The Nature of Emotions

Reactions are... illogical. Some can destroy the frail fabric of sanity. *Please read the note for the reviewers before you begin reading.

      It was one of those days- all soft breezes and swaying trees and clear skies. I remember the time I loved those days, how long ago they seem. My view from the barred windows allows me only glimpses of blues and purples. But I do remember.
    I remember.

    The truck door slammed with a resonating clang, the hinges (rusted and old) required force but not quite so much force. Of course something was wrong.
    “Is something wrong?” My fingers itched nervously against the bridge of my nose. It ceases to astound me, the ability one has to inquire when the answer is so bluntly clear.
    “Of f*****g course something’s wrong. Something’s always wrong, isn’t it?” Sam stopped briefly, holding the door open allowing me to pass into the commons.
    I thanked him shortly before sighing, “Oh?”
    I suppose I should know better. Skeptical expressions have a tendency to warrant feelings of betrayal. I’ve known Sam a little over a year now; his mood swings are still as violent as ever. I remember once, during the summer, asking why he would become violently angry or depressed. His only response was denial. But I’ve never known anyone similar to him, he was Sam, just Sam- sometimes it feels like that simple word means so much more, while occasionally it holds nothing at all. I fail to remember exactly when I’d become aware, when I’d begun to notice that small ache when he was away for weeks. I’d never gone so far as to fantasize that perhaps the ache was love, but it was something.
    “I’ve got to go; I’m in the opposite direction.” His fingers dusted my arm before he turned to flee down the science hall. I say flee because I have this strong suspicion that he was now avoiding the topic so greatly bothering him. But I’ll see him at lunch and give him the 3rd degree then.

    “Theseis, when are you coming home child?” My mothers fingers tapped impatiently against the generic table, around us groups of families conversed and entertained themselves. I can’t blame her; I was (after all) the cause of our families financial down fall. But I can’t. I just… can’t.
    I can still remember.

    They say all good things must end… but then, so must the bad. The simple truth of the matter is that all things end, and when they do there’s no rewind option. I’ve come to learn that the nature of a human is based upon a frail and thin science of chemical reactions and neuron stimuli. We utilize these reactions to create the concept of ‘ones self’, or rather, they utilize us. Some lie, like me, and some pretend. Sam is a pretender, living in the ‘Alice and wonderland’ version of his own reality. I suppose I might have seen that sooner, but he looked so caught up in thoughts that I wanted to draw him back out again.
    “Sam? Sam-” I whispered, singsong, across the space between us, the half masticated roll in my open mouth causing him to quirk an eyebrow as he looked up.
    “Hmm?”
    “What happened- What I mean is, why this morning? You seemed in a right thump…” I trailed off, leaving room for interruption.
    “I dunno, just tired I guess. I’ve got to finish this chapter before English; we’ll talk later if you want.” It's the first time he has ever dropped our conversation on such a flimsy excuse, but I’ll let him by, I do love him after all. Well, sort of.  
    Love is blind. I learned that halfway through my next class.
    Sam had become self-destructive. That’s how the counselor described it, self-destructive. Sam, my harmless Sam. My beautiful broken Sam who’d shared so much with me- he’d never even mentioned anything. Not his completely absent parents or his condition. Manic Depressive and Bipolar. Not even the cuts, strung along his thigh like a railroad. They looked painful, and I cried. The photographs were old, but the scars were older.
    I thought I’d loved him, but then, if I did I shouldn’t be so ferociously angry.

The self-evaluation form slipped though my fingers as I needlessly fidgeted. I never filled these damn things out, why can’t they tell I have no intention of leaving. I’m not here to be fixed; I’m here to make sure I never break anyone else.
    Again.

    I’ve punched a locker, kicked three chairs, and ultimately been suspended for destroying school property when I broke the bathroom stall door. Sam is my ride- was my ride, home, I have to face him. It terrifies me.
    He was… a coward, a selfish coward. How could he think his life so bad, how could he refuse medication? Did he like suffering?
    How could he keep this from me?
    Maybe I’m the selfish one.

    My memory slips in and out, shorter spans of time replay when I dream, this is how it usually works around his birthday. My dreams becoming so violent, my only light in this darkness is the drugs. The numb. The nothing. I don’t have to think about what I said to him. What I’ve done.

    The first slap was an accident, when his smiling face appeared outside the driver side window I became enraged. The second was more deliberate, both were instantly regretted.
    “Thes! What the hell was that for, I’m sorry, when I heard you’d been suspended I’d tried to get the rest of the day off. It’s not my f*****g fault.” His anger stung (while his belief that I would be angry over him finishing the day out let me know what he thought of my temper, quick and irrational) so I remained immobile for a second as he got in and revved the engine to life. I couldn’t stop what came out next; I was going to play with fire.
    “What could it possibly solve?” I flinched at my tone.
    “Um. You lost me… Do you mean what could trying to get off early solve?”
     I stared blankly at him for a few moments; I don’t think I can do this after all. Maybe I should just pretend I was joking. But then, he’s the pretender.
    “You’re a coward for thinking slicing open sections of skin could possibly solve anything-
    “Get out.” I never expected a response, and I certainly won't bow to his command.  I can see his discomfort, but maybe if I can make him see. Just make him realize, then maybe things will get better.
    “Why would you keep this from me? How could you? You’re a coward, a stupid cowa-”
    “I said get the f**k OUT!” The roar of his voice ended my own and I found him reaching across me to open my door, he shoved me lightly from the seat. His eyes avoided me as I snatched up my stuff.
    “I hate you.”
    I did see his eyes as he threw his vehicle into D, while pretending to miss my latest proclamation. I could see his tears. What have I done?
     He pretended whilst I lied. We both felt the burn. What have I set into motion?

    Today was the day, three years ago today.  I remember the call, the minutes afterward, and the moment it felt like I was drowning. It just wasn’t possible. Impossible.
    My insides felt thick, like my ribs were trying to pull through my skin, I remember hearing the words terrible, sorrow, guilt, and grief used to describe what I 'might be feeling'.
    I just felt… sad.  Any bigger of a word hurt too much. I couldn’t stand my own skin and I couldn’t find my breath. I was suffocating, slowly dying. It wasn’t until darkness overcame my vision that I realized I could breathe all along, I’d hyperventilated.

      Sam was committed to a hospital after running his truck into a bluff wall. He died two weeks later in a coma. Since then I’ve never set foot outside the walls of the institution my parents contacted to evaluate my mental health.

 

Author's Note

Okay, so. Explanation time. First off, this was completely done for fun. I just wanted a distraction for a little while, and this sprang from it. Secondly, it is completely fictional and the opinions of my characters MAY OR MAY NOT be my own- that is irrelevant.

Also, if you can't tell, Sam is the guy, and Theseis is the girl. The point of view is always Theseis', but the actual break in paragraphs when there's a blank line indicates that the reader is viewing her memory, against the present. It starts out in the present, then the past, then present, then past, and so forth.

Any other questions, just ask. I don't bite, for the most part.

Also, let it be known that I normally never write a piece like this. By 'piece like this' I simply mean a short story relying solely on emotional connections to the reader to give it actual substance. As it were, I've also edited out the tense-mixing I committed (my composition teacher would have my head on a lovely Shakespearean stake for that) and other grammatical errors. Cheers.

Reviews

[Owl]

I guess the best way to describe this piece is emotion. Pure, raw, dangerous emotion. It's pretty captivating, as you constantly switch from loving thoughts to fear, to anger, to extreme sadness. You antithesise (may need to check that spelling) extremely well, like here,

"How could he keep this from me?
Maybe I'm the selfish one."

It's love, hate, doubt, anger, all in one.

Also, the flashbacks and flashforwards are great.

[StoryTailor]

Ah, this was incredible! You showed me exactly what the main character was feeling, and pulled to feel it too. I love pieces that pull me in like that, and this one did a perfect job of doing so! I love this piece. Truly, I do. Great job!