After work, Donovan came home, showered, pulled on a khaki shirt and
black drawstring pants, then immediately came to see me. His face was
breaking out again, which was a clear stress indicator to me. He didn’t look directly at me at first, but sank into his customary grey swivel chair and started talking. “I had this really freaky dream last night. There really wasn’t that much going on, I mean nothing really weird or absurd was happening, but I had a hole in my head.”
This startled me momentarily as I automatically envisioned the gaping,
ragged-edged hole that something like a shotgun might have left on him.
He continued, “It wasn’t a big hole and it wasn’t bleeding or anything...it was here, on the left side near the top. Like a gunshot wound. An old one. My hair covered it and I sort of encountered it by accident. The edges weren’t even, and it almost felt rough where my scalp had tried to heal over the edges of the skull. I think I could
have slipped my little finger right into it and I think it would have gone in pretty deep and encountered nothing, or maybe a softish, warm spot where something had grown over to protect my brain. But I think if I had done that, I think my finger might’ve gotten stuck for just a moment. The edges might’ve been brittle enough to break and ooze or
cause me pain, so I didn’t do it. I was talking to people and hanging out and I don’t really remember everything that was going on, but I kept reaching up sort of casually to feel along my scalp beneath my hair to see if the hole was still there, and it was. All night long in my dreams.”
The imagery was a bit unsettling. “What do you think it means?”
“I don’t know. I dreamed I woke up and felt along my head for the hole and it wasn’t there. Then I really did wake up and feel--just in case--and it wasn’t there. It kinda bothers me because I can’t quite figure it out. Am I missing something? Has something been removed from me? Is there a gap that needs to be filled or just remains empty? I have
these dreams every once in a great while were my hair will be falling out in clumps and if I reach up and touch my scalp, it’s all scabby with these crusty, barnacle-like eruptions that break off easily in little pieces and coat my fingers with sticky, gooey fluids.”
I knew I was making a face of revulsion, but I couldn’t help myself.
“And...what do you think that means?”
“I don’t know,” he said, examining his fingernails as if the drying remains of sticky fluids had built up beneath the edges. “Poisonous thoughts? Illness? I’m sick in the head?”
We spoke nothing. I sat there watching him as uneasily as he stared back at me. Finally, he cleared his throat and shrugged. I tried, “Maybe the dream last night was just revealing an old wound to you. Showing you it’s still open, even if it’s hidden, and still needs to heal or even be filled with something new.”
He sighed, squinting a little as he considered that. “Maybe. Some past trauma that took a part of me away. Only the ones involved know about it
‘cause it’s kept hidden, but it just won’t go away. It remains open, even if it doesn’t hurt or bleed...but, easily enough, it could open further and hurt me all over again.”
“Perhaps you should see someone. A professional who could examine it and
help you decide what needs to be done about it. What’s best for you.”
“She hurt me pretty bad,” he murmured almost too softly for me to catch.
I said gently, “What do you need me for if you can diagnose yourself, Donovan?”
“I can’t prescribe whatever it takes to make me heal. To help me heal...”
“Some things never completely heal,” I told him. “Some things leave scars and some things remain hidden, hurting again later on when something triggers it...and some things remain in the open for others to see and wonder about.”
“Some things fester and boil or evolve into new, worse conditions,” he told me.
“That’s so, Donovan. The best thing to do is go easy, relax some, try and stay positive, and just keep tabs on things until you’re pretty sure just how they’re going to go.”
“The hole should be patched or filled in...but I don’t know what with.”
“Can’t you just be extra careful with it?”
“It bothers me. I was surprised to find it, and now I can’t seem to leave it alone. I keep reaching for it, almost wanting to stick a finger deep inside just to see what’s really in there...but I might hurt myself worse if I do.”
“Then I wouldn’t explore it if I were you.”
“But I want to know what she was really thinking...what we were really doing...what we were heading towards.”
He was referring to Stephanie Stecchano, a girl he’d met some time ago
and fallen in love with against his better judgment. She’d ended their
platonic, though teasing relationship to placate her jealous husband. Donovan remained enamored of her, however, though he had no idea what she currently felt toward him. “Let it heal up on its own. Leave it alone or you might make things worse.”
“But it’s kind of exposed...I’m afraid something I don’t want might get caught in it or on an edge. How do I shower like this? Wash my hair? What do I do if it rains?”
I said, “Adapt to it. That’s what happens when you suffer an injury of
any kind. You must adapt to the change in your life for as long as necessary. I know you don’t know how to live your life the way you did before, but you’re gonna have to make some changes in what you do from day to day if you’re gonna let this thing heal.”
“And if it doesn’t heal?”
“Then you get it patched or filled in.”
“How do I know when to get that done?”
“Just wait,” I told him, a little exasperated. “That’s all you can do.
Maybe it won’t ever heal the way it was and you’ll just live a little differently for the rest of your life. Most other people probably won’t even notice. Just leave it be unless it seems to be causing you trouble or getting worse. That’s when you might need to seek professional help.”
“I want it filled back in and whole again...the way it was before.”
“That’s not possible,” I told him gently.
“How come the hole is in my head and not my heart?”
That was a very intriguing question. “I don’t know.”
“If I had a hole in my chest to my heart...then I could keep it covered
up and even put bandages over it. It wouldn’t be so difficult to deal with. It could be pinched shut and stitched together.”
“A hole in your heart might not kill you, but it would still force you to adjust to life differently.”
“A hole in my head...would need a metal plate or something to patch up my skull. They’d shave my head and then people would know for at least a little while that something had happened to me.”
“Do you want everyone to know what happened to you?”
He was quiet for some time. I could hear a small dog barking outside and
the ticking of a clock in the other room. “Bad things happen to people all the time...so I guess it really doesn’t matter. You get hurt and then you either hide it or let it be there for anyone to see. We all get hurt sometime and we each heal differently. Ultimately, it doesn’t make much difference what happens to any of us or how we deal with it because everybody’s mainly just interested in themselves. You see a guy in a wheelchair and maybe you ask him how he got there and then you think how bad that is, but then you’re glad it’s not you. That’s why so many people in the world can starve and be horribly abused and hardly anybody
does a thing about it because it’s not them. The people who could help you are just glad it’s not them. Sometimes they don’t even want to help you like they’re afraid they’ll get it, too. And they do get hurt sometimes, trying to help others. Do you know who makes the most donations to charities? People who can’t really afford it. We’ve been
there, so we all know how bad it is, and we don’t like knowing there are
others like us still struggling to get by. That’s why you see boxes to take your spare change at the dollar shops, but none at Saks or Macy’s. I give my change whenever I shop at the Goodwill. Nobody’s collecting for anyone needy at Victoria’s Secret. They want your money for the families of sick kids at Ronald McDonald’s, but they don’t pass around a
can with some kid’s picture taped to it at Tavern On The Green.”
“Stephanie’s never had her heart broken...”
He inhaled deeply and stared at me. “I don’t think so. Not really. She told me that Reynold was the first guy she ever kissed, ever fucked. She married him like I almost did Gloria.”
“That’s why it was so easy for her to tell you goodbye.”
“She has no idea how bad I hurt now...she remembers loneliness and
uncertainty, but she’s never been used and discarded like I have.”
“Reynold found out that you liked each other.”
Donovan said, “That’s what she said. I can only go by what she told me, and I don’t even know if it’s all true or not.”
“What did she tell you?”
“She told me he came across all these deleted emails to and from me on the computer and he wanted to know why we were communicating so much.”
“Did he read any of them?”
“That’s the weird thing. You’d think so, but I have no idea. If he had, he’d have seen dirty little messages passed back and forth between us, but he would have also seen us backing away from each other when we got too near the line we swore we’d never cross. He would have seen how she described him to me... Maybe he would have discussed things with her, tried to change things in their lives before things got too far.”
“Like what?”
“She said she wanted more sex. Said he crowded her, that he always needed to be the center of attention and couldn’t ever just let her do things on her own. She said he mistrusted her around other males and had even caused some problems for her with her art shows, getting jealous over nothing. The way she described him, he sounded really whiny and immature. She said he was like a baby when he got sick, always demanding
things and complaining all the time. He embarrassed her in public by never being happy with anything and demanding that things that were okay as they were needed to be improved just for him. He sounded terribly spoiled and cranky and insecure and like a control-freak. If things didn’t go his way, he’d go crazy with stress, so everyone tries to
tiptoe around him or avoid him completely. Some people I’ve talked to
who are friends of theirs have admitted they like her, but not him. They put up with him because they like her. She’s really awfully nice. She’s kind of shy and a little awkward, but she can perform when the spotlight’s on her. She likes to make people laugh. She might use humor as a form of self-defense like I do, for all I know.”
“Did you meet him?”
“Yeah. It was early on--before I realized I was starting to like her.
They got invited to a gallery opening and asked if I’d like to go along.
Donna never has any interest in stuff like that, so I was eager to try it. I asked if she wanted to go and she said no and didn’t care if I went since she’s always going out and leaving me alone. She thinks I should go out and party all the time like she does. So they came by the apartment to pick me up. I’d seen a picture of him on the Internet. Didn’t think much of it...that is, he didn’t really impress me much one way or the other. He does reviews and articles concerning the art scene, so he has connections, but I’ve since learned he’s not professional
enough to keep his personal feelings from interfering with what he does. If he doesn’t like you personally, you’ll get no review or a bad one. Doesn’t matter how much talent you have. Funny thing is, he thinks he’s such a great “journalist”, but I’ve read his stuff and it’s not very good writing at all. Kind of amateurish. I think he’s where he is because of Stephanie. If she wasn’t such a good artist, I doubt he’d be wasting his time writing at all.”
“You don’t have to attack the guy.”
He smiled. “I’m not the only person with a low opinion of the jerk...or his work, for that matter. A lot of people suck up to him because they think he’ll help them out. And he will. The best suck-ups get the best treatment of all!”
“I think you’re having too much fun at his expense. He won, Donovan. He gets to keep the girl who’s been trolling for men behind his back. Be grateful you didn’t hook up with her.”
He colored. “You don’t know that. She said I was the only person besides him she’d ever spoken to that way over the Internet with.”
“You believe everything she said because you fell in love with her.”
He didn’t like being put in his place. After a pause, he continued. “They arrived at the apartment that night and within minutes I knew we wouldn’t get along. Bad personality mix. He’s Type A, and I’m Type B. He was reserved, maybe because he was in an unfamiliar place, but he came across as disinterested. He mainly just wanted to get to the gallery on time. She drove. Oddly, he immediately chose the back seat before we left. I felt weird taking the passenger seat up front, but he did that every time I went anywhere with them. They had directions to where we were supposed to go, and the whole trip he’s in the back seat making
comments to her about her driving and she’d answer him curtly, but politely I guess, then grumble about him beneath her breath. It went on for the whole journey. It was plain to see he kept her on a short leash and she had been chafing lately. I didn’t know if she deserved such treatment at the time or not...maybe she gave him trouble sometimes. I instantly knew their relationship was heading for Shitsville, though. He reminded me of Gloria. Almost exactly. I’d never be able to be friends with someone like that. You could see how tense she was around him. Even in pictures I’ve seen of the two of them she’s always ramrod straight with a close-lipped smile. When you see her apart from him, she’s so relaxed! He always looks like he’s trying hard to maintain control.
“At the gallery he sought out the star artist and it was one of the phoniest meetings I’ve ever seen outside of a car dealership. I guess if you demand that people suck up to you, you must really like that game. The guy was pretty full of himself and Reynold just basted him in glory. I was tempted to wonder if the two of them had a thing between them--no--I’m telling you this was BEFORE I started thinking I really liked Stephanie! Reynold tried to make some small-talk with me and it got
disturbing because he went on and on about how much he liked kids, and Steph had told me she wasn’t ready for anything like that anytime in the near future...if ever. I was miserable. I tried to be friendly with him, but there was no way it was gonna happen. I’m no suck-up. I even warned Steph I disliked the idea of her doing me any favors art-wise. But she did anyway. She got me a brief mention in an article in a magazine. I didn’t know at the time that she’d intervened. Afterward, I was a bit displeased, but I thanked her anyway.”
“How many times did you meet in person?”
“Uh...not counting before we starting talking on the ‘net...maybe, uh...it was four times. Reynold was there every time except once. I went to see her at an unveiling. She’d told me he wouldn’t be there because she was sick of the way he’d go ‘round trying to round up business for her...like a pushy used-car salesman. So I asked if it was okay if I stopped by and she said yeah. She suggested coffee afterward, but I was
uncomfortable with that. I suggested a late dinner and that she ask him if he’d like to join us. What I misunderstood was that this was a really
big deal for her and she’d argued with him to make him stay home. It was her first solo unveiling...had I known that, I’d have never asked if I could go. He should have been there with her. She could’ve handled that better.”
“So she does have a backbone. She’s not the helpless maiden you make her out to be.”
“I tried not to linger around her at the event. The gallery manager asked about me and she told him I was a friend and artist. He suggested we do some art event together...she and I and maybe a few other local guys. It would have been a big deal for me. We rode to her house in her car to pick Reynold up. Dinner was a disaster. He was still pissed over the unveiling, and when I went to the bathroom they apparently rehashed it, ‘cause when I returned to the table he was flushed and looked pretty upset. She was avoiding eye contact with him, trying to appear composed. He nit-picked everything to death, making our waitress uneasy with his demands. You could tell he’s the kind of guy who believes he’s due the
best of everything in life and if he can’t get it, he’ll happily take it up as negatively as possible with everyone involved. I was embarrassed as hell. Steph told me later she’d finally had to tell him to leave her own dinner alone whenever they went out to eat. If it wasn’t satisfactory, she’d handle it without his help. Gloria had been like
that to some degree. I hated eating out with her.
“We returned to their house...which just screamed ‘Reynold’ all over the
place. Nothing there looked like Stephanie except her small studio. They
seemed to own practically nothing. I got the impression they’re both all wrapped in their work and seldom bother with much in the outside world. It was disappointing because I’ve found you can learn a lot about a person by how they’ve arranged their living space. That schizophrenic Gloria lived with briefly had absolutely nothing...and nothing in his head. Gloria’s bedroom was all rigged up for sex when I met her--the waterbed, black lights, sound system, black sheets, silk rose in a vase on the headboard, white teddy bear with a big red satin heart all edged
in lace. The Stecchano house was very sparsely furnished and done mainly in black and white. It all had very distinctively masculine edges to it,
so you knew Reynold was in charge and demanded that everything be just so--in black and white. His office was sparse and kind of...juvenile, actually. He had odd items scattered about like you’d find in a freshman’s dormroom. Including a poster of some film actress. I tried to mention she was a cutie, but he seemed to think my comment odd. He was very distracted in his own home. He tried to dominate my attention and all conversation. It was like he couldn’t think of enough to say to fill any uneasy silences or let me ramble on much. Steph said almost nothing the whole time he spoke. She just looked...like she was used to fading into the background when he was around...but she didn’t look like she
cared for it much. Her studio was a bit jazzy, quite fun. Lots of knickknacks...popular culture, fun-stuff. I really didn’t get a good look at it before Reynold was pulling me out of there. I did notice the small couch, though... Struck me as strange. You might think there’d be a chair, and there was one behind her drafting table...but a small couch in a small room strikes me as a place you’d retreat to...”
I asked him, “And what does your house look like, Donovan?”
“My house will be two stories and full of antiques, museum replicas, oddities, and near-fantasy decor. I want this white dragon mask I saw in a costume shop once. It was so realistic. I want it mounted over the fireplace like a trophy. I want an ornate, antique coffin for a coffee table. I want a piano to set black and white photos on in antique-looking frames. I’ll airbrush my whole bathroom so it looks like you’re scuba diving over a coral reef with a shipwreck embe dded in it.
My kitchen will be a combination state of the art and primitive...brick and stainless steel, Teflon and oiled wood. I want a basement set up like a rec room with a great entertainment system, ping pong, darts, mini-fridge, sofa-bed. I want a studio done in plaster crumbling away from brick with an antique drafting table and framed black and white photos of New York City on the walls. My bedroom will have a waterbed on a raised platform with lights beneath the bed that shine softly down on the surrounding floor. I’ll have framed black and white photos of tastefully done close-ups of various parts of the female anatomy. My art will be left haphazard throughout the dining room along with art supplies like I’m in the middle of something, but it’s actually all done. I want to plant a garden with crazy designs done in plants that look really cool from the second floor windows. Some of the windows I’ll get done in stained glass. I want a big gazebo on stilts above a huge fountain with a raised walkway that lets you wander through the
treetops...” He stopped, inhaled deeply of the fantasy, then let it drift away as his face lost animation and wattage. “The place I live now looks just like every place I’ve ever lived before. It looks like the other person. My stuff’s all been stashed away so it doesn’t really seem like I live there. I get yelled at for working late into the night and leaving my art supplies in the apartment, even if they’re packed up and hidden away. My CDs are in there...but hidden in a corner behind Donna’s TV. I’ve done some artwork for her...but only two small pieces are in the house and one’s...one’s on the CD stand behind the TV. You see? I’m just like Stephanie. We’re being hidden away from intruders. We’re in the way of the people we live with. They don’t appreciate the impression we might make if people saw more of our stuff out in the open.”
“Your impression would be weird, Donovan.”
“I am weird,” he told me, pleased. “You can see it when I’m out in public. I don’t blend in. Or I do...totally invisible. No two ways about it. I like it that way. When I’m not trying to impress, I’m just boring ol’ me.”
“Boring does not describe you.”
“Droning? Rambling? Self-absorbed?”
“For these sessions, of course.”
The young man gazed downward, then away. “She reminds me of me when I was like, eighteen. Still had hope, horny as hell, but willing to be lead by the nose by the first person who seems nice enough.”
“Naive.”
“Very. He strikes me as me at age six. Immature, very insecure, demanding attention, thinking people are supposed to be nice to me ‘cause I’m special...or at least better than them in some ill-defined way.”
“You’re mature...but still very naive.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“This is why you’re still doing this, Donovan. Still coming to me every time you need to solve a problem. Still unable to honestly help yourself.”
“What the fuck is wrong with me?” His voice was hoarse and whispery.
“You still cling to ideals that aren’t realistic at all. You keep hoping
everyone will fall into place and act out this wonderful fantasy of life you have stuck in your head...but each person has their own ideals in life. Each person is the center of their very own universe. None of us fits into what anyone else expects of us.
“You thought you’d have a happy childhood, fun teen years, then meet
someone special after a couple of tries and fall in love and get married. You’d settle into a comfortable job and keep trying to sell your dreams of being a well-known and successful artist. When your dreams didn’t match up to reality, at least you’d have a comfortable home and a wife to fall back on.
“No one else has ever had that dream for you, I’m afraid. No one will. You have to worry about yourself more. You have to take charge and keep trying to work toward that bearing, but life is stormy and unclear sometimes, so sometimes it’s easier to pick a new destination and settle for what that brings you.”
“Settle?” He repeated, looking peevish. “Settle for my current life as a nobody, getting ripped off by people who make promises they never keep,
fighting for a shred of respect out of my crappy relationships, wishing I was dead? Is that what settle means? Is that what I’m supposed to settle for?”
“Not at all. You need to keep trying to grasp the golden ring, but remember that the ride’s still fun even if you don’t win a prize at the end of it.”
“What the hell’s so fun about it?”
I pursed my lips. “Okay. The ride’s been pretty shitty for you so far, but part of it has been your own fault.”
“It was my fault my father abandoned me and my mother beat the shit outta me? That I was incessantly bullied and picked on in school?”
“Nobody controls their own childhood, but what you experience helps to shape you for what’s to come later on.”
“Bumper-sticker counseling. Nice. I was beaten into submission and that’s where I’ve remained if you hadn’t noticed, jackass.”
“You’re not entirely submissive. You need to be a touch more aggressive.
When you’re cornered, you fight back well...but you’re way too diplomatic. You give your opponents a chance to bounce back and swing at you again.”
“Isn’t that sporting of me?” he asked sarcastically.
“You know what you are?”
“A total loser moron?”
“You’re chivalric,” I told him. “Over the years I’ve noticed how you keep trying to do what you think is right or mannerly...but it’s often against the rules of etiquette. You’re more concerned with justice than appearances or fitting in. You’re chivalric. No wonder you don’t fit in anywhere. Your kind went extinct a long time ago. Sacrificing yourself...”
“Yeah, so I got a grail I’m seeking and meet all kinds of monsters in disguise and lovely maidens on the way. When do I get the grail...or the princess?”
“Maybe you don’t. Maybe you’ll just make a name for yourself through your adventures.”
“I think I die before I get too famous.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Pretty much so,” he grunted unhappily. “I’ve had to start taking
sleeping pills regularly to deal with Donna and work.”
“You take too many?”
“No. But it says right on the box it’s not for people with chronic conditions like I have. COPD. And I’ve noticed in the last year how fast it’s accelerating now. I get breathless if I speak aloud for too long all at once. I’m coughing more than ever now...sometimes during the day, not just in the mornings anymore. I’m hacking up more phlegm. And don’t go telling me they have drugs to relieve it ‘cause you know I’m makin’ ten thousand a year right now, Donna’s always bumming money off me, and
there’s no damn cure for it anyway.”
“Then you need to-”
“I need them to sleep. Donna sleeps very light. Every time she gets up she puts on every damn light in the place and raids the damn ‘fridge. She farts and plays with that stupid, annoying dog of hers, so there’s yapping and the occasional crash or shout...then she’s up on the computer before dawn looking at porn and trying to figure out how to
make bombs and shit.”
“She wants to know how to make bombs?”
“She had a cousin who taught her about explosives as a child. She likes making model rockets that actually explode on purpose. She likes to play with fireworks.”
“Maybe she should be the one who comes in here and speaks to me.”
“She’s up every damn night three to five times a night, and it drives me
absolutely freakin’ crazy. She has no respect for me whatsoever. Doesn’t
care. She hates drapes and blinds, so when the sun comes up, it’s everywhere! Street lights...lights from passing cars. And she’s fuckin’ hot all the damn time, so she keeps trying to freeze my ass and complains when I sleep under the covers and she’s sweating on top. I try putting a pillow over my head when she’s up and about, but sometimes it’s too hot to sleep that way and one time I did it I dreamed I saw a huge black Bible with a gold cross on it sitting before me on a table and I knew something was very wrong. When I woke myself up, the pillow
was completely covering my face and I could barely breath. We don’t have
regular bed pillows. She likes to sleep on these big, overstuffed couch
throw-pillows. She likes her head up high. I like to sleep low, but not on the mattress alone. I don’t get any sleep. Every few weeks I get off work and go to bed as soon as I get home. I’ll sleep fifteen, twenty hours from pure exhaustion. She complains about that, too. Says if I can sleep that deeply then, why can’t I sleep like that all the time?”
“She’s an idiot.”
“Well, duh, Goddamn it! I’m sick of her feeding the food I buy and cook for her to that little brat dog. I buy half the dogfood, too, and it’s dietary stuff for seniors, but she gives the dog half her meals and snacks all day so it looks like someone crossed a furry end table with a bowling ball. That Goddamn dog is second in that place, and I’m still third.”
I was still grinning over the imagery of the round, furry end table. “At
least you don’t eat food meant for the dogs anymore.”
“I’m fucking sick half the fucking time and she’ll borrow money off me so I can’t see a doctor for months if at all ‘cause I can’t afford it and she’ll complain about my coughing and my weak immune system, but if that damn mutt gets sick she’s telling me she took a hundred from my wallet to take him to the vet for an emergency!”
“That’s stealing.”
“What the fuck do I do about it? Confront her and get kicked out?”
“You’ll need to leave her eventually, Donovan.”
“Eventually as in, before I go nuts and kill one of us, or eventually as in, when I’ve saved up the money somehow someday?”
“Are you close to killing her? Harming her in any way?”
His head sank forward, deep between his shoulders. “No. Never. She’s too stupid. She doesn’t realize what she’s doing-”
“Have you told her?”
“Been arguing about it all the time. She says I’m too sensitive. I need to smoke pot to calm my nerves.”
“Advice from a drug addict.”
He snorted. “She’s doing herself in slowly anyway. I’ve always only been a physical danger to myself.”
I declined to remind him that he had eventually broken down and struck his mother.
I watched him sit there broken, lovelorn, exhausted. He’d been doing
himself in slowly for years, too. Stress was eating him alive. His
motivation was peace...and there simply was none anywhere or anywhen within his crudely cut lifetime. It wasn’t fair to take a child and beat it into a plowshare. It wasn’t fair to make fun of a boy because he was fat and had trouble breathing and wore thick glasses and was unusually shy. There was no fairness amidst the cut-throat petty jobs he’d held just trying to keep his bills paid. None in the way his girlfriends had quickly discovered his genteel and sacrificing manner and made him sacrifice and sacrifice until every last scrap of him had lain and dried and attracted flies upon his altar to them. None in the way fate had
dangled potential hope in front of him in the guise of a pretty, bright,
talented, funny girl he hadn’t even been able to remain simple friends with.
Donovan came to me because he had no one else to talk to. No one else cared enough about him to patiently listen to his stories and help him decide what his next step should or could be. The few people who bothered to refer to him as his “friends” were of the fair-weather variety at best, mainly calling on him in the rare event they thought he
could provide them with something. He was internally beaten to an unrecognizable pulp. Externally shy, but friendly enough, willing to try and make anyone laugh, willing to help out with his considerable talents and charm, he was a black hole inside. Life had sucked him dry and I could, after 26 years of trying to just be there for him if nothing else, finally see what it was that would give him release and set him free of the reality he so despised.
I’d been there for the small boy who’d hid in closets from his often drunk and enraged mother, shaking and trying not to breath so loud. I’d been there when he’d decided God was punishing him, so to hasten through the duration of his sentence, he’d decided he should punish himself when no one else was around. Donovan had beaten himself with a broad, thick solid wooden ruler with a brass edge on it, raising terrible welts on his arms, legs, body, and head. He had struck himself with his own fists until bruised, cut himself with an artist’s knife, and damaged his own right eye by punching himself in the face. He was slowly going blind
because of it. I’d seen his hair fall out in startling clumps. Watched him stagger from inner rage, his vision deserting him. Seen him punch furniture and walls until his knuckles bled. Heard him crying, huddled in darkness, trying to escape the world. Donovan, in the deepest throes of inner agony, would sometimes scream inarticulately until blood mixed with the saliva trickling down his chin, his voice gone afterward for days. And all of this he did alone, so no one would see him, no one would be hurt by him, no one could judge him, nobody but God.
I asked him quietly, “Do you want to die again, Donovan?”
“No...I don’t know. Is it better there?”
“The pain stops,” was all I could offer him.
“And eventually...I’ll meet up with Stephanie again. We’ll know the whole truth, then. We both will.”
“You might meet up with her again here.”
He chuckled wetly and it turned into a nasty coughing fit. “See? Who would want to be around that? What could I offer her as I decline into bedrest? Debt? Sleepless nights? Embarrassment? She’d eventually grow to despise me for it. I’d be a big, ugly, hacking albatross around her neck. She’d be grateful when I was finally gone or if she could find somebody new and leave me.”
I nodded owlishly, watching him. “Sometimes, after the fact, once you’ve had a good long think about things, it all makes sense later...why some things happened to work out one way and other things happened to work
out another.”
He looked up at me, and I saw him shudder involuntarily. His look changed from perplexity to resignation. “You’ve had...a good long think about things.”
“I can’t help you, boy,” I told him softly. “I never could. Only you can
help yourself. You’re the only one who ever could.”
“Because...be-because everything in my life has prepared me for what I’d need at a later point in time.”
“You’re concerned about others...very self-sacrificing-” I hesitated as his eyes widened and fear flashed through them briefly. “Yes,” I continued, nodding. “Nobody knows you, nobody likes you, and nobody ever will. They can’t understand you because you’re not like them. You don’t fit in. You don’t-”
“Belong here. I’ve never felt that I have.” He edged the chair closer to
the desk behind him. “When I was little, I used to think that I was
supposed to be somewhere, but someone came along late and was in a hurry, so I let them take my place. I stayed there too long. I came here at a bad time and everything’s too late.”
“You can’t think you were meant to exist this way, can you? At this horrible, sub-human level? You vibrate to a different frequency, Donovan. There is no way to force you to fit in.”
He reached behind himself toward the desk as though he feared to watch what his left hand was doing. I saw him swallow, looking pained, as he groped in the bottom drawer for the small, zippered case.
“I’m sorry you seek peace,” I tried to tell him, but my voice was so shaky, I don’t think he heard me. “There’s simply only one way to get it.”
“I’ve known this,” he said softly, putting the case into his right palm
and holding it, bent over it a little.
“Are you going to throw up?”
He didn’t hear me. Sometimes, when he was extremely stressed, Donovan’s
stomach would churn and he would start vomiting foam. “I mean, it’s always been there, but I guess it’s all just been a matter of when. I can’t make people like me or listen to me when I’m all alone. I will always be alone...no matter what, or who I’m ever with...I would always still just be alone.” He straightened and looked right at me, his face contorted, reddening, his eyes glittering with tears. “Why did it all
have to be this way? Why did it all have to be so bad? What the fuck did
I ever do...”
I didn’t know. Life just works that way. Mathematically, it only makes sense that some of us would get more benefits and others more negativity
out of life. Perhaps he would just be a statistic. I wondered how long Donna would keep all of his artwork and sketches before deciding they were nothing but clutter and throw them away. Donovan was a damaged, worn and faded feather, but only he had ever bothered to learn that patience and desire could repair one almost good as new. I recalled marveling over how he’d gently worked his magic, gingerly reconstructing as much as he could, making a discarded nothing a beautiful something again. He was rare--a one of a kind. It seemed highly doubtful he’d ever meet another who could be bothered to try and restore a delicate and
beautiful thing so badly damaged.
“Her cousin used to own this gun,” he muttered, speaking just because he
still could.
I closed my eyes, struck by a sudden pang of terrible remorse for him. What good would stopping him do, though? He was destined to continue to decline in health, thus eroding his chances at enjoying a future life or locating another human being who might show him sympathy again. “I love you,” I told him, and he jumped up suddenly, angrily, and pointed the weapon at me. It was a nine-millimeter handgun. Donna kept it loaded in case the police ever came in and tried to search the place. It had always bothered Donovan that somebody so stupid, someone so often out of her mind on weed, thought it was sensible to keep a loaded weapon in the
house. I would have preferred he choke down the rest of his sleeping pills with a few beers she kept in the ‘fridge, but why prolong the
inevitable?
With a surprisingly loud sound the glass between us shattered, and I saw
a million different scenes go flying by at silver speed. I outnumbered him now, but I still couldn’t stop him if I tried. He stood above me...above all of me scattered all about in sharp shards on the floor... shifting uneasily and looking about sharply, listening, embarrassed by the commotion he’d created. Was that a neighbor’s dog barking? Were those the shouts of children playing down the street or was someone questioning the source of the odd report? Panicked, I watched him slide the dark barrel between his lips. The gun might’ve been hot or it might’ve tasted bad because he made a face and withdrew it before looking toward the front of the apartment again. There--a distinctive shout, a question. Loud. Concerned. Too late for that now, thank you, I thought wildly as I winced and Donovan placed the barrel between his teeth, between all of our teeth as he nervously crunched bits of mirror beneath his sneakers and pulled the trigger in haste.
The fortunate inherit riches, prestige, positive notoriety. Those not so lucky bear legacies filled with poverty, infamy or, worse yet, the unhinged insanity and murderous urges of their ancestors.
Did you ever wonder what happened after the Archangel Michael through the demons out of heaven? Let one of them guide you through the origin of evil in the world.
