Context

Penelope looks back at the stories Alex used to tell her.

After we had sent Simon off to the hospital and started walking home Alex confided in me. He told me a story, a story he had never told anyone before. He said it was the soul reason he hated hospitals but mainly, doctors. He said this is the reason he didn't want to send his best friend to that place, why he knew for a fact that they didn't understand what it was like to be the patient, to have a stranger listen to something they couldn't tell their own friend not even their own family. I would like to tell you the story, once as him at that moment and the second time as what I know now a full year later. You might think there’s no difference but its about the detail. Everything changes with time. People change, people learn to trust, to love. And as we waited for the light to say we could walk he stuttered out a few words.

When Alex was nine he was a very energetic kid. He liked to play on the stairs and catch bugs in the backyard. One day he fell down the stairs and so his mom took him to the hospital, he had said it hurt only when he moved; like a big rock was knocking into his wrist. As they drove his mother complained, “You should be more careful!”

“You shouldn’t be playing on the stairs.”

“Sorry,” was all he could mutter for he was a stubborn kid, and still was to this day. His mother walked him into the doctors office where the doctor asked him a few questions as his mother stood by.

“Did anyone push you?” The doctor asked as he looked down at his clipboard. Alex told me, that at the time, the question confused him. Why would anyone push him down the stairs? So he shook his head. The doctor marked this on his clipboard, still looking down. He left with a cast on his arm which Annie doodled on later. He said the doctor only cared about the questions, never the context or the facial expression. He didn’t care that he was hurt, he told me.

As we continued to walk I thought about it for maybe a few seconds. It still didn’t come across what he meant. What context? How could there be context if nothing happened besides him falling? I was missing the context and you must be too; so let me fill in the blanks he left.

On that day, when he fell down the stairs, he had broken a bottle. The bottle was filled with vodka that had not yet been opened by his father. His mom was not the one who took him to the hospital, it was his dad. His dad had asked him, “Why did you break the bottle?”

“You stupid little child, what am I going to do now.”

“Sorry,” was all he could say because he knew if he muttered anything else there would be consequences. With a firm hand on his shoulder he had taken Alex to the doctor’s, the doctor was a former friend of his father and went through routine questions.

“Did someone push you?” The doctor asked and the same thought crossed Alex’s mind, but in a different way. Why would anyone push him down the stairs? His father squeezed his shoulder, Alex was looking down like the doctor and when he would look up it was at his father for the answer he wanted Alex to give. Alex shook his head. The doctor if he would have looked, and was not clouded by his past relations, would have seen a black eye, a bruised upper arm, and a slight limp. No one had thought to pull him aside and ask if he was okay. No one cared enough to look but when he got home and Annie doodled on his arm he knew only one person understood, and what people could understand him.

Alex never told me his father beat him, I got the context because I paid attention to the signs. Alex always flinched when he heard something break or heard the door slam in the slightest. He would squeeze my hand when he wasn’t sure if I would react kindly to his words. How, at all times, he would put a lid on his anger even when I annoyed him. Alex only felt comfortable when his father was away but when he was home Alex would either spend his time away from home as much as possible or never spend a second away. He was often paranoid that if he came in or left the house his father would be waiting for him or hurt someone else. When his father had come home that winter when we were still dating Alex wouldn’t let me come over unless his dad was out for whatever reason. One day when I was over, Alex’s dad had come home early, on instinct Alex hid me in the closet. And I watched through the lined holes of the closet door as Alex scrambled to put away his camera, but was caught mid shove into the drawer by his father. Alex had wasted his time to save his prized camera by hiding me first. His father had thrown the camera to the ground and broken it, he kicked it then so it became unfixable. Alex stood silently, standing up straight like a plastic soldier stuck in salute, his eyes on the ground.

“Don’t ever bring that crap into my house again.”

“Sorry.”

“F*****g pansy.” Alex’s father had then left, grabbed his forgotten glasses and went back to whereever he had been. As soon as the door closed I had rushed out of the closet and started to pick up the pieces. Alex had simply stood, frozen, looking down at his broken camera, his memories, his dreams. That was the first time I saw Alex cry, though he had been collected enough to hide it from me by putting a shaking hand to his face.

“Can you still get the footage from it?”

“What’s the point?” His voice cracked under his mixed facial expressions, “You see any pictures here? He always finds them, he always ruins them.”

“Our memories were on there Alex.” I had told him as I picked up the broken glass of the lens.

“Sorry.” He said as I looked at his shaking hands. I couldn’t tear my eyes from his hands, I remember I put the pieces of the camera on his bed and I took his hands and held them in my own.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t get it sooner.”  I hugged him and he squeezed me back. We can never really understand people unless we get close to them, until we listen to the little utterances, until we actually care about the little tidbits and hang on to every word someone says. It’s all about context. It’s all about being able to hold someones hand and have them know you understand. That’s what Alex thought a doctor could never give his best friend. The shoulder Simon needed when his little sister had died of cancer. I remember him actually getting angry at me for calling 911 on that day, that day our friend Simon had tried to put a gun to his head. He thought I didn’t get it. The context, why Simon needed us to be there. But to me, a professional is what he needed because we didn’t know what we were doing. We were kids, the line between life and death was twisted by hormones and while Alex saw his way as more logical I thought otherwise. And now I have to ask myself a question, why would someone push their friends away? Why had Alex broken my heart that day when I hung on his every word, when I thought he got the context of my life; when I thought I got his in return. Was I missing something? Was I not filling in a blank? Or was I blinded by lies as I was that day we crossed the street.

Author's Note

if you want to know more about the characters read "I'm Sorry" and look for other short stories coming soon.

Reviews

[RAOrourke]

As usual your writing is always wonderful to read. The pace is something that always carries me through your writing with ease and the beautiful words you write paint pictures in my head as I feel the emotion of Alex and his abuse. Well done!