In the End

Exuding the Wound

He runs, and then he runs until he can feel his heart pulsing in his ears, and then he keeps on running.

Chucky may have said he was done running, but he is not. He will run, and run until he gives his last breath, and he runs now, in through the back door of his store and up the stairs and through his apartment door. He shuts it and locks it, and unlocks and locks it again, and runs into his bedroom, into his closet, and slams the sliding door behind him, every part of him trembling wildly and uncontrollably.

He slides down against it and runs his fingers into his hair, pulling at it. His hands, his body is shaking. Everything cannot seem to stay still, and nothing can seem to fall into the comfortable numbness he has known for years.

That's when he finally allows himself to cry. And cry he does, suddenly and violently, as if a hand had reached in and yanked all of his cries out through his throat, with no warning and without his consent. It does even matter that at any given moment, Chucky could walk in and find him this way. The dam has been broken, and nothing has the force to stop the rushing water now.

He can't remember the last time he'd just torn apart this way. He remembers crying when he was separated from his mother. He remembers being alone in new and dark and frightening foster homes and crying himself to sleep, but those memories are foggy in themselves, and he's unsure of when the last time was. Years, probably.

And it isn't so much that he had never allowed himself to cry; it simply would never come to pass. He would lie in wait, breathing harshly and on the edge of tears, only to never be relieved of the pressure that lie in the crooks of his throat and just behind the whites of his eyes.

But at last, the pressure is relieved. And it is a lot of pressure to let go of.

He isn't ashamed of it; in fact, he is proud of it. It's therapeutic. He is exhilarated and devastated all at once. To feel such intense pain is a miracle, and even as his heart breaks on the carpeted floor he feels himself truly breathing for the first time in a long time, heavy gasps in between sobs and stuttering cries. He can feel the numbness of his heart thawing out for the first time, and it prickles, and it hurts, but the warmth of feeling returning has never felt so welcoming, and he does not want to let it go, even though the process of it all hurts so much. He's falling apart and mending simultaneously, and to him, it is beautiful. A silent cry of at last, at last is ringing somewhere inside him.

He had not wanted it to happen this way, but he is just glad that it has happened, finally. Now that he is here, truly feeling for what feels like the first time, he does not care that it happened this way. He only cares for the tears that won't stop streaming down his face. He cares that finally he cares again, and that it feels so good to care.

He reaches for his phone, and he calls Kristen.

"I'm crying," he sobs into the phone, with no greeting or explanation, and she is reasonably alarmed. "I'm crying and I can't stop."

"Andy? Are you alright? Should I come over?" she asks, the panic evident in her voice. "What's happened?"

"I'm wonderful," he says, and he says everything he wants to say this time, and he holds nothing back. Every moment of his emergence into feeling again is described to her, and she listens, and she does not interrupt.

"I've never felt better. Please, come see me." He is surprised that he has the courage to say it, and that the courage remains for him to continue, "I think... I might need company."

It feels good to say it. He needs something. He needs someone. And it is okay to ask for it. Nothing went wrong when he asked for it. The world does not end; he is not gawked at or made a spectacle of. He is not seen as a burden or a nuisance, nor abandoned or told to leave.