( Symbol O )

 

     We were sitting in the kitchen when my phone rang. She had started packing but had given up after an hour. Cardboard boxes were covering every imaginable surface. We were in the middle of a disagreement- a daily habit of ours. I cut her off by raising my pointer finger.

'Hello?' 

 She struggles to raise an eyebrow at me. I can only judge it as inquiry.

'You SAW it happen?'

The shift in my voice startles her and she struggles to read my face. Licks her red lips then sneezes into a paper-towel.

'No, no. I don't know. Maybe. Are You okay?'

She's getting impatient with my side of the conversation. She re-adjusts the tube feeding her oxygen. I notice the intake is stained a shade too close to maroon.

Yeah. Thanks. I know. No. I don't know. Alright. Thanks...bye.'

 

I told her what I knew. She grimly studies her legs.    

 

They were swollen with adema. Her feet had turned into an exhibit. Showcasing roller-coaster veins and liver spots. The bloat was so bad the transition from foot to ankle to calf to thigh had disappeared, making it seem like a really bad illusion at the 'carnie'-end of the county fair. She said she had more important things to think about. She could give a flying f**k that he had just had a heart-attack. I felt ashamed of my indifference. Ashamed that for once, we had unclenched our fists, and agreed on something. Ashamed that this something was about him almost dying. The only thing bigger than my shame was my curiousity over the phrase 'flying f**k'. I had been told that he was dead for almost a minute, then suddenly 'came to'. He must have met his maker and was immediately sent back on repercussions. Now the universe holds him hostage. There may be physical damage to his brain. 

 

I tell her I was thinking about going to the hospital.

 

She groans and mmmfffs into her juice-tumbler full of wine. When she comes up for air the glass is half empty. If you want to go, go. See that a*****e for all I care.

 

So I went. It was mainly a matter of closure. I wanted to see him just so I could tell him I never wanted to see him again. He gave up on morality long ago, and now his heart was trying to give up on him. In the car I alternate listening to Radiohead's "Street Spirit (Fade Out)" and "Talk Show Host". The drive would have been sad, if it wasn't down-right depressing. I finally pass the prison, then the airport. Down the hill and I pour back into the 'home town'. When I was younger I used to call it the "Neon Hell". Now I wouldn't even credit it for that.

 

I light a cigarette and call her, to tell her I made it alright. She doesn't answer.

 

I pull over and start to cry. I'm left with a two-song playlist and the realization that both my parents could very well die on this day.

Reviews

[roarke]

I think one of the special things about your writing is all the conversations present but not revealed. Only understanding both the rock and the hard place can give you insight like this. Thanks for creating this.

[Leap]

"They were swollen with adema. Her feet had turned into an exhibit. Showcasing roller-coaster veins and liver spots." and "The drive would have been sad, if it wasn't down-right depressing." ---- Amazing. I like your words lady.

[Tim M]

Great Britt. I'm thinking that you really found a calling in your writing, you're pieces are only getting better and you're only getting bolder. Your potential is limitless.

[DavidRyanM]

"The drive would have been sad, if it wasn't down-right depressing." That line is so heartbreakingly brilliant. I love it. This whole piece is sad, yet the way you describe it, I couldn't help but carry on. Hoping things would turn out alright although all signs led to the fact that they wouldn't. Love it, love it, love it.