Phase Four
I stand on the shore of a placid lake. The mist coming down from the mountains shrouds my surroundings; but it also hides me from anyone that would disturb my soliloquy. The fog obscures what lies on the other side of the water but I hear a familiar voice singing the song she used to sing; the melody wrapping around me like chains to pull me beneath the water. I run my hands through my hair and then my gaze lingers over them. I look down at my palms. They look old, creased with lines. I wonder which line is supposed to signify how long I’ll live. My body hurts but I don’t feel old. I move my hands and look down at the water and see my reflection. The ripples on the water momentarily distort the image reminding me of the mirror I punched years ago. The way the glass spider-webbed and suddenly there were many more of me looking back. I didn't look old then. I don’t look old now... not yet… I try to see beneath the surface but can't. The water is too dark. So I look into my eyes. I try to see beneath the surface but can't. I search my face instead for answers. I see the place where the scar lives beneath my beard. The scar that I keep covered up because I hate that which it reminds me of. Vulnerability.
I do not remember the impact… just everything slowing down. I had always heard about tunnel vision but never really experienced it. In the blackness around the edges of my vision I see the stars you hear people describe when they’re knocked silly and it reminded me of the glitter a different girl used to wear and I remember that when I was in her arms I felt totally helpless, just like then. When my eyes came back into focus I could see the look of shock and horror on someone’s face and it snapped me back to reality and… I asked for help. I remember looking down at my hands like I was a moment ago and seeing the blood pooling into them. I remember feeling like if I just focused on one thing it would go away so I turned around and began checking ID's again. I don’t remember feeling anything else. I remember thinking that what was going on was outside of my control. I remember feeling terribly vulnerable and in that brief moment other memories came. My shirt had been pulled over my eyes. I couldn’t see. I picked up one of the men and then something hard hit me in the back and I went down. I remember the two of them kicking and stomping on me. Laying there, trying to cover up, wondering if they were going to stop. I remember the fear of getting that letter or phone call saying that my brother has been killed and knowing that he’s going back. I remember A lady firing a gun, the bullets hitting the ground around me, kicking up dirt. Wondering if I had already been shot. I remember staying up all night and watching the one I loved because she had drank too much and I feared she would stop breathing. Helplessness. And when I look into the water it all came back.
Then I realized that I had seen that look on other people’s faces. I realized that I have inflicted pain upon others and made them feel the same helplessness and vulnerability. I wonder if I will pay for it throughout eternity. I remember the fear in their eyes. And I remember that look in my mother’s eyes, which are so like my own. The look of hatred being replaced by a look of fear… like I was a monster. And every time I look into a mirror I see those eyes, her eyes, staring back at me. And when I looked into the water it all came back.
I feel the old anger begin to rise within me so I push it down with more whiskey; the bottle half empty of joy, half full of regret. I set it down beside me and scoop up two handfuls of sand. I try to hold onto it but it slips through my fingers. Is it representative of good, as if I’m letting my worries go; or ill as if I’m letting all the great things in my life slip through my fingers?
What do I do about the anger? Do I give in and let it out or do I fight it? For the time being I don’t know. I know what The Code says but is it practical in today’s society? So I put the bottle back to my lips and take a long draught. Is the jewelry I wear and the ink beneath my skin enough to remind of who I really am? Do I even know who I really am? So I put the bottle back to my lips and walk back to the clover field.
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