NOTHING EVER CHANGES.A Story by jackiemet
Days always begin & end the same way. you get a clean slate every time dusk becomes dawn again, and at the end of the night, when everything has grown dark, you're left with a concrete slab full of desirable treasures & paraphernalia that wouldn't be missed if it were discarded. some people never choose to discard what they no longer desire though, in fear that one day it will become useful to them once again. in fear that it may be missed. in fear that they wouldn't be able to begin their next day if they weren't entirely sure of what became of that thing they so easily pushed into the metal can with the endless bottom of darkness. fearful of the darkness that no longer shines a light for them to see, but hopeful that one day it will illuminate again.
"There is always a slow burn in the throat that is forced to swallow the bullshit of everyday life" my father once grunted to me after hanging up his oblong cell phone that he still didn't understand how to use, leaning against the scuffed kitchen counter covered in coffee stains that even bleach couldn't remove. he always listened to his father, but he never actually heard him. he blanched at each word that rolled off of his father's slimy lips & into his head. how ironic it was that the very statement his father wanted him to bond with him over was the very reason he wanted absolutely nothing to do with his father at all. BULLSHIT. he felt a painful burn in his throat as he took in his father's words. if only his father knew that this was something he never needed to heed his advice on. he lived it every time his father opened his mouth to force letters to fornicate together & form words that were so full of the bullshit his father was so skilled at passing around to anyone who would listen. what happens when your dawn & clean slate is instantaneously polluted & damaged by others, instead of yourself? what happens when you never even had a chance to keep your slate clean, no matter how hard you tried? no matter how hard you scrubbed? no matter how quickly you moved to clean up the spills that others surrounding you created while laughing & pointing because they knew what you did not? you would never be able to clean up what they left behind. the power they had over staining what was supposed to be given to you without even a scuff, was damaged. ruined even. most lives are presented like a theater production. you will only see what they want you to when the velvety red curtains pull themselves away by golden braided ropes. behind those curtains that are so skillfully placed in front of your face when the production, the acting, and the script is over, is a whole other story entirely. it's like seeing your parent's going at one another when you're a child. confused & scared of what you're seeing, but unable to walk away, but you finally do in fear of being caught. you don't want to see what is behind those beautiful curtains, because there usually isn't anymore beauty once the show is over, & people fear what is no longer appealing to their eyes, minds, & hearts. nor do those behind the curtains want you to ever see them in their raw state, without all of their stage makeup & their lines that are fed to them. this is what life was like for him, every single day. a life in a theater that was crumbling slowly to the ground. a theater that nobody had any interest in trying to fix. nobody was even trying to patch it up to delay the inevitable collapse. there were fewer & fewer people who came to watch the show. there wasn't anymore sweet cotton candy or buttery popcorn. there wasn't even a show with a script that made sense. just a lot of ruthless words. a plethora of words that he could never decipher. a production that he no longer wanted to be a part of. he studied his mother & father like scientist studied animals in the wild. he watched them, everyday, like they were pornography that you could only find in the dark alleys of big cities, congested with sweaty old men who wore over sized glasses & women who looked like they had done too many drugs & had chosen only men who treated them like hard, defenseless punching bags. he hated them, despised them, & was disgusted with them. disgusted by them more than the gruesome porn. more than the fat sweaty old men. more than the battered women. more than anything. people wonder how you can ever hate something that is so beautiful. people are naive. people aren't able to look below what is in front of their face on the surface. people aren't able to fathom how ugly such beauty can be. he was invisible to the people who borne him. invisible in the house that sheltered him. invisible to the things that surrounded him. he was only visible to the words that penetrated through him. pierced him. swallowed him. he remembered the first time he heard the words, "f*****g b***h." he didn't understand what they meant, why they were said, or that they were "bad". he could only feel the hate they held when they were spewed from the mouth of his father & into the heart of his mother. these words made him feel as if he were drowning. slowly swallowing more & more water while urgently trying to make his way back to the top of what was surely his happiness. his life. his clean slate. he never got his clean slate. he never got the chance to spit all of the water back from his lungs onto the ground where it could be mopped up. he never was able to erase those words from his mind, & the feeling that overcame him as the words rang through his ears. he would never be able to get rid of the feeling of drowning. his dawn was the same as his darkness. everything was the same. eventually, the theater crumbled and the show was over. everyone left. there weren't anymore words to be spoken or scripts to be read. there was a room full of silence. the silence may have been worse than the sickening words. he didn't ever bother other's with what he felt. what he saw. what he thought. he didn't want to pollute someone's mind the way his had been so easily overtaken. he kept it all deep inside of him. everyday, sinking a little deeper into the ocean that now inhabited his being. he had stopped trying to kick his way back to the top. the cement blocks around his ankles had made it impossible to even see the surface of his ocean anymore. he went through life, with visions & thoughts he wished would finally escape him, but never did. he lived everyday with his dingy slate, his blackened white, his dirtied clean. finally, one day, he thought that he could see the surface of his ocean, finally. was he imagining it? did he want so badly to feel the water dripping from his body that he began to think that he was floating back from the bottom? he knew better. he knew that the facade of beauty holds a truth of ugly behind it. but, how could he deny this beauty? such beauty he saw in her eyes, in her heart even? maybe. he thought he felt her hand reaching inside of his ocean to help pull him free of the cinder blocks that so effortlessly pulled him towards the ocean floor. her beautiful hand. her beautiful face he could see through the reflection of the water. she tried, so hard, to pull him free. to help him breathe in the air & discard all the water that consumed his body. she tried to show him that beauty lives beyond the curtains, as long as you are willing to not buy a ticket to the show. no script. no acting. no stage makeup. no ticket. she told him that the would not be buying anymore tickets. they wouldn't be attending the show. they would never, ever, be a part of a show. he didn't know if he should believe her. he remembered all the times before that he heard his father make promises to his mother, & her wanting to badly to believe that she would take it in with an open hand. hopeful. maybe this time was different. just maybe. but he knew better. it was never different. he always wanted to scream at his mother. ask her what was the matter with her. why didn't she see it? but he couldn't speak with water in his mouth. he could never say anything to make it better. he knew this. things don't change. ever. but maybe, she was different. maybe she could bring him back to the sunshine. maybe they really would never start a show of their own. "maybe", he thought. every single day, he drifted higher & higher, closer & closer, to reaching the surface of his deep, deep ocean. things were different. she was different. he felt the ropes that held his weighted cinder blocks slowly loosing from around his ankles. he slowly enclosed his fingers around each of hers, as she tried with everything she had to pull him out of the water, once & for all. she could see him. she wanted him to speak to her. she wanted to help him. she wanted him. more than she ever wanted anything in her entire life. he knew she wasn't lying when she said they would never be in a production, & they hadn't been. he was about to know what land felt like again. he was going to know what it was like to have air in his lungs instead of water. he was about to feel what it was like to hear words that caressed him with warmth instead of consumed him with darkness. he was about to be able to speak again. he wondered if he was going to wake up with a clean slate, just as everyone else gets to. he wondered what it was going to be like to be completely free again. he slowly emerged from the water & for an instant he felt all the water drain from his body. he felt the air fill his lungs. he felt the sun penetrate his skin. he felt her lips against his & her hands in his hair. he felt her soft skin & her warm heart. & then he felt the words pass through his lips. through his wet, slimy lips. "f*****g b***h." she felt her throat burn. his hand slipped through hers as she let his go. he felt the ropes tighten around his ankles again. the weight of the blocks pulling him back down into the darkness of the ocean. her face slowly vanishing from the surface of the water. he knew then, it was true. he just didn't understand before. his slate could never be clean, because he could never escape what he was. he became the burning in her throat. nothing ever changes.
© 2014 jackiemetReviews
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