Anomalies

Prequel/Sequel to Hysteria. In order for Anomalies to make sense, you have to read Hysteria first.

Why can’t people ever be punctual? I was pacing all over my apartment while glancing over the clock after every minute or so. Cynthia was meeting with her publisher to update the publisher regarding her latest projects.  It was more or less a formality meeting. Cynthia had said she’ll pick dinner up and be back by 8. I looked at the clock again. It was 8:10.                       

“10 minutes past 8. 8:10. 10 minutes past 8. 8:10. 10 minutes past 8. She should have been back by 8. Scavenging rats.  She should have been back by 8. Scavenging rats.  She should have been back by 8. Scavenging rats.  She should have been back by 8. Scavenging rats. She should have been back by 8. Scavenging rats.  She should have been back by 8. Scavenging rats.  I’m not panicking. Carl Jung. I’m not panicking. Carl Jung. I’m not panicking. Carl Jung. I’m not panicking. Carl Jung. I’m not panicking. Carl Jung."                                                                                                                                                

"Are you okay?"                                                                                                                                                                                                             

“Carl Jung. I'm not panicking. Carl Jung. I’m not panicking. Carl…”                                                              

I suddenly felt that something struck me, and snapped me out from a trance. I saw a   strange-looking man staring at me. I widened my eyes to realize that I was standing in the middle of a street with that man looking at me, who I’m assuming had struck me. “What happened?” I asked.                             

 “You were striding while constantly muttering and bumped into me, I asked if you were okay but you kept muttering.”

                           

 “Okay.” I said and started walking again. From where I was on the street, it was easy to deduce that I was heading towards the place where Cynthia was going to pick up dinner from. I had blacked out in panic, that doesn't happen very often. I could have just sent her a text. Maybe I should head back. I was about to turn around when I saw Cynthia walking down the street towards me. She was carrying a shopper in her right, obviously, and typing a text from the other, probably me telling me that she's on her way. My phone buzzed and inveterated my assumption. She saw me and waved. I pouted and turned around. Lazy a*s.

"Sorry, I bumped into this old friend of mine at the restaurant. I should have sent you a text earlier. What are you doing here?"

"I was heading to the restaurant."

"Oh. You got worried?"

"No. No, I was curious as to where you were."

"You're sweating."

"Exercise is good for health."

 

---------------

 

"Miss. Nelms how are you today?"

The same question which Dr. Patrick had been asking Cynthia for the past 6 months in her therapy sessions without an answer. Since he died, Cynthia hadn't said a single word.

 

-----------------

 

"Roses are weird,

Wallets are brown,

I'm a bipolar,

And so are you.

Do you like that, mother?"

"Not particularly, my angel." She responded and smiled lopsidedly.

 

---------------

 

"Where were you last night?" Cynthia asked as soon as I finished climbing the stairs. She was standing at the door waiting for me. I left my phone home so she couldn't me that way. It was probably 2 in afternoon.

"Why?" I had no problem telling her where I was, but I almost didn't want her to know.

"Where were you?" She said in a stern manner. Usually, she was inert but at that moment, I didn't think she was going to give in, so I told her.

"Heroin."

"What?" She knew what I had said. She was not shocked; she was probably just annoyed by the vague nature of my responses. I ignored her and went inside my apartment. It wasn't the first time we were having an argument like this one. I heard her footsteps approaching my door so I said.

"I also beat up a man, since you're interested." She didn't ask, but she would have if she had known about the occurrence.

"Why?" She asked surprisingly calmly.

"To get the heroin." I replied, poured a glass of cold water and drank it. Gosh, that feels better. Cynthia hadn't responded, not that I expected her to. "Now, get out!"

"No." Cynthia said authoritatively.

"I want to be alone right now."

"You need me."

"Cynthia, stop being a b***h and leave."

"No, you need to relax and lie down."

"No, I need Valium."

"No, you don't."

"Okay."

"Say it."

"Stay."

She nodded and poured me another glass of water.

 

--------------

"Cynthy, dear, dad said he'll visit tomorrow." Dorothy said. Dorothy, Cynthia’s sister, who had been taking care of Cynthia for six months now. She and their dad had been taking Cynthia to the psychiatrist for months but neither them nor the shrink were able to get a word out of her. Cynthia was lost, all she did was into space looking for answers.

------------------

"Violin, violin, violin, there you are." It's been so long since I last played it. "Play some Paganini, or shall I compose?" Paganini. Why did I have to ask that out loud? I could have done that in my head since I'm conversing with myself. I started playing Paganini's Caprice 24; it was my favourite violin composition. I loved playing it, even though it took me 7 months to master it. I was playing well though I was a little rusty. I took my eyes of the violin for a moment, and looked at my door which was completely shut. It was rare, as its peace was almost always disturbed by the presence of my across-the-hall neighbour. Cynthia was away, to spend the weekend with her sister. What a healthy family! If it were any normal relationship, these two days would count as giving each other space, but the relationship that we have, the concept of space just seems beyond comprehension, to both of us. I changed the chords and resumed playing. I didn't realize, but I was unconsciously smiling. Maybe, it was the music, or her, or the combination of serene music and an adorable woman. What did I just say? I made a funny face and struck my forehead with the violin bow. Why did I hit myself? I thought I believed In giving credit, where credit was due. I mean, she is pretty adorable, with that funny smile, and the phony stern behaviour, when she puts on her glasses, and when she brushes her teeth, when she pouts, and when she pinches my arm. Too bad, she's not around to hear any of it. Let's never have any of this again. Are we clear? Yes, no, I don't know, you're a voice in my head.

------------

 

"I cannot be on my own. I'm a danger to myself. I don't want you to leave."

"You'll cope, son. I love you."

"I know. I'll say the same but..."

"It's okay."

I nodded.

-------------

"What are you thinking?" Cynthia broke the silence by asking the question that I despised as it always breaks the flow of my thoughts.

"I'm thinking how to answer the question, since whatever I was thinking is complete baloney now."

"Still, I'd like to know." Of course, you would. So, what was I thinking? I was thinking about words, or air. Oh yes, I was writing.

"I was working on a poem." I see a word. Mm no.

"In your head?" She said with a look of slight amusement.

"Uh huh." I nodded. I saw a word floating. Nope.

"What is it about? What do you have so far?"

"Words and air. Well, nothing so far. I keep scrapping." Words are still in the air. No, no, no.

"Again, in your head?" She said in a shocked tone.

I nodded. Tear me a word. No, too much tearing.

"How do you keep track?"

I laughed in a matter patronizing.

"You condescending dork!"

I kept laughing and nodded again.

"Let's collaborate!"

"Interesting. Let's do so!" We hadn't collaborated on a poem before, the idea seemed fascinating.

"So, words and air, why?"

"We breathe air, and we interact through words."

"That's always been. Why now?"

"Well, when we were not talking, I noticed that the loudest sound that I could hear was of us taking breathes. We breathe air, and the same air carries that sound to our ears."

"I see. Very keen, but you can't say we were "not talking", we were holding hands."

"No, no, no, you were holding my hand, and, irrelevant."

"So, yeah, words and air. Hm."

"How about "I draw you a word"?"

"That sounds nice. Drawing a word, yeah. Who's the second person?"

"Also, me."

"So you're drawing yourself a word?"

"Yes, yes. We're helping each other by finding a key that creates a paradigm where we suppose that every answer or word is the right one."

"We? You mean you and yourself?"

"Precisely."

"Okay."

"I'm kidding; the second person's identity depends upon the reader's interpretation. Could be anyone."

"You could have just said that."

"Yeah, so, I draw you a word to help you with the whole paradigm thing."

"I draw you a word, and help me see."

"By "me", you mean "you"?"

"No, I mean, I draw you a word to help you see but I'm also helping myself as it also makes me feel better."

"Astute, very astute." I said and smiled.

-------------

"Are you okay? What happened here?" Cynthia asked as soon as she entered my apartment, which was pretty chaotic, to say the least.

"What do you think?"

She came closer and inspected my body looking for any sign of damage.

"I'm fine." I said, then I looked around the apartment, and added. "Physically."

"Come on, get up! Come to my place."

"I like it here."

"You'll get hurt. Look at the amount of broken glass here, and you're bare feet."

"I don't care."

She stroked my hair, and asked again. "What happened?"

"Everything was annoying me. It looks beautiful now."

"I'm right here, okay? Anything you need, you know that."

I nodded.

"Have you eaten anything?"

I shook my head.

"Do you want a stabilizer?"

I grabbed my head and groaned in pain. My head had started to hurt. "Yes, now!"

-------------------

"I want you to reconsider, one last time."

"Do you think I haven't thought this through, son?"

"No."

"Then?"

"Why can't you do it yourself?"

"I don't want to go away feeling bad. It has to be you."

"How will I live?"

"You'll learn."

"You're confident, mother."

"I know you will."

"Why the tears?"

"I love you."

I nodded.

"No, say it. I want those to be the last words I hear."

I injected the needle into her arm and pushed the syringe.

"I love you."

 --------------

"Dori, Dori, Dori..." Cynthia called out Dorothy. First words that she had spoken in 8 months.

"Cynthy!" Dorothy ran towards Cynthia and hugged her.

"He loved me, Dori. He loved me, Dori. He loved, in his own way. He did, a lot, Dori." Cynthia said with tears in her eyes, and sobbing heavily.

"He did, of course, he did, Cynthy."

"You know, I, I, you know, I was lost. He, he rational, he rationalized everything, everything. I couldn't, I couldn't, couldn't rationalize his, his death. The, the meaning behind it. But, but, I remember what he told, what he told me, that, that, sometimes, there is, is no meaning. It, it just is, what is. No meaning, so it happened, it happened, because it happened. He gave, gave me the key, he, he knew, he knew. But it is, it is not, not, not enough. I still, still, have to, I still have to live without him, Dori. I still have to live without him, Dori."

"Yes, but you can, and you're not alone. I'm here for you!"

"Dori, Dori, he even gave me something, something to move on to. A life, a life. He gave me a life, Dori. He gave me a life, Dori, and I'll live it. I'll live it, Dori. I'll live it."

--------------------

"You know, our lives are so fragile, they can end at any moment." Cynthia said softly. That was out of nowhere.

"I suppose, that is true."

"So, if I told you that we could be feel something for just a second, and it won't mean a thing, would you say yes to something like that?"

"I sing you a heart." I responded with the line from the poem we wrote, and she knew what it meant.

"To make me feel." She leaned forward and kissed me.

-------------------

I draw you a word,

To help me see,

 

I paint you a river,

To help me clean,

 

I read you a face,

To help me breathe,

 

I write you a desert,

To help me keep,

 

I sing you a heart,

To help me feel,

 

I whisper you a key,

To help me sleep.

Author's Note

This has a final instalment called Catharsis.

Reviews

[Brittany]

Oh Jay. This is simply beautiful.
First, is the picture inversed?
Second, watch tense first paragraph.
Third, loved the repitition and expression of panic.
Fourth, your portrayl of Cynthia after his death was heart wrenching and realistic and wonderful.
Fifth, LOVED the 'roses are weird' poem
Sixth, through out are glimpses of humor at self and I couldn't help but giggle as I identfied with the narrator.
Seventh, the heroin...the heroin really bothered me.
Eighth, the violin...gorgeous and brilliant. You have such an awesome way of showing the diachotomy between the debilitating illness and brilliance of mind. A beautiful, talented mind.
Ninth, the working on the poem in his mind and then the 'fascinating' idea of collaborating was...I don't know how to put this into words...but I find writing with someone like making love. A back and forth dance of minds.
Tenth, the way you express her total love for him and all his is, is just so lovely and beautiful.
Eleventh, the conversations with parents tear at my heart and make me so sad.
Twelfth, and then the best part, when she speaks again and she is able to reflect on all he's given her brings me to tears. 'It happened, because it happened'
Thirteenth, the outstanding poem at the end.
Oh Jay. I loved it.

[Laura Maidah]

I'm so sorry. This was very arduous for me to read on my phone. I will say this. Your beginning hook is weak. A question poses as a rhetorical distraction in your case. I started thinking about your thought process, showing that as a reader, I got distracted. I'm looking forward to "Catharsis". You have some SPaG issues, but nothing a proofread can't whip into shape. Well-done!

[DeliriousCerises]

... This has truly left me speechless. And you're right it would have made absolutely no sense, or just not the right sense, if I hadn't read Hysteria first. I was so confused by what you meant by "prequel/sequel" but now I get it. I love how you intertwined both his past/their past with her present. Just as glimpses into their lives, similar style to the first one, but more complex. It was beautiful. This really was a piece of art. Or maybe a braid. Everything fit so well together. And their poem they made together at the end just finishes it off very nicely. You almost feel as if the poem is personal to you, the reader, because you got to see the moment and thinking behind its creation. In my mind, it was almost a story about the poem, because the poem is them. Well a product of them, their personalities, their experiences, the way they think.

Anyway, I think I'm rambling. Well done. Thank you for sharing your work.

[Elaenor Aisling]

Lovely work. You are truly talented.