Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #9

Last night I started thinking about words.

It wasn't intentional that it happened, but once I started, I couldn't stop. Lacy brought over a few friends, which was the main problem. Not with them, just with me being by them. It's hard to be here.

I think the other problem is living in Old FloCo. Have you ever been there? The apartments are beautiful, with hardwood floors running the length and an old brick fireplace and a big bay window. But if you've never been inside, it's L-shaped. Which is another problem.

I'll give you a proper idea of it, though. Once you tread over the threshold, you're in the living room. This leaks into the bedroom off to the right, but you have to go through that to get to the kitchen. And a group laughing in our living room will eventually spill into the kitchen and notice me in the bedroom.

And pity me.

So a couple of minutes before they were due over, Lacy gave me a warning.

"Hey, M. You want to hang out tonight? I've got a couple of friends coming over. It'll be fun," Lacy says, peering down at me as I lay spread-eagle on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

I can't say anything. They'll be over and grin and the air will heat up, and I'll curl up inside myself. And the hands of the clock will tick tick tick, thundering and pumping in my ears and their laughter will be overshadowed by the nothingness that hangs right behind me, ready to strangle me and the ceiling is falling down, taking up my whole vision and Lacy's eyes are consuming me and I can't. handle. it.

A blink and the ceiling is back where it should be. Lacy's eyes aren't so big. I shake my head.

She bites her lip. "Just let me know if you change your mind, okay?" She hesitates before retreating into the kitchen for cups or something and leaves me to my thoughts.

Does it hurt to twist your lip between your teeth like she did? I try it, biting until I taste copper. When I lick off the blood, my lower lip stings unpleasantly. Why did I have to worry my lips? They're already chapped, and already bleed on their own.

Why why why?

I bleed. I'm alive. I clench my fists as I repeat it. Alive alive alive. But my flesh is peeling away, and my nails are digging into my palms and all I can imagine is myself as a skeleton and the ceiling is reaching down again to smother me and the blankets are strangling me, winding around my legs and how am I alive alive alive?

A knock echoes through the room. The ceiling is back in place and Lacy's steps creak across the floor as she swings open our heavy front door.

I can't be here. Not with my mind suffocating me and ringing laughter and my mind consuming itself and a skeleton creeping after me.

It takes a minute to uncoil the sheets from my legs, to steady my feet, to stumble past the group at my front door. The floor tilts in front of me, but it's just my head. Just my head.

Down the hall and out the building, I burst free. The night air tugs at my hair, whispering in my ears, hugging my arms. Have you ever felt free? Have you ever felt the moon glimmer in your hair and eyes and the grass silvered in front of you and taking a breath and it pumps through your veins and knowing that out here the night is a comfort?

The chill seeps into my skin, and my eyes crush closed. If I concentrate, I can push back in time.

When I was in high school, my brother would come home from college, and we'd sit on our front stoop at dusk. Tyler'd light up these cheap cigars, and the night would fill up with their perfume, bathing the pair of us in it. Stars would glimmer down at us, smiling in the dark and throwing enough relief for us to see one another's silhouettes.

Usually we didn't even talk, just let the smoke blow through the blue-black, and the lightning bugs jump out and live. And that's what life is.

But I can't put myself back on the front step. I can't see his eyes catch starlight, or feel the warmth of a summer night on my cheek. And what was there isn't here, no matter what I tell myself.

Anyway, I started thinking about words out there. Here, I mean. The front steps of Old FloCo. Nothing makes sense any more.

Words and lies.

When I looked up to the sky, I thought there would be some truth there. Like a sliver of the moon and the darkness, except for the city lights drowning out the stars. Something that stretched before me and beyond me.

Drowning.

That word isn't right. How can you think of anything besides the stars being dragged down to the depths of the sea, until they're extinguished, burned out? It's not the truth. It's a lie, and not even one I considered, until I thought of the moon glaring down at me like a pale eye and the stars hiding their faces.

But is that what happened? I could not see the stars. I could see the moon. I thought of cherry smoke, from cheap cigars.

Fact. Truth.

Am I lying? If I tell you what Jay looks like, would it be the truth? If I say his eyes smile and his grin flashes white against his skin and he has a dimple that makes it a little crooked, is that real? Or his nose is arrow-straight, and his skin flushes darker when he's embarrassed... Is that true?

Or am I making you think it is? Or making myself think it's true?

And the moon. I could see it glowing in the sky. But was she glowing or blushing against her mantle of clouds? Or were the clouds scuttling across it, clawing at its light? Whatever word I choose seems like a lie.

Like the ceiling falling on me. It's not. Death isn't creeping in my mirror, looking like a skeleton.

The moon is there. I cannot see the stars. I am sitting on the front steps of the building.

Fact is truth. Nothing else is. Right?

No. There has to be truth in here. Jay has a dimple, and it makes his smile appear crooked. His eyes are dark, but they flash with mirth too.

That is the truth.