My Shot at Revenge

     He would dance around my thunder in elementary school, waiting for the moment I would cast lightning and become amazing. Like Percy Jackson, he stole my lightning, the moments of my prime, and held them greedily as his own. He took praise for his false accomplishments. For that — he had to pay.

    
     We shall call him Percy. During games of dodge ball, Percy and I were always on opposing sides, and always were the last two players. On occasion I’d throw a ball at him. It would bounce right before him, and he’d catch it, saying it never hit the court. I would be out. He would have a festival thrown.

     Other times, my balls would change trajectory, making 90 degree right and left angles off of his person, but to his knowledge, “it didn’t hit me!”

     Later down the road, he would attend my summer camp and steal my friends; pulling them close to him and pushing them away from me. Further down the timeline… Percy would be the first person to call me gay, only after making sure the entire middle school was within ear shot. For these things as well — he had to pay.

     It was a hot week in July, during the summer between 6^th and 7^th grade. All of the campers were busy in their group activities, making the best of the inclimate weather. Unfortunately, the earth was drenched with the previous night’s rain. The heat of the day soaked most of it up, making the air sticky and heavy. Most groups were playing in a rec hall or in the lake, either escaping the humidity or diving right in.

     Our bunch, boys aged between 11-14, was in the roofed outdoor gym and preparing for a game of dodge ball. It was ominous how the game began, both Percy and I as team captains. It was known amongst the campers and counselors that we were not the best of friends. To some it was known that we were mortal enemies. So in a sick and twisted effort to see two cocks fight, they set us up to wage war once and for all (or at least the closest thing to war a 13 year old New Englander could participate in).

      I chose my people wisely, comprising my team of staunch get a ball and stand at the back kids, nimble footed soccer players who could evade and collect ammo for me, and a few guys who were known to throw footballs the farthest and baseballs the fastest. Unfortunately, Percy had done the same, and we were easily matched. It was all left up to Percy and I. We were generals, and we needed battle plans.

     In chess, one must deal with the frivolous slaying of pawns before the action can begin. Same with dodge ball, and unsurprisingly those kids who were recruited last were out first. Only once balls were in the hands of those who knew what they were doing, did the game start to intensify.

* * *

     My ammo-men were dwindling in numbers, and one of my best throwers was already out. A few of Percy’s men were in the back, trying to maneuver a 3-at-once strike attack. Percy himself was on the front line (or just enough behind it so he wouldn’t be called out due to a line penalty). He was catching balls left and right, forming a correlation between x and y. As my players were shot down (x), his players would be given rise (y). It was brutal, and it had to end. Not in front of my benched teammates, my friends who gave me their all. Not in front of his team of misfits who smiled at my demise. And certainly not in front of Percy, who would love to have me be the last one standing so he could knock me down again. I was getting older. I was getting frustrated. I had to act… but I didn’t know how.

     Soon enough, my chance was presented. Rolling from behind me, ricocheted off of a back pillar, was a highly inflated, thick rubber kick ball. Its intricate grooves held small clumps of dirt and mud, and was covered in a wet slime after being hurtled into puddles outside of the coliseum-like, stilt-supported gym. I picked it up and brushed off a side so as to have a good, non-slip surface on which to grip.

     Percy was still at the front line, eyeing all of my players with a skillful, quarterback-like eye. He caught another ball from one of my ammo collectors… the guy’s job was not to throw, but to collect for throwers! I was down another player, but I would use it to my advantage. As my ammo-man walked across the width of the gym to sit down on the bench, I used him as cover from Percy’s sight. He was my invisibility helmet, a power granted by this fallen god for sure as he walked to the bench to sit where Hades and the other lost souls sat. I nudged closer and closer to the front line, moving with this ghost of an ammo-man. I would not let him die in vain!

     After he caught my ammo-man’s ball, Percy was too busy high-fiving his revived teammate to notice me. Added to deathly invisibility offered by my fallen teammate, it’s understandable that Percy was surprised to see me standing there before him, just 6 feet away. With my big red, highly inflated, drippy wet ball cocked and ready. His eyes registered the sight and shown through themselves the fear in Percy’s soul. Physically however, he could not react quickly enough to my actions; not even an attempt to bring the ball in his hands upwards to deflect my own.

     With a narrow sight (the spot between his beady little eyes), I thrust that kickball through open air, pushing aside atoms and loose particles, leaving a trail of singed oxygen in its wake. The kick ball, super-heated by its speed through time and space, instantly ate Percy’s face, to which it was teleported by this grand opening of opportunity. His arms shuttered and the ball he was holding dropped the slowest I’ve ever seen a falling object move. Percy’s body leapt into the air, torqued and bent, his head hitting the ground before his hips could, or his ball for that matter. Percy lay on his back, silent. Everyone was silent. There was a cough, and then a shriek, and then blood stained hands were thrown in the air, begging for help, shaking with incompetence and innocence.

     I have never enacted revenge in my life better than I did that day. The taste of revenge was sweet, although tasted by him. It came in the form of a bloody nose, and a crimson red postnasal drip.

The Slow-Motion of My Life

     I closed my laptop, put on a jacket, and looked at myself in the mirror for a few moments before I left. The mirror was a “cold shower”, only I used the remedy before I did something sinister, rather than after.

     It was night and pushing close to 12 when I left. My lane was darker than usual; not many people left their porch lights on, and so I relied on the glow of the stars to illuminate my path. When I got to the hill descending down to the highway, the trees blotted out the stars, and so I used the occasional passing car to light the way. I tried remembering the sidewalk ahead when it was revealed by headlights, seeing where the bumps and cracks were so as not to trip and look like an idiot in front of myself. I was surely judging myself that night.

     At the base of the hill, I crossed the street and made my way toward the ramp of highway. I had lived my whole life in this neighborhood, but it looked so bizarre at night, along with my screwy mindset. Turning right and up the incline, I felt scared, knowing that what I was doing; how I was walking, and where I was going, was an obvious red flag to any passerby. I continued up the ramp, my breath growing weaker and pace slowing. It wasn’t so much the physicality of walking up a slope, but the circumstance that I foresaw ahead of me that caused exhaustion.

     Once reaching the crest of the exit, now level with the highway that stretched ahead, my walking sped up a little. It made me think of nature vs. nurture, and due to that overanalyzation, the pace slowed and I grew weak again. It was this kind of constant thinking and rationalizing that was making me weak. Further I tread on however, pushing aside ideas that would heal my heart and mind. With each step, I pushed away the answers I really needed. If light showed, I overlooked it - for my pain existed for a reason…everything needed a reason back then.

     My reason for that night was… well I had to see what this whole suicide thing was about.

     When I got to the bridge that loomed over the Merrimack River, I had only walked a few hundred feet on the highway. It seemed however to be a length without an end, and I had been walking for an eternity. I was so relieved to be atop the bridge. It was my destination reached, and a prospective last home. And so I felt at home, like I had a reason, like I had business to do.

     So right on the center of the bridge I stood, swaying back and forth with every car that stirred past me. Some horns blew, but I disregarded them. It wasn’t any of their business. I watched them as they drove past however, seeing them as warning signs that came and went in the blink of an eye, much like the good thoughts that coalesced but for only a second in my mind before I ditched them for wallowing. Those good thoughts required action that was so much more difficult than resting in my little dark space, the room in my mind. In that room I could be as I wanted, and as said on The Rifleman, “a small room can be very big and very empty."I filled that space with memories that were tangible- almost. I loved to touch those thoughts, be close to them and feel comforted.

     That was the reason for suicide. My present life didn’t give me what I wanted, yet the ideas and thoughts in my head entertained me and loved me still. If what I was living for was only conceptual, then why not be in a place where I’d be free from the physical world and all of its challenges? If anything, ditching this planet would give me a 50/50 chance at a sanctuary. Either there’d be something, or there wouldn’t be. Life had become too difficult, and to risk my “life” for there to be asylum — well — it was a risk I was willing to take.

     Looking down at the waters below; swirling with flux and a nether-like appeal, it truly did seem like my portal to another world. The moon’s reflection in the water was the bull’s-eye, and hitting it would mean entering through the portal. It looked so nice.

     That was the only charm however.

     The sound of the current below, the water slamming against the pillars of the bridge, made this deafening roar. The vortex of wind created by the bridge’s hull added to the thunder. In fact, from all directions came drumfire. The traffic behind me was loud with the occasional horn. All together, the sound wasn’t normal. The world I had stepped into had neither rhyme nor reason, and that existence was not one I wanted to dive in headfirst.

     I made my way back down the highway and off the exit, bitter and sore. That night I found out I had to live in this world.

(A painting I had done around that time)

Saying What You Mean

(a couple days before my 19th birthday)
     Would you want to go for a walk?

     I asked it while giving everything away. He knew immediately what the walk would entail, and with hesitation, he said yes. To my happiness, he said yes.

     We headed in the direction of his old elementary school, a few hundred feet from his house. There were swing sets on its playground, ones he would sit on in desperate times to clear his head. On this trek towards the swing sets however, his head would not be cleared, but forced to accept new thoughts, or alterations to ones he held true.

     It had just rained, causing the amount of light to double, the streetlamps reflected in puddles. The night was cold, and both of us were shivering, adding even more trepidation to our voices. I tried starting off the conversation with light talk of a project I’d be working on once I returned home. He stopped me before I could say what class it was for.

     Why’d you come up here, Alex?

     I was ready for it. I had it all in my head, each sentence perfectly crafted to convey the truest of meaning. Once I was put on the spot though, they were all skewed, and I paused in attempt to get my groundings. Unfortunately, one of the last sentences came out first.

     I still love you.

     He knew it was coming. He knew I’d fuck up right away, and he was ready for it.

      Alex, you have to stop. You can’t keep driving to me, expecting everything to go back the way it was.

     “Oh, how silly of me to want love. My apologies,” I thought. That was my instant reaction to his negation. To speak it would be callow though, and would only make me look just as childish as my love for him. I wiped out any notion of going off on my practiced soliloquy, and started a new. With a breath taken only to prevent fainting, I shot out the prior nine months within 25 minutes.

     It was beautiful. I spoke of the depression, the thoughts of suicide, my foolish attempts to replace his love, and explained the motivation that kept me driving back to Minoa every chance I could get. I had already written all of this down in papers and journals, summarized it in a book, and had informed my entire network of friends and family over the time apart. It was such a thrill to finally tell Him himself. After I completed my rant, I expected only the most reasonable reaction from him. “Thank you, Alex, for loving me in that way. I love you too.”

     What I expect is not what happens however. He kicked me off the soapbox and stood tippy toed atop it in my place. He shot down every theatrical thought and action I had told him of with analytical rationale. He considered my thoughts of suicide as a form of weakness, even though he had been in the same place before. Everything he said though, with such conviction and concrete analysis, did not make sense. My words were truer, held more human value, and followed the mapping of love. His sounded like denial and negativity. I was life, bursting with hope. He was that night, cold and reflecting my light falsely.

     Every “no” and “stop” led me to feeling dead. Because of that, I felt that every step I took was meaningless, for I did not exist anymore. Walking actually seemed like a chore, painful to do even. If I did not exist, why would I choose to keep perceiving work if no work was actually being done? My walking slowed significantly. I was a shade, a ghost, a memory of his walking beside him, haunting him.

     I tried last feeble attempts to convince him he was wrong, for another chance at life together. Every shaking sentence spoke was denied with a squinted gaze. His eyes were freezing me, staring with an expression of disgust and a lack of respect. I felt small.

     I had to accept it though. He wasn’t the person I knew all that time ago. He was older and had more to say and less to think. I swallowed my pride and agreed to move on. Can you believe that? I drove six hours just to promise I would never do it again.

     Well we ended our walk on that note, as well as right in front of the swing sets by his house. I stopped and stared at them, and he asked me if I was coming with him. I told him I needed to sit down. I wasn’t going to use his medium of thinking however. Those swings were tainted with a sad history. I instead sat on a bench beside the swing sets. From there, I watched his figure in the distance disappear behind houses as he walked back home.

     I started immediately, the tears streaming on command. I sat and cried, wishing I was at home, wishing I was content with my life. It brought back a memory of being in my mother's arms, being able to cry shamelessly because I felt safe. The only difference was; I didn't have my mother and I didn't feel safe. I still cried shamelessly however. There was no need for shame. I had nothing to lose. I had nothing to give. I had nothing to love. I had nothing at all.

     I walked back to his house after a few minutes, not wanting to grovel in such a low state of life. I didn’t know what to do with myself there. That was his place to thrive, not mine, and I was not about to make swing sets in Minoa a lasting memory. It had no place within me, and neither did I in Minoa.

Here ya go

     I swear I’ve rewritten, reworded, retold, and recalled this story a thousand times, if not more. It’ the story of true love, of two people star-crossed and hell-bent on getting it right and staying together. With such distance between them, and in different stages of their respected lives, both living within the confines of their reluctant parents, so much was working against them.

The day they met was followed by the night that they fell in love. During that day, they relied on each other to evade capture from those who they agreed on were evil. And during that night, when they had escaped, they found exactly what they were looking for, someone who cared, and they found it so completely in one another.

In the following days and nights, after one had to depart and return home to Minoa, the other, who stayed behind in Manchester, dreamt of the love and life that had just revealed itself, and then vanished away just as quickly. Manchester had never felt such resonation in its soul, its being, its entirety, that the idea of losing that resounding emotion was to be the death of Manchester itself. Manchester knew it was something to pursue, something to live for, and so Manchester told its mother on the third day after that fateful night, “Minoa will be the one I’m going to marry. I know it.”

Meanwhile, Minoa had stayed strong and convicted that its choices on the fateful night were meant to be. Minoa knew of its morals, and contemplated only briefly that what it had done with Manchester may have been wrong. Minoa, after seeing that its previous lover was not what it seemed, was eager for Manchester to provide safety, and a love that Minoa would need.

And so, with the passing weeks, their hearts grew closer and closer, even with the physical space between remaining constant. They communicated any which way they could find. They joked and kid, exchanged thoughts and agreed, and on one or two occasions, persevered through the first arguments, which everyone fears they won’t survive.

With ample trust, they together planned for a time in which they would meet again, and a few weeks after the conception of Manchester & Minoa, they reunited when Manchester flew to Minoa.

Once Manchester and Minoa were together again, they’re hopes, dreams, and plans were made reality. They wanted to fall in love. They did fall in love.

Manchester discovered what Minoa had to offer, and it was beautiful to Manchester. Minoa was intelligent, active, and had the heart that was larger than a self-actualized Grinch. Minoa would smile, pierce Manchester’s soul with dazzling blue eyes, and touch Manchester’s hand with warmth and presence, the kind of presence that pushed itself unto another, saying without use of mouth, “I love you”.

Manchester was youth and naivety. Manchester was a bright soul; happy and beaming, filled with possibility. Minoa, being older, had seen so many not rise up to their potential, yet had faith in Manchester that it would continue on its journey, sticking to the path toward the future it talked so adamantly about. Minoa had faith that Manchester’s flame would stay vibrant, enough to illuminate Manchester’s way until the end, and maybe even help Minoa on its path.

Because of this, it was easy for both to fall in love almost instantly.

They purchased rings, and on the inside of Manchester’s was written Minoa. The inside of Minoa’s was written Manchester. That way when they were apart, they were reminded of where their hearts truly belong.

     Well, I don’t have the ring anymore, and quite some time, and quite some many events have grown between us, but I still feel my heart lies somewhere in Minoa. Oh, I’ve tried to get it back. I’ve driven over 2,000 miles since the breakup, and nothing has come of it. The driving up there was always easy; it was for love. It was to get him back. The driving home however was a different story, for I was going back to a place where love did not exist. In the absence of his love, there is no love at all.

Now I’ve tried to banish this concept. I’ve tried to erase my mind, expand it, write all over it, and having seen nothing I liked, I repeated the cycle over and over again until I had to stop and ask myself, “Who am I becoming?”

Well I didn’t like my answer, and neither would anyone else. All that one can do in a time like that is kill off the person they became, and start anew. For me, that meant moving back home, and since then I’ve been listening to a lot of Dave Matthews, and me and dad don’t get into fights anymore. They say I’m calm but filled with dreams. I think I’m getting back the Alex I once knew.