. Neat on the surface, with every spare drawer bulging with junk. There was a Jimmy Eat World poster above his bed. To the right was a picture of Tara Reid before her chest exploded, or whatever. Ha! Bulging with junk. I just picked up on that. What a terrible wordsmith I am. Anyway, we went through his Spotify playlist and he synched a few dozen albums onto my phone.
After a lot of time staring out the window, we sat and talked for a bit. He told me how he got his scars. He didn’t say exactly why he used to cut himself, or if he still thinks about doing it. The details were pretty vague, come to think of it. One thing I know for sure is that I am the first person he’s ever told. Well, the first at least he chose to tell. It’s kind of hard to hide that sort of thing from your family. Maybe my dad would pay more attention if I started cutting myself. Wow, that came out totally wrong. I’m not suicidal or anything. I just mean it’d be nice if he bothered to ask how I am every once in a while. Problems are harder to see when they’re not just scratch marks on the surface. The pain of the past cuts much deeper. The thing is, Dale doesn’t seem suicidal either. That’s the whole point, right?
I told him about my mum, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to tell you. It made me feel better talking to him. I can tell Dale likes me. Aside from crying like teenage girls when we drink, there’s a far more obvious reason I know he likes me. Because when Dale doesn’t like someone, he tells them straight to their face. I wish I was that confident. I wish I was that honest. If I could sum up Dale’s mantra towards unfavourable individuals, it would go something like this.
“They don’t like me because they don’t know me yet. If they bothered to get to know me they might change their minds. But I wouldn’t, because I already know them, and I already hate them.”
Initially, I disagreed with Dale’s general fuck-you-and-the-rest-of-the-world philosophy. It just seemed like he judged a book by its cover. Dr Shaw says I do this a lot, and it’s a habit I need to break. I was even starting to agree with her. Until I met Dale, that is. See, Dale is a pretty good judge of character. In fact, I’d say he is an excellent judge of character. When he was in elementary school he pegged his babysitter as a pervert. I think the guy’s name was Garry. Why hire a babysitter named Garry, right? That was the mistake right there in my opinion. You’d expect a Garry to be fixing your car or mowing your lawn, not looking after your child. Some parents, huh?
Garry would take Dale to the park and tell him to bring over children to sit with them. He would push Dale on the swing, and whenever an opportune moment arrived, he would push he child on the swing next to him. Innocent enough, except Dale remembers Garry always put his hands where they shouldn’t have needed to be. He would sometimes ask other children to sit on his lap on these visits to the park. When I asked how this was possible with so many other parents around, Dale simply said he was a sneaky piece of shit. Again, some of the details were vague. Like all sickos, Garry convinced Dale it would be unwise to ever talk about the incidents, as it may result in trouble for the both of them. Still, Dale drew many pictures of his babysitter in a scrapbook hidden under his bed.
It was Dale’s mum who found the scrapbook, but Garry denied any wrongdoing. Dale’s parents ended up sending him to a child psychologist. Sound familiar? Anyway, his dad eventually found the sicko watching child porn on their computer one night when they came home early. Dale was in bed asleep. They rang the police and it turned out he had a litany of past incidents. Similar reports emerged from families in Durham, Raleigh and Charleston. They also said he had touched their children inappropriately. Not enough evidence had been gathered to get a conviction, but the negative stigma forced him to pack up and move somewhere out west.
Dale swears that he himself never got touched. Dale doesn’t like being touched. His mum and dad belatedly apologised for not believing him, but the damage was already done. He said he still loved them, but he never really trusted them the same way after that. His mum got really depressed as Dale grew older. No one really knows why. She completely spiralled out of control by the time he got to high school. When he was 15, Dale’s dad found her in bed overdosed on prescription drugs. She died in her sleep. He said since then, he and his dad never really talked much. Sound familiar? He’s been in and out of therapist’s offices ever since it happened. Again, there is an undeniable pattern emerging here.
So, as it goes, Dale and I do have a lot in common. We unashamedly despise Chad Kroeger. We ashamedly love the song Konstantine. We hate Metalcore, EDM, hip-hop, and just about everything else on the radio. Taylor Swift is the only exception. We both like rainy days, because frankly, we tend to waste most days anyway. Inclement weather at least helps to alleviate the guilt of time spent unwisely. As an added bonus, you can’t get skin cancer on rainy day
s. We choose books from the library based on their dilapidated state. Logic suggests they have been read a million times, and therefore, must be good. They can’t be too dishevelled though, as the cover needs to at least get your attention.
We also seem to sit in silence a lot. I swear I must have stared at Tara Reid’s impeccably pert tits for at least an hour today. You’ll notice I called them tits, not boobs. Their fakeness is too painfully obvious. Shavoni and Dr Shaw have boobs. I said her name again, dammit. It’s hard not to think about her in that way. She is a thing of natural beauty. Tits are just the opposite. They are good to look at for a while, but they have no longevity. It’s an instinctual thing to appreciate something natural. You’ll drive past a Staples billboard without even looking, but stop for hours to admire a sunset. Tits are the vice of desperate, lonely girls. Tits are for Kardashians. That’s the way to get attention these days. Boys cut themselves. Girls get fake tits. One technique is far more effective than the other.
CHAPTER 10: Content or Restless
It’s 7pm when I get home. Dad is on his way out.
“Hey buddy, great timing. I was just about to lock up.”
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“Out for dinner.”
“Is it a date?”
“No James, just a work thing. Here’s 20 bucks for pizza. You can order in. Cool?”
“Cool.”
“Were you just gonna leave Hal alone?” I ask abruptly.
He gives me a strange look. “Pardon?”
“Never mind,” I concede.
Guess It’s up to me to look after the little turd.
“Anyway, I should be home before midnight. If you’re not still up, I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Cool,” I say.
“Cool,” he says.
“My keys? Where are my keys?”
The question is for himself only. He could save a lot of time by asking me directly. I already know where they’ll be. Dad always does this. I walk to the coffee-stained buffet in the hallway and lift up his suit jacket. I shake them for a second or two to get his attention. He doesn’t notice. Instead, he paces by me, searching under shoes, behind appliances and inside empty boxes from the length of the kitchen to the front door.
“Dad?”
“Hang on, James. Keys? Keys? Where the hell did I put them?”
“Dad. Your keys!”
He almost raises the palm to silence me before finally registering what I’ve just said.
“Oh, right, thanks James. Here’s 20 bucks for pizza.”
“You just said that.”
“Right. I did, didn’t I?” he asks himself again.
“Are you okay?” I ask out of habit.
He doesn’t answer. A few seconds pass before he purses his lips in a dumbfounded deep-in-thought kind of look. He looks around the room as if waiting for a solution to his silent problem to jump out at him. What has he lost now?
“Jacket?” he finally spills out.
Without even looking I reach out to the hat rack and carefully lift from it his grey suit jacket. I hand it to him. He puts it on. He smiles a fake smile. He looks in the mirror. He frowns a little, before taking a step closer and adjusting his collar. He quickly glances back at me but can’t quite manage a smile this time. He nods at me, and I nod back. Then he turns and leaves. I loiter about downstairs for around half an hour, before I put Hal to bed. He doesn’t say much; he just pulls that stupid smile. Somehow, it’s more annoying than dad’s, despite the obvious sincerity behind his chubby little cheeks.
Hal and I don’t ever have much to say to one another. I guess that makes me a bad older brother, right? Dad never talks to me, so I’m just doing what seems normal. It’s not like he ever complains. He seems happy enough just floating about the house. He refuses a bedtime story, and before I turn off the light he is fast asleep. Man, I wish I could sleep that well. He’s not even scared of the dark. Cocky little shit.
I head to my bedroom opposite and pour out the contents of my back pack onto the bed. Dammit, I’ve left my phone at Dale’s. I go to the desk and see Skype is connected. Dale is online. I hit the call button and he answers immediately. He seems a little tipsy. Strange, I only left his place less than an hour ago. This is my first Spring Break ever, but I didn’t think it gave you free rein to drink on a Tuesday. He’s extremely excited to chat; so excited that he starts rambling on about going out tomorrow night. I ask about my phone. He says I don’t need it. I say I do. He says I’m being a little girl. I say I need to make a call. He says I only have one friend and I’m talking to him right now. I tell him he’s a dick. He says I’m a loser. I say he’s the loser drinking alone. He says we could both be losers and get drunk tomorrow night. I refuse. He says he’ll flush my phone down the toilet unless I meet him. I call his bluff. Then I renege. We both agree on 8pm. That’s the end of the conversation.
I hear a sound from Hal’s bedroom. Before logging off I leave to check on him. The door is open, and I can already feel the air is icy cold. There are no further sounds, but as I enter the pale-yellow room, the air sends a shiver through me. I’m in nothing but a shirt and boxers and outside it’s still in the high 70’s. Why is it so freaking cold in here? I double check the thermostat. Everything is working. The windows are open but the breeze is warm. Weird. It doesn’t seem to be bothering Hal one bit. He’s barely moved from where I left him. I prop open the door and head back to bed. I open up EQ and read the next few chapters. Yes, I’m still reading the stupid thing. I’m determined to pass at least one of the assessments. This chapter is titled Content or Restless. At the end, you rank each statement from 1 to 5 in either the positive or negative side. They include;
I do not have an inferiority complex
I have a loving and stable family life
I can usually get a good night’s sleep
I am not stuck in a rut
Things very rarely weigh on my conscience
Jesus Christ, I swear these things are designed to fail me. I am officially the most negative a person can possibly be. I guess it’s not so bad. That means I can only attract positivity. That’s a good one, I’m definitely writing it down. I am negative. I am discontented. And I am restless. For the first few chapters, I made sure to use a notepad to do the assessments. But now Dr Shaw isn’t answering calls, I simply fill in the spaces provided in the book. I doubt she’ll be asking for me to return it. I turn the page, but I can feel my eyes getting heavy.
I guess at this point I fell asleep. I didn’t dream. Maybe I did, but I don’t remember. I might be negative, but I’m finally acting like a normal person between the hours of falling asleep and waking up. The night passes as though I blinked and missed it. The morning greets me with stale heat. I wander aimlessly around the house for a few minutes and notice that it is unusually silent. Dad mustn’t have come home from his “work thing” last night. I hope whoever he’s screwing has money. All this babysitting and cooking for my annoying little brother better pay off. Speaking of Hal, there’s no sign of him either. Most days he’s up way before me. He trails me like a shadow, with his pestering requests like a throbbing pain inside my head. He just never quits. But this morning it’s just me. I better go wake him up.
Hang on, his door is shut. His door is never shut. Did he shut it through the night? Surely not. He gets all scared and whiny when I do that. I open it up. I put down Hal’s pet rock Dwayne to block the door. Yes, Hal has a pet rock. I would laugh with you if it didn’t used to be my pet rock. But how could the breeze push aside Dwayne that easily? Dwayne is a big ass rock. Maybe he’s with dad. I could ring his cell phone but I don’t have mine. And I can’t remember it by heart to call him from the landline. Hang on, it’s on my email. I remembered he sent me his new number when he was at work late one night. Working late, that’s just a euphemism for screwing your secretary, right?
I discover that the web cam has been turned on all night. It’s also been recording the whole time. This is how sex ta
pes are leaked, I think to myself. I hit the recording button and it stops. I retrieve the file, all 13.97 GB. I curse myself. Suppose I should watch it before I clear it. I rub my eyes and press play. I watch myself leave to check on Hal. I watch myself return. I watch myself scratching my privates in bed. I watch myself read. I fast forward. I watch myself fill in the assessment. I watch myself fall asleep. I fast forward again. I hear Hal come into my room. The little turd! He did it again. Lucky dad wasn’t home to see him sleepwalking. I hear footsteps around the room. The power saver must’ve kicked in at this point so the light all but disappears in the bedroom. I can just hear myself faintly snoring. Something whispers softly, too quiet to hear at first. I turn up the laptop’s volume and put my ear up close to the speakers.
Suddenly, the whisper becomes a guttural taunt. It spreads the words apart, a second’s pause between each for effect.
“Hal. Is. Gone.”
It sends me reeling back from the screen. I slap the pause button. I rewind it and listen again, trying to distinguish the voice. I’ve heard it before. Only it’s not a person’s voice. It’s from my dreams. It’s The Face, the one I saw in Dr Shaw’s office. How did it get out again? Did I do this? Why would they take Hal? Why didn’t it take me? Jesus Christ, what do I do? Hal is gone. I have to save him. This is bad James. This is very bad. I shouldn’t have thought all those bad things about Hal. They must have heard me when I was dreaming. I said he was annoying and they took him away. How is that possible? Shit. I’m in trouble here.
James in the Real World Page 8