The Quiet Man

Idiot

The water is too hot: that burning ache in my hands each time I reach in to grab a fork is a distraction. Pain: a reminder that I’m not asleep. I’m not dreaming. I’m not making this up. Am I? No. I’m not. This is how things work with you: lies and pain and you with no concept of what you’ve done. What you’ve done to me. Dishes need washing: I wash them, because that’s what I do. It’s normal, like I am. A normal man, a normal human being, reacting the way any human being would.

But you don’t see that. Because you have no idea what normal actually is. You just see pathology and weakness, you see frivolity and stupidity in me. I know, I know. One slippery clean plate: I leave it in the rack to dry. Plunge my hands in again to get another: it’s a hot, tingling sensation. Water and soap, unrelenting stainless steel. It’s too hot. Get out of there. Pain is a warning sign: the water’s too hot, it will burn my skin, I need to get out. Danger.

You can’t do things like that, Sherlock. You can’t do things like that and expect me to not be angry. What, you waltz back into my life and I’m supposed to accept it? Like this is okay?

What the fuck is wrong with you?

Both of you. Jesus. What kind of a bastard does something like that? Only a Holmes. No wonder neither of you had any friends. If this is how you treat people who love you. Lies and deceptions and fucking blood all over the pavement. For Christ’s sake, what is wrong with you both?

What did your parents do to you to make you so cold-blooded? I’m an idiot. It’s biological, I’m sure. Relentless. You’re wired all wrong. I fell for it. I never thought you’d do something like this to me.

You’re standing by the window again, peering out. Like you’re waiting for something. You’ve forgotten that I’m even here. Or you’re just avoiding looking at me. Could you possibly be showing a bit of shame? No. Of course not, no. Not you. Shame is for the weak, the sentimental, the romantic, isn’t that right, Sherlock. Sure. That’s me, that’s how you think of me. That’s how you always thought of me.

Well, I don’t care. I’m a human being, it’s normal to have feelings about the suicide of your best friend. You understand that, don’t you? It’s normal. What you did to me is not normal. You don’t fake a suicide in front of someone who loves you. Jesus Christ. Right in front of me, too. Right in front of my eyes. All that blood. You have no sense of it, do you. Of what that would feel like. Was that really necessary? Such a fucking production. All for me, all to hurt me. Cruel. Cruel and cold-blooded. Jesus.

And you thought I was all right?

“Idiot.”

What? Who?

Me? Me. Of course. Me. An idiot. Always.

You’re staring at one of your phones again, one of your dozens of phones. Not everyone is as clever as you, you know.

Well, yes: of course you know that, you never stop thinking about it, do you. Measuring everyone else against your massive intellect; everyone comes up short. Especially me. No one is as clever as you. That’s my problem, that’s my fault. If only I’d just observe, as if it’s as easy as that, as if it’s just a choice not to see. I can’t, Sherlock. I can’t see the things you see. The world isn’t as simple for me as it is for you. You have nothing but contempt for the rest of us, don’t you. Normal people with normal emotions. It’s normal to love people, you know. It’s normal to love people who give your life meaning. It’s not vacuous sentiment, it’s not ridiculous. It’s not losing or failing or whatever it is you think about it. It’s a normal human capacity, I won’t be ashamed of it. Making room for a person in your life, in your heart. Compromise. Affection. Love. Don’t mock me. Stand at a distance and watch me fall apart, will you? Did you enjoy it? Did you find it amusing, watching me suffer? Did I stroke your ego, standing in front of what must have been an empty grave crying like a child and praying to god you’d not be dead? Is that what you wanted?