Unchain Me
Unchain Me
He’ll stand in the bathroom for hours on end sometimes.
Each morning, Jimmy rises from the double bed, and goes to the kitchen to make coffee. It’s a routine – I watch him every day, and it’s always the same. He’ll lean steadfast against the counter until he finishes, and then makes another - and then maybe another, always in silence. There’s no soft music to float through the hallway, nor any thumping bass to shake the foundations of the brickwork. Since I started to watch his every move, the house is nearly always silent.
He never dresses until he has to leave the house – if he can bring himself to go outside. The sunshine would do him good if he’d care to bathe in it; he’s getting paler and even thinner than he used to be, and I hate to see it. The first few times he went out, all I could focus on was the thick tears that fell from his face, landing like raindrops on the paved drive as he sank to his knees. After a couple of minutes, he would abandon whatever plans he had for the day and return to the kitchen to drink – sometimes something intoxicating, sometimes something caffeinated, but never anything healthy. After those few times, he stopped going out. He just holes up in the house; drinking, lying in bed or pacing. That’s when he’s not staring.
Brian offered to take the dog, because Jimmy would often forget to feed it or take it on walks, due to the fact that he never went outside. But as soon as there was a threat of it being taken away, he started paying more attention to it. Some days he’ll never leave it alone, clutching to it desperately. He’ll weep as he holds the black, scruffy animal, and the young Labrador will put up with it. Occasionally they’ll fall asleep together but the dog is always first to wake, and will break free of the loosened grip of its second owner. Once Jimmy wakes, alone and in an awkward position, that feeling of loss comes back.
At some point during the day he’ll go to the bathroom. That’s when I want to look away, but I can’t; he doesn’t know I’m watching. On good days it’s only for a minute as he brushes his teeth, but sometimes he can stand there for hours, staring. His slender frame hunches in front of the mirror I bought and piercing blue eyes glare back at him, fractured in the crack of the glass, broken from that first morning. Skin turns white as fingers grip at the pot sink and his muscles quiver, bones struggling to support his weight. His teeth clench together in anger as salty tears coat his lips and he can’t bear to look at himself anymore, but he does, and I know it rips him apart inside. Thoughts chase round and round his mind, tormenting him as he fights with himself not to cry, to be a man. Occasionally he’ll win the fight. Other times he’ll cling onto the basin, as his knees give way and curl underneath him on the cold linoleum floor.
*
Today, a couple of months after the routine deteriorated, Jimmy rises from the bed with a slouch and a yawn to my complete surprise – I honestly didn’t think he’d manage to surface. It’s early, too – about two hours before the time he usually gets up, and the sun is peeking over the suburban horizon. That same beacon shines in his eyes as he squints, and then a pink tongue laps affectionately at his leg. He looks down at another pair of dozy eyes and absent-mindedly pats the dog on the head, before dragging his near-naked form into the bathroom.
For once in his morning routine, Jimmy spends no time in front of the mirror at all. He dips in and out of the shower and dries himself off quickly, before returning to the bedroom to sling on some clothes from the wardrobe. There’s no doubt in my mind that avoiding the sight of his face was deliberate, and as he combs through his hair, I can see that the same pained look that infected his face less and less over the spring is back, and it’s as heavy as it was when it first began to show.
He doesn’t eat breakfast, or even have any coffee. Instead, he slips on his shades and his favourite pair of shoes and whistles for the dog, which obediently bounds up to meet him at the door. Jimmy fastens on his lead and heads out into the August morning, and I watch him walk straight out of the drive – not falling to his knees, not crying. The dog pulls on the lead impatiently and Jimmy speeds up, walking out of the cul-de-sac and into the main streets of the quiet town.
He calls into the florist and selects a large bunch of beautiful, white flowers. As he leaves the shop, his shoulders fall and he holds the bunch gently to his chest as he carries on up the hill. Both the dog and I recognise where he’s heading as he heads through a gate and his shoes make the transition from tarmac to turf, and I get another feeling that I don’t really want to watch what’s going to unravel.
But I can’t tear my eyes away as he weaves his way between the defiant slabs of stone until his pace almost resembles a run, and I can hardly breathe as he stops in front of the one he seeks. He lets go of the dog’s lead and collapses in front of the marble, his arms clutching the top of the stone as sobs shake his body, and it’s as if the grave is the bathroom mirror as he stares into it. My heart shatters into shards as I watch his fingers trace over the words on the stone, and the same images and sounds that fill his head pass though my mind – the cool breeze of that summer night, my bare feet standing on the driveway as I looked out into the street, wondering where he was, the night he didn’t come home… and then the roar of an engine and the red blur as he sped round the corner, the screech of his car tires and the unforgiving metal, fast and hard against my bones, reducing me to a pile on the driveway as he staggers out of the car with his hands over his mouth, collapsing by my side, stinking of alcohol, cigarettes and guilt - exactly one year ago.
I want to break free, I long for release – I can’t stand to see him do this, hunched over my stone, shuddering and shivering and clutching at me. I long to be by his side, holding him and forgiving him, relieving him of the pain and remorse that I can’t stand to see him suffer from. But I can’t. Instead, all I can do is choke and break from my place in a different world as I watch Jimmy rest his forehead on my gravestone, his streaming blue eyes poring over the three most important words in his life that are but an inch from his nose, Matthew Charles Sanders, and wishing that somehow, he could give me back my life so that we could be together once again.
Each morning, Jimmy rises from the double bed, and goes to the kitchen to make coffee. It’s a routine – I watch him every day, and it’s always the same. He’ll lean steadfast against the counter until he finishes, and then makes another - and then maybe another, always in silence. There’s no soft music to float through the hallway, nor any thumping bass to shake the foundations of the brickwork. Since I started to watch his every move, the house is nearly always silent.
He never dresses until he has to leave the house – if he can bring himself to go outside. The sunshine would do him good if he’d care to bathe in it; he’s getting paler and even thinner than he used to be, and I hate to see it. The first few times he went out, all I could focus on was the thick tears that fell from his face, landing like raindrops on the paved drive as he sank to his knees. After a couple of minutes, he would abandon whatever plans he had for the day and return to the kitchen to drink – sometimes something intoxicating, sometimes something caffeinated, but never anything healthy. After those few times, he stopped going out. He just holes up in the house; drinking, lying in bed or pacing. That’s when he’s not staring.
Brian offered to take the dog, because Jimmy would often forget to feed it or take it on walks, due to the fact that he never went outside. But as soon as there was a threat of it being taken away, he started paying more attention to it. Some days he’ll never leave it alone, clutching to it desperately. He’ll weep as he holds the black, scruffy animal, and the young Labrador will put up with it. Occasionally they’ll fall asleep together but the dog is always first to wake, and will break free of the loosened grip of its second owner. Once Jimmy wakes, alone and in an awkward position, that feeling of loss comes back.
At some point during the day he’ll go to the bathroom. That’s when I want to look away, but I can’t; he doesn’t know I’m watching. On good days it’s only for a minute as he brushes his teeth, but sometimes he can stand there for hours, staring. His slender frame hunches in front of the mirror I bought and piercing blue eyes glare back at him, fractured in the crack of the glass, broken from that first morning. Skin turns white as fingers grip at the pot sink and his muscles quiver, bones struggling to support his weight. His teeth clench together in anger as salty tears coat his lips and he can’t bear to look at himself anymore, but he does, and I know it rips him apart inside. Thoughts chase round and round his mind, tormenting him as he fights with himself not to cry, to be a man. Occasionally he’ll win the fight. Other times he’ll cling onto the basin, as his knees give way and curl underneath him on the cold linoleum floor.
*
Today, a couple of months after the routine deteriorated, Jimmy rises from the bed with a slouch and a yawn to my complete surprise – I honestly didn’t think he’d manage to surface. It’s early, too – about two hours before the time he usually gets up, and the sun is peeking over the suburban horizon. That same beacon shines in his eyes as he squints, and then a pink tongue laps affectionately at his leg. He looks down at another pair of dozy eyes and absent-mindedly pats the dog on the head, before dragging his near-naked form into the bathroom.
For once in his morning routine, Jimmy spends no time in front of the mirror at all. He dips in and out of the shower and dries himself off quickly, before returning to the bedroom to sling on some clothes from the wardrobe. There’s no doubt in my mind that avoiding the sight of his face was deliberate, and as he combs through his hair, I can see that the same pained look that infected his face less and less over the spring is back, and it’s as heavy as it was when it first began to show.
He doesn’t eat breakfast, or even have any coffee. Instead, he slips on his shades and his favourite pair of shoes and whistles for the dog, which obediently bounds up to meet him at the door. Jimmy fastens on his lead and heads out into the August morning, and I watch him walk straight out of the drive – not falling to his knees, not crying. The dog pulls on the lead impatiently and Jimmy speeds up, walking out of the cul-de-sac and into the main streets of the quiet town.
He calls into the florist and selects a large bunch of beautiful, white flowers. As he leaves the shop, his shoulders fall and he holds the bunch gently to his chest as he carries on up the hill. Both the dog and I recognise where he’s heading as he heads through a gate and his shoes make the transition from tarmac to turf, and I get another feeling that I don’t really want to watch what’s going to unravel.
But I can’t tear my eyes away as he weaves his way between the defiant slabs of stone until his pace almost resembles a run, and I can hardly breathe as he stops in front of the one he seeks. He lets go of the dog’s lead and collapses in front of the marble, his arms clutching the top of the stone as sobs shake his body, and it’s as if the grave is the bathroom mirror as he stares into it. My heart shatters into shards as I watch his fingers trace over the words on the stone, and the same images and sounds that fill his head pass though my mind – the cool breeze of that summer night, my bare feet standing on the driveway as I looked out into the street, wondering where he was, the night he didn’t come home… and then the roar of an engine and the red blur as he sped round the corner, the screech of his car tires and the unforgiving metal, fast and hard against my bones, reducing me to a pile on the driveway as he staggers out of the car with his hands over his mouth, collapsing by my side, stinking of alcohol, cigarettes and guilt - exactly one year ago.
I want to break free, I long for release – I can’t stand to see him do this, hunched over my stone, shuddering and shivering and clutching at me. I long to be by his side, holding him and forgiving him, relieving him of the pain and remorse that I can’t stand to see him suffer from. But I can’t. Instead, all I can do is choke and break from my place in a different world as I watch Jimmy rest his forehead on my gravestone, his streaming blue eyes poring over the three most important words in his life that are but an inch from his nose, Matthew Charles Sanders, and wishing that somehow, he could give me back my life so that we could be together once again.