Life,+Death+and+Somewhere+in+Between

This is UNFINISHED I need to get home because I need to get the notebook because there's something in it that I needed to see before I finished. So this is just part of my essay. Will finish later. At first it was just numbness. A kind of isolated stillness like a thick glass pane, I could see what was happening but the images and words around me meant nothing as I hardly registered them. Emotions gradually eased their way in, fear and a strange sense of loss, though I hadn’t lost anything. In retrospect the loss was more a symptom of the shattering of a childish illusion; I learned that sometimes you cannot save people no matter how hard you want too. All this started with a phone call; a quick conversation in which I was given frightening, awful news. The time that follows that talk has blurred into barely memorable pieces probably more self created fiction that truth. But I have reflected on that first conversation so many times that it comes back clear, years later the exact words are probably close to identical to the original ones. I also remember the temporary relief I felt when I saw him after I had learned what happened. And how that relief was soon overwhelmed by pure rage. I watched a small smirk come upon his face; sarcastic, bitter, almost amused. We sat in unbroken silence, not an uncomfortable one, but rather one simply stuck in a moment in which words would seem superfluous. All the words that I wanted to scream at him vanished and I was suddenly unsure what to say. I stared at him consumed by my own thoughts. I shifted back and forth between the urge to wrap my arms around him and burst to tears and the urge to smack him in his stupid face. His smirk grew bigger as he watched me caught in an internal debate seeming to display that he did understand my conflicting emotions. Rage won. “What the fuck?” I felt no other way to express it, my inability to comprehend why. There was a long pause and he appeared to be studying my expression, evaluating my mood. “You don’t understand.” His words teetered on the edge both harsh and hateful and a scared pleading. “No I don’t.” My words conveyed the anger at him and frustration at my lack of insight into his actions. “You want to.” It wasn’t a question. “I really don’t care what you do Jay.” The smirk reappeared but his eyes had softened, calm and dreamlike. Slowly the rest of his face displayed the same serene tone. “Yes you do.” He hesitated, “They think I did this because of the drugs or my parents or some other shit like that.” “What do you want Jay, pity? You did this to yourself.” I waited then, “Why?” I needed to know and that became more important than my own anger. I examined his face allowing him time for his response. That was one of the things I loved about him, his emotions seemed to take a solid form on his face, so raw and open. Watching his expression I always experienced a more revealing insight into his character than words or actions could ever bring me about anyone else. “You know what’s funny is everyone thinks I’m this person and they don’t know shit about me actually. My entire life became so fucked up and no one even realized any of it, but they still think they’re my friends. I just needed something. A constant in my life and its just drugs became this way to escape my own goddamn life. Yeah I realize what a cheap fucking rationalization that sounds like. Looks I can’t explain this okay? Here.” He handed me a dark blue notebook that I recognized as the one he was always carrying. I also saw the bandages on his wrists. I felt like vomiting. “You had to get to get a bunch of blood transfusions. That quite some dedication Jay.” That was my parting remark to him. Later I examined the notebook looking at the places where he had carved his football number and his initials.