Thoughts of a Thinker

Chapter three

"You know I understand, right?" he says barely a whisper. We lay side by side, planted in the snow, indifferent to the temperature. The boy beside me, who I learned was called Vincent turns his head slightly towards me. Our eyes meet and without words, he speaks comfort and wisdom.

"I believe you, I just don't know why." I respond. "What happened to you?" I add. To most people this might sound strange, but when you're in a permanent state of hurt, it makes sense.

He holds his gaze before he lets his words get lost in the crisp winter air. "You want to know?" The atmosphere is no longer lighthearted. His eyes peer at me and I feel  translucent.

"If you want to tell." I smile slightly, and he forces one back. We lay in prolonged silence for a few more moments while he prepares to talk and I to listen. Each second drawn out, intrigues me more.

"You see, when I was younger, at night," He pauses before blowing out a breath and continuing. "My mom, she would scream so loud and I never knew why. All I knew was run into her room and hug her. She would say things about people going after her and poisoning her food. I know she lived a different life, but I never loved her less because of it." He reaches for my hand before grasping it in his. "There came a day where I just accepted all that it was." He spoke tragedy, but his eyes said normality.

How can one human be so steady during life shattering chaos. "How did you accept it all so easily?" I say encouraging him to express himself.

He contemplates his answer before speaking slowly. "It wasn't so easy, it was never easy. She yelled, and I cried; it happened way too many times. One day things were backwards. I resented her for how she was. My childhood was lost due to her own turmoil." He watched me closely for my reaction.

It hurts to know how other people view the terror I collide with frequently. I am unsure if my pain is expressed through my features, but he continues. "Forced to grow old at such an early stage of life is how I felt. One day I decided I had enough. Then she was crying, and I was the one yelling. Never in my life have I been so ruthless," he says on the verge of tears. Seeing someone so vulnerable, you barely know, is a strange sight. Over such a short span of time I feel as if I have learned about Vincent's darkest moments. I don't judge his words, I just listen.

Although he is nearing a mental breakdown, his era emits calmness and strength. His eyes are void of any feeling, yet they still gloss over with tears. He doesn't attempt to justify his actions. He only tells me them as if he were reading a factual paper. "We never talked about what happened that day. It's like we had an unspoken agreement. She forgave my angry outburst while I lived with her illness. It never seemed fair to me. Schizophrenia wasn't her fault. I have always felt as if I should do more." As he says this, the first full tear leaves his eye. Soon after the droplets turn into a rainstorm.

I wipe a tear and he flinches against the cold of my hand. "How do you react to her now? Do you still hug her every night? Does it calm her down?" I question. "Sorry for asking so many questions. You really don't have to answer," I say quickly afterwards. Listening to myself speak makes me feel like a nuisance.

His tears slow down and now his eyes are both void and tearless. For some reason I feel obligated to fill them with life. However, I feel useless, especially in a situation beyond myself. Incapable of fueling my own luminosity; how can I brighten such a dim light when it doesn't belong to me?

"No, no, I'm an open book. I'll answer all the questions in the world if it means laying here with you seconds longer." He flashes a cheesy smile and I can't help but throw one back. "Anyways, I don't hug her at all anymore, mostly because I never see her. Not since I was fifteen anyway. It did calm her down though. She would hold me like I was still a baby and I was all for it," he says solemnly. I feel as if he dreads the content of my next question, but I ask anyways. I have no boundaries; one of my biggest downfalls.

"What happe-" before I finish my sentence he has already answered.

"She's dead. She killed herself when I was fifteen." Why does he look so unaffected? How can you just blurt something about your dead mother like that? Maybe numbing himself to the world is the only way he can carry on.

I decide to ask one last question. "What was her name?" I say softly.

He stares for a moment before realization hits him. It's as if two puzzle pieces finally fit. "Her name was Serena, Serena Mai Fellons." I barely hear his words.

Then he begins to cry again.

Turning onto my side, I hug him in the snow as he had hours ago. Words of advice in such a dark place are a mere irritation. Close proximity and love, chase demons better then word ever could.