Absolution

My first real, vivid, colour, smell and taste memory came from when I was three, nearly four; I was asleep and I woke up to the warm, lavender and cotton scent of my mom, and a muffled crying – this worried me a lot and I sleepily switched on my astronaut nightlight, sitting up in my small blue bed and frowning at my mom, who was curled in on herself with a hand on her growing middle and the other on her long neck, that was a nasty red underneath her small hand.

I placed my own hand on her soft blonde hair, stroking it like you would do to anything soft, and I asked her if she was okay, what had happened and if my brother was okay. She gave me a watery grin, took her hands off of herself, taking my left hand and putting it on her stomach, with her other hand she stroked my cheek, replying with yes, my brother or sister was fine and that daddy had just had a real bad dream.

My eyes widened and I asked once more if she was okay; she smiled sadly and told me to go to sleep, because when I woke up in the morning, everything would be right again – daddy would be there for breakfast and then mommy would take me to the park to play on the slide and the swings. I smiled happily at her promise and she pressed a warm kiss to my forehead, allowing me to drift off into a dreamless sleep.

Only she had lied; the next morning I awoke to my father yelling useless and insincere apologies to my other, her sobbing loudly in response for him to leave, the loud smash of what sounded like a vase and a bone chilling scream. I stayed hidden in my bedroom until an elderly neighbour entered, told me my father had taken my mother to get stitches in her forehead and that there were peanut butter sandwiches in the kitchen if I wanted some.

That night started a habit for me – the urge to check on the safety of those I cared about was something that overwhelmed me and I could not sleep unless I knew my mother and my brother were out of harm’s way; the night my father put me to bed and told me not to leave my room was the night of November 2nd – the night of my mother’s death. This led to extreme paranoia that I still carried, and what woke me up most mornings.

The body I woke up next to came as a slight shock to my system, but a nice shock, a surprise almost. I’d been expecting the bloody shell of my brother, but had been rewarded with a soft, smiling, freckled and almost perfect girl; the girl of my dreams, when my brother wasn’t gardening, however.

Her wide green eyes were closed; sleep dust lining the slightly creased corners, remnants of her mascara clumping together on her long eyelashes and the thick black line of her eyeliner smudging over her lid and creating a grey mess around her eyes. The sun gleamed onto the pale heights of her cheekbones, a tiny black beauty mark sitting atop her right one. My eyes traced down to her rosy pink lips, quirked upwards in a dream induced smile, Cupid’s bow stretching out and creating a dimple on her left cheek. I gently pressed my lips to the dimple and rolled away from her, stripping the covers from my chest and looking up at the smoke-stained ceiling.

My eyes followed a sleepy beige moth as it walked across the ceiling slowly towards the low hum of the bathroom light, its wings faltered and it fell down to the dirty carpet. I unfocussed my gaze and let my mind wander, the image of my blood smeared on my brother’s face with heavy tears running down his face flashed before me, as did fragile hands holding a blood speckled white rose, the petals torn and greying. I closed my eyes, letting them roll back and took a deep breath through my nose, exhaling as my eyes opened, giving me a feeling of light-headedness and an awareness of the blood running fast through my veins and the pounding of my heart against my ribcage.

I felt a loose smile come to my face and play on my lips as she breathed softly to the left of me. Her soft and warm body curled around the side of mine, the cold metal of her St. Christopher medallion sitting underneath the curve of my shoulder. It began to heat up slowly under the pressure of my body and started to become slightly uncomfortable and irritating; I touched her cheek softly and rose from the mattress with a swing of my legs, putting on my cleanest clothes from the depths of my duffel bag. I rummaged around in there for a while, looking for loose change in pockets and tiny crevices; I gathered it in my left hand, kissed the girl’s forehead and quietly left, making my way to the lobby, grabbing a phonebook from the reception desk and stood at a phone booth, nervously listening to steady rings.

I found myself being questioned by a man with a rather high pitched, nasal voice that I found myself getting extremely irritated with when he told me that the person I was trying to contact had requested no off-campus calls, unless there was a family emergency. I sighed loudly and with the most distressed, aggressive voice I could pull off in a matter of seconds, told the man that this was indeed a family emergency and that if I couldn’t speak to my brother, I would report the man to his superior. The man gasped shallowly and told me that he’d connect me, but could not guarantee the presence of my brother. I rolled my eyes, knowing full well that my health-freak of a sibling would have returned from his daily run fifteen minutes ago and would currently be drinking a glass of milk and chewing on a trail mix cereal bar.

He picked up hesitantly on the seventh ring, with a cautious hello and my voice stuck in my throat awkwardly. I could picture him rolling his eyes as he told me that this was hilarious and that if I wanted to waste his valuable time, then why not do it face to face. I sniggered and inserted a coin into the machine, taking a deep breath and announcing myself. He questioned my genuineness and after I managed to convince him it was really me, he took on a confrontational and aggressive tone that made me feel a mixture of loss, abandonment and pride.

He asked me why I had called up and I told him I’d seen him so vividly in a dream that it both terrified and excited me. He laughed aloud and incredulously, sarcastically asking me if I’d enjoyed the dream. I ignored the sarcastic undertone and said that no, I had not enjoyed the dream as it illustrated the bridgeless gap that was growing between us. He was silent, so I continued and told him we were in paradise, but he picked the most beautiful of roses, handed it to me and it died. I asked him if he really felt that I “ruin everything”. He gulped audibly and I squeezed the bridge of my nose with my eyes tightly shut. He simply said, “No”, and I nodded with my teeth clenched.

I swallowed the knot building up in my throat and asked him how life was going; he made an attempt at masking how happy he was and then passed the question back over to me. I told him I’d met a girl I viewed as angelic and perfect and he stated that perfection was a myth and a mask created by those wanting to create an illusion. I shook my head and said he was lying – he hadn’t even seen her; he then continued and said that was my problem, I had only seen her, I didn’t know her.

My head started shaking again and I cut the conversation short, told him I missed him and I’d call him back when I’d either: made sense of what the fuck he just said, or got to know the angelic singer lying in my dirty motel room. He ended with, “I really do hope you’re well, Dean; don’t mess this up with your expectations, you deserve a slice of normal.” And then he hung up. I licked my dry lips, squeezed shut my eyes and attempted to hold back the tears welling up in my eyes.

I walked back to the motel room trying to keep my lungs from betraying me with a heavy sob and trying to keep my nose from running; the sound of music hit me as I opened the motel door quietly – she was dancing to the sounds of Janis Joplin coming from the radio perching atop the television, her hips swaying in a hypnotic motion whilst she sang along lowly, arms in the air, creating patterns on the wall with shadows.

I closed the door and breathed in the room, the musty, yet not unpleasant to me, scent of sex overpowered the faint aromas of leather, cigarette smoke and the vanilla undertones of the perfume of the singer. I sat down on the bed, found myself become entranced by the slow, pretty and mysterious music and felt my head fall back onto the hard mattress with a bounce. My eyes glazed over and I felt myself go into a waking sleep, comforted by the gentle stroking of my cheek and the feel of soft hair under my hand. I felt content, at ease and for once in my life, carefree.