In Memories We Trust
Part XIII
If there’s anything worse than being here without you, it’s being here without you and with your best friend. If I had any inclinations to live a life free from memories of you, it just would not be possible. I see you every where; in the puddles with rainbows from spilled oil, the waves crashing on the shore at the beach near my new house, in the creaking of the old porch stairs and the peeling paint on the walls, in the empty, dirty city streets and the broken-in windows, and in the reflection of the moon at night and the light of the sun in the day. I just can’t escape your memories, they’re too much a part of me now to live without them.
Even if I could block out your face from my surroundings, Brain would still be there, smiling and trying to make it seem like nothing’s wrong and we’re not really alone in this world. He never talk about you, always skirts the subject….but I guess I can understand his hesitance to discuss you with me, even if that’s all I want to do. His eyes are always searching mine for some reason as to why I can never bring myself to talk and laugh like I did before, probing into my brain for answers to impossible questions.
His dad died, y’know that…and I know he wants to talk about it. He has this hatred for the war, a hatred I openly share. He worries about me keeping it all bottled up inside, but I know that he’s doing the same thing. There are times when I can see a hole in his façade, in the mask he puts up, when it threatens to crumble and reveal all hidden truths. But, instead of pointing out his weakness, I’ll wait till he wants to talk about it, and dear God I hope he does because he’s only hurting himself.
His warm fingers brushed past mine as he reached out to take my duffel bag of belongings from me, and I shrank back from the contact of flesh with flesh. He noticed my sudden recoil and backed away from me, his amber eyes streaked with feelings of hurt and confusion.
“It’s ok, we don’t have to get close or anything,” he assured me cautiously. He outstretched one arm and picked up the dropped bag with the other, as if to show he wouldn’t hurt me, like I was an animal or something.
“I’m not going to break,” I said under my breath as he started down the long, gray hallway through the middle of the house, “it’s okay to be rough with me.” I was annoyed with the fact that he thought I was so fragile that I couldn’t carry a ten pound bag thirty feet to the end of the corridor. I rolled my eyes at his retreating back and grudgingly followed him to the last room on the right.
“Yours,” he explained briefly and turned back out of the room. “I’ll be making dinner in the kitchen, come in when you’re done unpacking.” He was still a little ruffled, I noticed, by the rigid way he carried himself and the sudden hostility in his voice.
I sat on one edge of the black, four poster bed and sighed, drawing the stale stench of old things into my lungs. The duffel bag lay discarded on the hard wood floor as I leaned back and spread my arms across the huge bed. Time to make things right again, I thought to myself as I sat up and prepared to verbally wrestle with Brian on the account of human nature and our nature.
Even if I could block out your face from my surroundings, Brain would still be there, smiling and trying to make it seem like nothing’s wrong and we’re not really alone in this world. He never talk about you, always skirts the subject….but I guess I can understand his hesitance to discuss you with me, even if that’s all I want to do. His eyes are always searching mine for some reason as to why I can never bring myself to talk and laugh like I did before, probing into my brain for answers to impossible questions.
His dad died, y’know that…and I know he wants to talk about it. He has this hatred for the war, a hatred I openly share. He worries about me keeping it all bottled up inside, but I know that he’s doing the same thing. There are times when I can see a hole in his façade, in the mask he puts up, when it threatens to crumble and reveal all hidden truths. But, instead of pointing out his weakness, I’ll wait till he wants to talk about it, and dear God I hope he does because he’s only hurting himself.
His warm fingers brushed past mine as he reached out to take my duffel bag of belongings from me, and I shrank back from the contact of flesh with flesh. He noticed my sudden recoil and backed away from me, his amber eyes streaked with feelings of hurt and confusion.
“It’s ok, we don’t have to get close or anything,” he assured me cautiously. He outstretched one arm and picked up the dropped bag with the other, as if to show he wouldn’t hurt me, like I was an animal or something.
“I’m not going to break,” I said under my breath as he started down the long, gray hallway through the middle of the house, “it’s okay to be rough with me.” I was annoyed with the fact that he thought I was so fragile that I couldn’t carry a ten pound bag thirty feet to the end of the corridor. I rolled my eyes at his retreating back and grudgingly followed him to the last room on the right.
“Yours,” he explained briefly and turned back out of the room. “I’ll be making dinner in the kitchen, come in when you’re done unpacking.” He was still a little ruffled, I noticed, by the rigid way he carried himself and the sudden hostility in his voice.
I sat on one edge of the black, four poster bed and sighed, drawing the stale stench of old things into my lungs. The duffel bag lay discarded on the hard wood floor as I leaned back and spread my arms across the huge bed. Time to make things right again, I thought to myself as I sat up and prepared to verbally wrestle with Brian on the account of human nature and our nature.