Alternative

January 1, 2009 at 11:09PM

I slipped on the ice walking home tonight from a game of poker with Alex. I didn't hit my head, but it felt like whiplash.

I walk the rest of the way home in a daze. I keep thinking about what the whiplash did to my brain. I wonder if it affected my short-term memory. Even slightly. Or if my reading comprehension has declined as a result. I'm not that smart to begin with; I can't really afford any more damage.

But it happened. I slipped on some ice on the way home from a dumb poker game. I wasn't paying attention (because I wasn't that smart to begin with) and it happened.

It happened. It happened. It happened.

I feel tingling in my hands and feet. I want to break something.

I stumble through the front door, tripping on Mom's boots.

Beth is at her dad's place for the night, which is a blessing. I'm not capable of playing the nice, sympathetic boyfriend right now.

I shudder when I notice the kitchen light: that means Mom is up and I'll have to talk to her.

"Hey, where are you coming from? It's late," she calls out.

"Nowhere, was just with Alex."

"Why haven't I met him?"

I walk into the kitchen and pour myself a glass of water.

"I don't know. You've met Beth, you guys are practically best friends; isn't that good enough?"

"Tim, it's good to look at people when you talk to them."

"Okay."

I lift my eyes and force myself to look at her while I gulp down my water.

"Beth's noticed it too, you don't always look her in the eye. And with what she's going through—"

"I don't need you to fucking explain to me what she's going through."

I hadn't meant to swear or raise my voice but that's how it came out.

Mom's eyes suddenly fill with rage.

"What did you just say to me?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry."

"Do you have any idea what it feels like to have a son who doesn't care about anyone but himself?

"Must feel great—"

"Even though all you do is think about him, slave at work to provide a house for him, a future for him?"

"You think I don't care about Beth?"

"No, I didn't say that... but you ignore me so often, treat me as if I don't exist, and I've sensed that you've been somewhat cold to her recently, too— '

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"What's going on with you?"

"What does it matter? Why would you care?"

"What are you talking about?"

I suddenly feel woozy and have to sit down.

"What happened? she asks.

"I slipped on ice on the way home. Screwed up my brain again, just sealing my fate as a total fuck-up."

She softens at this, "Tim, you're okay..."

"Okay... sure. I'm golden. Never mind. Just goofing around."

I can't continue talking to her. I have to be alone.

"I need to go to sleep. I'm sorry for swearing, for raising my voice."

"Let's just forget about it. Get some sleep," she says.

I hurry upstairs to my room and shut off all the lights.

I can barely breathe. I want to be as far away from the reality of my house, from the reality of my life, as I can. Everything is sour and wrong and poisoned.

All I want to do is hide. Disappear.