Lines

It's In My Room

It's in my room, some sort of lurking dread or mischievous death. It knows of me, and I know of it, but it is futile to reject fate's hand. I am going to die, sundered and ripped apart, and perhaps it will continue onward to another. Perhaps it ends with me.

I remember the first time I rode a bike. My mother, previously cold and mathematical, showed me very little in terms of exuberance prior. Then once I rode down the block for the first time with my dad behind, I heard her voice. Loud, cresting the horizon, excited. I did not know she could achieve any of those things. She screamed my name and jumped in place while watching me. I turned to see her over my shoulder. In doing so, I fell from my bike for the first time too.

Dad helped me get back on, but when I looked back to see her, she was gone. Either she lost interest or did not want to see me get hurt. I hope for the latter.

It's under the covers now. I feel its presence, like cold feet pressed against your thighs from a lover when you're just on the cusp of dreams. Only it has yet to touch me, I simply feel daggers that plunge into my spine and into my mind in apprehension.

I became quite good at riding the bike. You could say I perpetually chased that voice from my mother. Such joy, such resounding acknowledgement of me. I don't know why it made her so happy, but I kept pursuing it all the same. Now I was riding on one wheel, bounding over hills and between gaps. I stopped wearing a helmet, believing I had graduated from such childish artifacts. As my body got bigger, I got better at riding too. Faster, more agile, I could ride for much longer too. Both because my legs could keep pedaling, and because my parents wouldn't mind as much. Well, my dad wouldn't. Mom worked late at night, I only saw her briefly after school and on weekends. She always had this look in her eye, I didn't know what she did specifically but I knew she worked in a lab somewhere off the coast. It made her smell of ammonia.

My eyes opened to the darkness of the room. It took a moment for my brain to click in, I should have seen my hallway light that I left on for the cat. But I couldn't. Inertial thoughts initially gave me what would have been the answer any other day; the light went out. Today, I knew it was because it was in my bed and now blocking my view of the doorway with its frame. It's a large, hulking thing. But it has such a quiet nimbleness, I didn't feel it slither under the covers beyond the faintest of a shuddering shift of the mattress.

I popped a wheelie once in front of my dad, at first he exclaimed with notes of being impressed. But then the paternal instinct kicked in and he asked me to never do that again. He was a soft, simple man. I think that's why my mom loved him so much. She didn't have to worry about him impersonating spontaneity, or bizarre affectations of love. She knew what he was about and what to expect. Everyone in his life could feel similar predictability. His only claim to volatility was in his music; dark, obscene noise. It was quite amusing to see him, large glasses, tiny frame, impossibly silly and short haircut. Like a caricature of an office dweeb in a film. Then he turns on his car, and out blasts wretched, guttural wailing. He was beautiful in a lot of ways. Both mom and dad were.

It has now descended close enough upon me that I can smell its saliva as it desires the flesh before it. I would shift, turn, try to get up, maybe even run away. But I've been lying to you by omission. You see, it is moving impossibly fast. It is moving so fast, a normal mind would not be able to witness the fine details of its locomotion. But because I am dead in a matter of moments, I am trapped against fate's pendulum. Each tick of the clock lasts a lifetime.

The day dad died was the second day I saw my mother express emotion. She was distraught, but carried herself as she always did. To anyone else, she'd look concerned or slightly distressed. If you saw her on the street, you might wonder if she left the oven on. Or if she remembered to take her multivitamin. But here, she was looking down at her love. His face stoic, locked now as though he were taking a quiet nap on a listless Summer's day. And instead he lays against the padding that will enclose his eternity. And my mother gazes upon what once housed her heart, and I see the love she felt for him pour out of her. The tears she cannot cry. The words she could not say. And in that moment I feel such pity for her. I cited this moment to her later, she gave me a moment of candid consideration for it. She explained that she was born silent, her parents were awful and her upbringing stripped her of emotional faculties. She did not mean to be so callous, but she could not wrap around any other way of being. And that she was sorry for any distress it might cause me.

She apologized for her trauma. Fearing it might traumatize me.

Its claws now penetrate my torso. The daggers from before hath come real. I feel the shuddering keratin as it sinks through. Its strength is overwhelming. The pain is immense. I start to see it now too, its so close. Black trails of ink that must be fur of some kind. Gangling, illogical arms. Fangs that would sooner bite through trees than gnash bones. And strangely, hauntingly beautiful eyes. Pale blue. I didn't realize how close it was until I saw those shimmering gems out of the darkness.

The last time I saw my mother express herself was when I won my first race. I was nearing adulthood, I had practiced for months because I knew I could do this. The finish line is burned in my memory, the seconds after I crossed it are locked in too. I crossed, put my arms up, and felt a huge pressure turned pain right after. The second place rider, jaded at my success over him, slammed into me. I was knocked into the barrier and lost consciousness. Had I held onto my handlebars, I may have been killed against my own bike. My desire to show the world my body's acknowledgement of victory saved me, and allowed me to be thrown from the wreckage. Second place, Jonathan was his name, wasn't so lucky. He was tangled up in a web of machine. Our hobby had engulfed him now, and his skin sloughed from his legs as he tried to pull free. He went into shock, and died on the way to the hospital. My mother stroked my hair as I came to, I saw her face. Like the funeral, she had a gentle discernment to her. And I knew that meant she was terrified. Had she not been there, I would have heard Jonathan's screams as the first sensation of consciousness. But instead, I felt her touch. I felt so comfortable, like a kid falling asleep in the backseat, listening to the quiet discussion of their parents after a movie.

These moments I never wanted to end.

There is such a beauty to a life's collection of moments. Even this one, gazing into sapphires that hold no regard for me beyond the meat on my limbs. Without the time to meditate on my life, I'd simply have horror and then swift, unyielding death. Instead, I was afforded the chance to reminisce. I was able to enjoy those beautiful, surreal moments.

If only I had more time to make many more, but alas life is not as beautiful should it last forever. Or at least, that's what I'd like to-