Status: Completed
Psyche
6
Jean curses stiffly as his fingers begin to bleed from playing his acoustic guitar. He plays a tune once, twice, three times, and when he sees tiny drops of blood sprouting from his fingertips again he stops. The sudden silence in his room irritates him to the point where he wants to turn the radio on loud or try to find his iPod. He stays where he is though, in the middle of his room with a bloody guitar.
“Fuck.” He wipes his fingers on his jeans and combs them through his hair.
“Jamie’s in the hospital . . . H-his aunt told me he tried to overdose on his medication or something . . .No, I don’t know why . . . I don’t know! God!”
The last thing Alexandria said to him. He hasn’t spoken to her since. He’s been in his room lately, trying to write songs that have no meanings and are brain-dead products.
He hadn’t cried when Alexandria told him about Jamie, and has yet to do so. He’s forcing himself not to, but there’s a deep hollowness in his chest and a sturdy weight on his shoulders to replace the tears. He doesn’t know if it’s healthy or not. He hardly ever cries.
He should probably call Alexandria and check up on her. He should call Jamie’s number and see if it’ll go straight to voicemail or if someone else answers. His fingers touch the phone in his pocket, but he never takes it out.
Jean plucks a string and the noise it makes carries a sorry tune across the room.
He doesn’t retreat from his bedroom until it’s nearing seven and he can smell dinner cooking. He limps downstairs as if he has just woken up. His head feels like it’s been left too long in an oven.
In the kitchen his mother is whisking a bowl of something yellow. Her form is serene and he wants to be like her, so calm and not worried. When she looks at him he wonders what she sees. A normal looking kid or someone who’s about to lose his mind?
“You worry me with the way you act,” Celeste says, not even bothering to speak to Jean in French like she normally does. Guess he doesn’t look normal. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Just . . . eh.”
“Mmm, how are your friends? How’s Jamie?”
He likes how she specifically mentions Jamie.
“He’s . . . not doing well, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I – I mean he’s been having some trouble lately but . . .” He doesn’t know why he can’t tell her the truth, and he grimaces because of it. “He’s in the hospital,” he mumbles. Celeste doesn’t hear him and he’s glad. He can’t force himself to talk about it or even think of it.
What is wrong with him?
“You’re worried about him?” she asks.
“I just . . . he’s . . . I don’t know.” He’s a singer. He’s a songwriter. He shouldn’t be at loss for words when words are everything to him.
He sees Jamie’s face in front of him and a headache starts.
“Whatever’s going on, it’ll work out,” Celeste says, and her words make a red heat flare up Jean’s neck like guilt. She goes back to cooking and Jean is mortified, leaning against the wall and banging his head on it.
Celeste frowns at him. “What’s wrong?”
He wonders if he’s selfish for not telling her and regarding Jamie as a shameful secret. He wants her to know that Jamie is in the hospital and Jean doesn’t know how to feel or think and oh, he’s bi and likes Jamie as more than a friend.
“Jean?”
Does he even know for a fact what the worse that can happen is?
“I gotta tell you something,” he finally says, and he simply wants to go back to when things were normal and the only stuff he had to worry about were booking shows for Artemis Phantom and getting work done for school.
No, no, Celeste is his mother and she deserves to know everything. If he’s “so confident” about himself than he can tell her everything.
(I like girls and boys.
I like Jamie.
Jamie tried to kill himself.
I'm afraid.)
That’s all he has to do.
He watches her eyes light up and the heaviness eases off him slowly.
*****
Celeste’s smile is hanging and she gazes at him as if his words are alien. But for the most part, she looks the same as always: peaceful. Maybe too peaceful, like she doesn’t want to feel the full impact of everything he just dumped on her. Jean wants to take back everything he said and replace it with, “Joking! I actually killed someone.”
Celeste steps closer to him and asks, “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not . . .” Jean touches his face and his fingertips come back wet and salty. Before he can rub his eyes dry, Celeste has her arms around him and kisses his cheek.
“I’m glad you told me.” Her voice is faint and he almost doesn’t hear her. The way she breathes softly and mumbles something inaudible makes him think perhaps she always sort of knew what he was and that he liked Jamie. She was only waiting for him to tell her if it was true or not. “Oh, God.”
Now Jean feels guilty for never trusting his mother and thinking she would hate him.
“A-and Jamie will be fine. I know he will. It’s okay. He’s not weak.” His mother was always the one to be optimistic when everyone was not. Always hopeful and smiling. Jean doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look broken. She must’ve learned to keep looking ahead after his dad died. “We’ll pray for him.”
“I’m just scared. I’m terrified,” he admits.
“I know, mon chéri. It’ll be fine.” Slowly, she asks, “So he is your . . . ?”
“Yeah, he is. My boyfriend.”
“Fuck.” He wipes his fingers on his jeans and combs them through his hair.
“Jamie’s in the hospital . . . H-his aunt told me he tried to overdose on his medication or something . . .No, I don’t know why . . . I don’t know! God!”
The last thing Alexandria said to him. He hasn’t spoken to her since. He’s been in his room lately, trying to write songs that have no meanings and are brain-dead products.
He hadn’t cried when Alexandria told him about Jamie, and has yet to do so. He’s forcing himself not to, but there’s a deep hollowness in his chest and a sturdy weight on his shoulders to replace the tears. He doesn’t know if it’s healthy or not. He hardly ever cries.
He should probably call Alexandria and check up on her. He should call Jamie’s number and see if it’ll go straight to voicemail or if someone else answers. His fingers touch the phone in his pocket, but he never takes it out.
Jean plucks a string and the noise it makes carries a sorry tune across the room.
He doesn’t retreat from his bedroom until it’s nearing seven and he can smell dinner cooking. He limps downstairs as if he has just woken up. His head feels like it’s been left too long in an oven.
In the kitchen his mother is whisking a bowl of something yellow. Her form is serene and he wants to be like her, so calm and not worried. When she looks at him he wonders what she sees. A normal looking kid or someone who’s about to lose his mind?
“You worry me with the way you act,” Celeste says, not even bothering to speak to Jean in French like she normally does. Guess he doesn’t look normal. “How are you?”
“I’m good. Just . . . eh.”
“Mmm, how are your friends? How’s Jamie?”
He likes how she specifically mentions Jamie.
“He’s . . . not doing well, I guess.”
“You guess?”
“I – I mean he’s been having some trouble lately but . . .” He doesn’t know why he can’t tell her the truth, and he grimaces because of it. “He’s in the hospital,” he mumbles. Celeste doesn’t hear him and he’s glad. He can’t force himself to talk about it or even think of it.
What is wrong with him?
“You’re worried about him?” she asks.
“I just . . . he’s . . . I don’t know.” He’s a singer. He’s a songwriter. He shouldn’t be at loss for words when words are everything to him.
He sees Jamie’s face in front of him and a headache starts.
“Whatever’s going on, it’ll work out,” Celeste says, and her words make a red heat flare up Jean’s neck like guilt. She goes back to cooking and Jean is mortified, leaning against the wall and banging his head on it.
Celeste frowns at him. “What’s wrong?”
He wonders if he’s selfish for not telling her and regarding Jamie as a shameful secret. He wants her to know that Jamie is in the hospital and Jean doesn’t know how to feel or think and oh, he’s bi and likes Jamie as more than a friend.
“Jean?”
Does he even know for a fact what the worse that can happen is?
“I gotta tell you something,” he finally says, and he simply wants to go back to when things were normal and the only stuff he had to worry about were booking shows for Artemis Phantom and getting work done for school.
No, no, Celeste is his mother and she deserves to know everything. If he’s “so confident” about himself than he can tell her everything.
(I like girls and boys.
I like Jamie.
Jamie tried to kill himself.
I'm afraid.)
That’s all he has to do.
He watches her eyes light up and the heaviness eases off him slowly.
*****
Celeste’s smile is hanging and she gazes at him as if his words are alien. But for the most part, she looks the same as always: peaceful. Maybe too peaceful, like she doesn’t want to feel the full impact of everything he just dumped on her. Jean wants to take back everything he said and replace it with, “Joking! I actually killed someone.”
Celeste steps closer to him and asks, “Why are you crying?”
“I’m not . . .” Jean touches his face and his fingertips come back wet and salty. Before he can rub his eyes dry, Celeste has her arms around him and kisses his cheek.
“I’m glad you told me.” Her voice is faint and he almost doesn’t hear her. The way she breathes softly and mumbles something inaudible makes him think perhaps she always sort of knew what he was and that he liked Jamie. She was only waiting for him to tell her if it was true or not. “Oh, God.”
Now Jean feels guilty for never trusting his mother and thinking she would hate him.
“A-and Jamie will be fine. I know he will. It’s okay. He’s not weak.” His mother was always the one to be optimistic when everyone was not. Always hopeful and smiling. Jean doesn’t think he’s ever seen her look broken. She must’ve learned to keep looking ahead after his dad died. “We’ll pray for him.”
“I’m just scared. I’m terrified,” he admits.
“I know, mon chéri. It’ll be fine.” Slowly, she asks, “So he is your . . . ?”
“Yeah, he is. My boyfriend.”