Crying
It was late, and the bustle of people outside was a dull, intermittent pattering. Sounds of dishes clanking together, TVs softly droning, and the occasional sound of a door being opened and closed. It was quiet.
In his room, he was doubled over in pain. He sat silently on his patent leather couch, his arms strung underneath his legs, his head in his lap. Occasionally, the faintest hit of a sob would escape from underneath the tangled mess of his jet black hair. Over his right shoulder, an off-white desk lamp hung solemnly from a faded bookcase, casting a long shadow across the deep-pile carpet. His feet were bare, and his toes curled and uncurled rhythmically, like a wave crashing on the shore, only to be carried back out to sea.
He was shaking. It was barely perceptible, and awkward. It seemed as though his frame was not used to escaping his control, not used to to showing weakness. In public, his shoulders were square and straight, but in the confines of his room, they slumped. It seemed as though his body was learning something new, like riding a bike, or sleeping in an airplane for the first time. The shaking was hesitant at first, even though he knew no was watching. His frame seemed to shrink in the light of the melancholy light of the lamp, though if one were in the room they would not share this perception - this macabre world spun in his head, and he was dizzy with it. He was confused. His fingers laced and unlaced like autumn leaves in an uneasy breeze, deciding whether to hang on for a moment longer, or to fall to ground.
Suddenly, he sat up straight as though someone had yelled his name. Quickly he reached for a turqoise bed pillow that lay on the couch beside him, and placed in his lap. With a start, he pressed his face into his pillow and screamed. And screamed. He wrung his hands that they turned as white as bone. He screamed until the pillow stunk with the smell of his breath, and soaked through with spittle. There were no tears - he could not cry, not yet. But that pillow heard all of his secrets, all of his pain, all of his frustration. He screamed until his throat was no longer able to produce sound, and then he rested his weary head in his hands. His shadowed no longer trembled in the pale light of the lamp - the shaking had subsided, and all was quiet. All was still.
Almost inaudibly, he whispered, "GOD, how can you be so good?"
In his room, he was doubled over in pain. He sat silently on his patent leather couch, his arms strung underneath his legs, his head in his lap. Occasionally, the faintest hit of a sob would escape from underneath the tangled mess of his jet black hair. Over his right shoulder, an off-white desk lamp hung solemnly from a faded bookcase, casting a long shadow across the deep-pile carpet. His feet were bare, and his toes curled and uncurled rhythmically, like a wave crashing on the shore, only to be carried back out to sea.
He was shaking. It was barely perceptible, and awkward. It seemed as though his frame was not used to escaping his control, not used to to showing weakness. In public, his shoulders were square and straight, but in the confines of his room, they slumped. It seemed as though his body was learning something new, like riding a bike, or sleeping in an airplane for the first time. The shaking was hesitant at first, even though he knew no was watching. His frame seemed to shrink in the light of the melancholy light of the lamp, though if one were in the room they would not share this perception - this macabre world spun in his head, and he was dizzy with it. He was confused. His fingers laced and unlaced like autumn leaves in an uneasy breeze, deciding whether to hang on for a moment longer, or to fall to ground.
Suddenly, he sat up straight as though someone had yelled his name. Quickly he reached for a turqoise bed pillow that lay on the couch beside him, and placed in his lap. With a start, he pressed his face into his pillow and screamed. And screamed. He wrung his hands that they turned as white as bone. He screamed until the pillow stunk with the smell of his breath, and soaked through with spittle. There were no tears - he could not cry, not yet. But that pillow heard all of his secrets, all of his pain, all of his frustration. He screamed until his throat was no longer able to produce sound, and then he rested his weary head in his hands. His shadowed no longer trembled in the pale light of the lamp - the shaking had subsided, and all was quiet. All was still.
Almost inaudibly, he whispered, "GOD, how can you be so good?"
posted by Max Critchfield | 10:46 PM
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