Unnamable Emotion

What happens when Aden learns of his mother's death...

Elizabeth Wood did not die cleanly or quietly. It was against Tumor-Consumed-Elizabeth-Wood to do virtually anything cleanly. Much less quietly.

 

A sudden seizure. Completely unprecedented, shocking in its scope. Crept into her room in the dead of day and in her state of vulnerability (sleep), showed the Master that she was not the Master but just another puppet at the hands in life. Machines started going haywire, her heart rate shooting up to alarming levels, and chaos erupted. And then she just... died?

 

They did not go into detail. I did not ask for detail. (I was at school when it happened).

You'd expect a kid to lose it when his mother died. Start sobbing and crying and breaking down into a totally pitiful puddle of tears.

 

Well, unlike her machines (that were supposed to lengthen her life but didn't really work, hm, whatsoever) I did not go haywire. At least, in the emotional sense.

 

I didn't even... know what I was feeling. I honestly didn't know how I felt. It all just kind of bubbled over in a generally unpleasant way, but I couldn't even determine individual ingredients to this boiling mush of stew, it was just mush mush mush mush that was boiling over and I didn't know what to do because I didn't know how I was feeling and I was just feeling too many things to know what I was feeling but at least I knew that I was overwhelmed but that was hardly a feeling...

 

In books and everything the characters are generally inaccurately depicted as human beings because somehow they always know exactly what they are feeling, their exact emotions, and wow they actually turn out to be right, in fact, they used the perfect word to describe how they are feeling. And that is definitely not how it is in real life.

My mother just freaking died and I have no f*****g idea how I feel.

 

I told my mother to die and she did. She followed through my exact request, and did it in less than twenty-four hours, and very precisely. And, hm, what do you know, Mother had never listened to me and actually followed through my request like I was an actual human being ever before, in her actual pitiful existence. She was that kind of person who believed that her elevated intelligence made her better than anyone else but HOLY F**K SHE IS YOUR MOTHER YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO SAY THESE THINGS. (Oh yeah, and she also happens to be DEAD).

  

And then I thought to myself, you are a pathetic self-conceited b***h.

 

And then I went to my room and punched the wall. It hurt. A lot. So I punched. Again. And again. And again.

 

And then I got mad because I wasn't even making a dent, so I cocked my arm back so my elbow was behind my other shoulder, and slammed my fist into the wall so that little bits of plaster came out and I heard a well sizeable crack in my middle finger.

 

And then I was crying, but I just kept punching the stupid wall, punching and punching, punching with the ferocity of a boxer to his punching bag, do you think you're the master now, no, even when she's dead she's still controlling the strings, punch punch punch punch PUNCH don't think about her can't think about her keep punching the wall just punch and punch and punch and keep punching the wall, don't think about puppets or English proffesors or Mothers or picnics with a happy family or family vacations or her holding your hand as you took your infantile steps or the time she cried with you when you came home sobbing from the bullies from school, don't think don't think don't think.

 

I don't know what this is. I am crying and I am punching and my mind is trying to go into a mental shut down but it can't because I am punching this wall and suddenly I don't know anything except that I am crying and I am punching this stupid wall f**k f**k f**k f**k f**k.

 

And then I'm whispering to myself, "F**k my life f**k my life f**k my life f**k my life" and I don't even know why I'm saying it because I am not a book character and I have virtually no control over my feelings, and I don't know why I'm crying and punching this stupid wall but let me just keep punching it.

 

So I keep punching, and there are tears streaming down my face, but I don't stop because there is a kind of comforting pain in methodically attacking a plaster-coated wall with a recently broken fist after your dominating mother has just died, and because this pain of broken bones is so much easier and so much simpler than the pain of dealing with emotion.

 

And I keep punching and punching until I'm doubled over in pain and I'm sobbing and clutching my fist because it helped for those few minutes but now I can't deal with it anymore and I have to deal with both the pain of emotion and of my broken bones and oh God why is this happening to me, why am I doing this, what have I done, oh God oh God oh God oh God, God help me.

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I came home diagnosed with one broken bone, a fracture, a badly dislocated finger, swollen joint, and oh yeah, depression.

 

Father was diagnosed with a much more impressive case of the latter.

Author's Note

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