Morse Code Messages

I didn’t like life. I didn’t like the way it fit me. It’s not like a cashmere sweater and it’s not like a kiss from your mother; life doesn’t wrap around your body and make you feel warm, it wraps its arms around your neck and constricts your airwaves and makes you choke and die.

Life is kind of like cigarette smoke. You notice it, whether you want to or not, and it’s not transparent but it’s not solid. It’s there but it’s not really there. You can see it, but after a while it evaporates and acts as if it never existed. No one likes the smell — some people do, but not everyone — but they never get up and leave; people stay in the room and allow the smoke to wrap around their body and become apart of them. They don’t stay there because they’re too lazy or because they’re trying to be nice — they stay there because, secretly, they’re waiting for it to choke them. They’re waiting for death to envelope them and take their life.

I have felt pain. I haven’t felt the same kind of pain as others, but I’ve felt pain. No one feels the same pain, no one actually knows how others feel, but we all know pain and that’s enough to understand what kind of pain someone is feeling. I didn’t think anyone understood my pain, though. I didn’t think anyone else had felt the same emotions as me.

I didn’t even know how I felt. I felt numb and if a knife were to be touched to my heart or a poison slid down my throat, I wouldn’t feel anything. I felt like my tongue was too thick and my eyes were too small and my brain was too soft and mushy and my exterior was too young and too old and I felt like I couldn’t even feel — I couldn’t even think.

I didn’t even know what time it was. I knew that I was sitting on the boardwalk and I knew that no one else was out. It was still dark and the cool night slipped beneath my skin and gnawed on my bones, making the content in my veins turn from blood to slush.

I felt as Davie sat down next to me, but I didn’t acknowledge her presence. I wanted to. I wanted to turn around and talk to her. I wanted to do this so badly, but I didn’t. I didn’t do this because I didn’t know whether she wanted me to or not.

“You know,” she’d started, sitting too still and too close. “When I was little, I wanted a white room. I wanted everything in it to be white. I wanted the walls white and the floor and ceiling and furniture to be white. Everything, I wanted everything to be white.” She paused for a second, turning her head and watching me. I didn’t turn and look at her, rather waiting for her to continue.

“It took me forever to figure out why I wanted my room to be white. Like, all white. But, then I realized that I wanted it to be white because I wanted people to see my mistakes. I realized that I didn’t just want my room to be white. I wanted the entire world to be white. Not in skin color or anything, but in reality. I wanted everything to be white because I wanted everyone to see everyone’s mistakes; especially mine. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.

Instead, I ended up with some fucking pink bedroom and oblivious parents. Oblivious relatives and neighbors and friends. And boys, especially boys, they’re the most oblivious. I blame everyone being oblivious on the color of my room. It’s pink, but you know that. You don’t know that it’s an ugly pink, though. It’s a light pink, you know that. But you don’t know that it’s so light it could be white. Which means that everyone could’ve known my mistakes if it wasn’t for the white turning pink. It’s pink on purpose, y’know? It’s pink because I don’t deserve to have people notice me. God knew that, so He gave me pink walls.”

I didn’t know what to say at first, so I just sat there, listening to our breaths turn into one and then separate into two different intakes of air and carbon dioxide and whatever else there was.

“You wanted pink walls,” I finally say, “I know that.”

Davie was quick with her response. “Yeah, because God made me want pink walls.”

“There is no God,” I murmured quietly, “God is fake. He’s not real. There might be something up there but whatever it is, it’s probably the Devil. Michael or whatever His name is. Either way, there’s no God. The only reason we think there’s a God is because we want there to be one.” I shifted and finally looked at Davie and repeated myself: “There is no God.”

Davie tore her gaze from the water and I finally noticed her eyes. They weren’t green, they were something I’d never seen before. I liked the color but I didn’t stare long. I trusted her, but I didn’t want her to know that. I didn’t want her to know that I was pretending she hadn’t quipped me, pretending that we were something else — other people.

“There may not be a God, but there’s someone up there.”

“I said that,” I replied lamely. “But I highly doubt that.”

“Why do you doubt that?” Davie asked, running a hand through her hair.

“Because whomever is up there gave you pink walls when He knew you wanted white ones.”

Neither one of us said anything. We sat in complete and utter silence, watching as the water rippled beneath the boardwalk and threatened to tear the old wood down, flushing our bodies into the earth and making it seem as if we had never actually been there.

I didn’t know what Davie was thinking, so I pretended that she was thinking the same thing as me. Wondering what it would be like to slip into the water and press her fingertips against the splintered wood, holding herself down and promising not to come back up. No air, no breath, no life, no nothing. I wondered if she was as tempted as I was; fighting back the urge to thrust herself in and see if she could actually do that — become nothing.

When I turned my attention back to Davie, I wondered if she had heard about me and James spending time with each other. If she did, I wondered if she thought we were an item or if I was using him as a way to make Sock jealous or if she thought James was good looking and was using this time spent together as a way to get closer to him.

I wanted to tell her about him. I wanted to tell her that he was different and that he wasn’t like anyone I’d ever met. I wanted to tell her that he wasn’t Sock — he wasn’t as good looking — and that it kind of bothered me, but that I was hoping if Sock found out I was spending time with James, he would start liking me. He would start wanting to go out with me, start treating me the same way he treats Davie. Look at me the way he looks at Davie.

I didn’t tell her any of that, though. I didn’t mouth a word, I didn’t even open my mouth, because I knew that I couldn’t tell her any of this. She might have been Davie, but she was not the Davie that I trusted, no matter how much I wanted her to be.

The sun was just starting to set when I stood, ignoring Davie, and made my way off the boardwalk. I wasn’t going home, I knew that, but I didn’t know where I was going. I was going somewhere and somewhere was better than nowhere.

I’d walked a few steps off the boardwalk when Davie came running up to me. She didn’t startle me, because I think I knew she was going to running after me. I don’t think I knew what for, but I knew she was going to. I don’t know if I was being a narcissist or if I had been given some kind of sixth sense for the given moment.

Her chest heaved up and down, accentuating her breasts. Her breathing was ragged and when she stared at me, her facial expression was blank. I didn’t say anything to her. I reached my hand out, wanting to touch her, see if she was real, but I pulled back and stood awkwardly.

“I slept with Sock,” she said.

“I know that,” was my reply, because I did. I knew that.

“I’m using James.” I stated, wanting to even out her confession.

“I know,” she murmured softly, “just like you knew.”