memories

HE SAT alone in the dark room. There was one small desk-lamp, where he was sitting at his computer, and all I could hear was his occasional grunts and the clinging of glass bottles. My father had made a new bond, a new best friend: alcohol. Every evening he'd slip into his dark office thinking he was unnoticed. I would always stand at the door and listen closely to the opening of a fresh bottle, and kept so quiet I could almost hear the whiskey slide down his throat and burn into his stomach. It was as if he had forgotten he still had me. I lived alone, except for some stranger who comes home from work and drinks until he's passed out on his desk.

I went in there once, during the day, to try and stash the liquor from him... I couldn't stand it. I couldn't stand suddenly being invisible. I couldn't stand that he wouldn't ever go grocery shopping, and left it to me to drive to the Stop and Shop and do all the shopping, only to have him complain that I didn't get what he wanted.

Every day was dark, and soon I stopped going to school. He didn't notice. My life was shear nothingness, with no one in it. The phone calls from my friends went unanswered, knocks at my door just the same. 

Another trip to my father's office, this time filled and empty glasses were everywhere, cluttering each surface. I picked up a clear Bacardi bottle, halfway empty. It didn't look like it could heal the pain. I stuck my nose to the opening. It didn't smell like it could heal the pain. I tipped the bottle to my mouth, and the liquid burned my throat, and I started to cough. It certainly didn't taste like it could heal the pain. To the left of me, there was a long body mirror. I observed myself, and I stilldidn't like what I saw. I needed to loose at least ten pounds. I had been very inactive for the last month. I didn't know what to do. Maybe Bacardi was the answer for my father, but I had my crutch. Hours later, I sit hunched over, head in the toilet after I had eaten dinner. 

Weeks earlier, I thought that this was how it was going to go away, pound after pound, I started to not look like myself anymore. I wasn't Laurie... whoever that was. I didn't like to look in the mirror anymore, because I hated what I saw. But I kept going. I was afraid I'd look at me... and remember her. I was afraid I'd want to be back at her dance studio with her, even though I hated dancing more than I hated school. I was afraid I would always be sad. And then looking in the mirror, I realized... I was only afraid of myself.

I hated doing this, it was retarded. I don't even know why I wrote it down. Half a grilled cheese sandwich, 12:01 pm.  I was bored, maybe. Out of my mind, yes.  

My last visit to Joe's I had finally asked him about the rows of coffee beans. The response was as strange as the idea of displaying coffee beans to your patients.

He spiraled his neck to the wall behind him.

             "I love coffee beans." He said. He knew this was quite clear to me, as I flick my eyes to them and back to Joe every session.

             "My wife and I traveled all around South America around... five years ago, and I was craving some coffee. We stopped to grab me some, and it was so good, we splurged and bought a bag of the beans. After a while, I guess, it became a hobby. We'd stop around all these coffee places, test out the coffee, and buy the beans. We've been meaning to start our coffee bean adventures here, I mean, in our own country," Joe glanced back at his collection again. "But, we haven't come around to it yet."

The coffee beans was only one of multiple mysteries about Joe. His most compelling one would have to be the fact that every session at 12:24 he opens his cell phone to check for missed calls or maybe messages. I never commented on it, I just assumed this was one of those many things about Joe that he wanted to keep private, and something I wasn't allowed in. And anyway, after every time he would check his phone, he wouldn't have any voice main, or messages. He's just flip the phone shut like he was agitated, and continue with our conversation. If I would ask him about it, I'd imagine he'd give me one of those answers that he knows is bullshit, and he would imply to me that he simply doesn't want to talk about it with me, like he did with some things. Like on the first day, for instance, when I asked him, "Joe what?", and he didn't want to tell me something so simple as a last name? 

But back to my journal- I still thought it was a joke. I felt absolutely lardy by now. I have been eating, of course... but honestly, I never do the All-American buffet (pretty much stuffing yourself silly). 

I mean, if you asked about my eating habits to Aunt Rachel, she'd say I'm practically starving myself. What does that mean, anyway? I'd say little children in Sudan, who are forced to look for nourishment in mud and plants are starved. So I hate it when Aunt Rachel and Joe use that word on me. They don't even know what it means.

I then tossed the journal to the side and let my head fall between my palms. So I wanted to be skinny. So I just wanted to be like everyone else. So I couldn't stand the site of myself in the mirror. So what? 

Like other things, I've given up on myself. I tried dieting months ago, but soon my nose would sniff out those double fudge brownies and the M&M blondies. I couldn't stay away. Even months earlier, I tried exercising. It was worse. I'd imagine going to the gym to be fun, especially with a group of friends. None of my friends even wanted to go with me. How pathetic. I sat on the thy master all by myself, nobody to talk to or ease the awkwardness away. Just this one middle-aged creep that always used to stand behind me and watch when I stepped on the treadmill. None of it worked, though.

I put the journal away, suddenly remembering Jaimie's party tomorrow night.

Reviews

[Rhea752]

good. i really liked this chapter