We Begin

I'm concious.

Waking.

Eyes still closed and then I realize I am making an effort to keep them closed and my head still spins from the night and my mouth is dry and my body aches and I remember I am angry.  I feel you next to me. The weight of you, inches and miles from me and you are neither close or far enough and I'm still making the effort of darkness in both respects.

But, I'm not angry. I remember I am supposed to be and I remember why. I feel nothing now. Again. Back to normal.

I have to piss but I want to be unconcious.

Moments pass and I feel you wake. Your breathing changes. I imagine you didn't sleep well, but I did. You shuffle off the end of the bed and use the bathroom  and you leave and I lay there, eyes closed, lying and lying.

I hear the door slide across the carpet. Open, closed. You left the room and I think that now I can take the costume off. I can piss and you won't see me. You won't know I am here and I get out of bed, dizzy and fine, and use the bathroom. The fucking en suite, which I hated having but was usually pretty goddamned thankful for (alcoholics need three things; alcohol, a place to sleep, and a close place to piss).

I want to know where you went. Apparently I'm still looking for trouble. I put pants on because I'm afraid of being seen for who I am. I know I'm shit, but you don't see the right shit. No one does, so I put pants on and maybe you'll take me seriously this time. Maybe you'll know what I mean. Maybe... maybe I'm just peacocking.

I slide open the door and I know wherever you are you hear it. Like the bell for class. Like the new ticket printer in the kitchen. Like the sound of Dad's car pulling in the driveway or the sound of the beer I'm going to open, echoing through the house screaming "HERE HE GOES".

The house is lit well and I don't know what time it is, or care, but it is probably around noon and you aren't in the first two rooms I look in and I think to myself that that is a ridiculous thought to have and I think I should burn the fucking house down and I think to myself I should sit in it as it does and I think to myself I would listen to Chopin in my headphones while my skin melts from me and my nerve endings die. I think to myself that I already am burning my house down. Slowly.

I go into the kitchen as you are leaving it and your face says you didn't hear me. You were unprepared. A sadness. A fear. An anger. This is what I have done to you. This is what I have done. I ignore the flash of emotion. I make eye contact and go to the sink. Pour a glass of water. You don't leave. You are standing behind me. I drink the water, looking out the window, at the leaves, the neighbors yard, the September day. Set the glass in the sink. Leave the kitchen. I don't even see you.

This is what I have done.

Mister too cool. Mister artist.

Child. Brat. Garbage.

I lie down and feel the temperature of the air against my skin. I feel the disorienting motion slide off of my brain and I sink into the bed and I only want sleep.

The door slides across the carpet and you turn the light on. The interrogation light.

We make eye contact and you are ready now. The fight.

I remember I am supposed to be angry, but I don't feel anything. Emotional whiskey dick.

You slide into bed and sit upright while I lay there.

I feel your eyes bore into me and I look at you.

"So...", you say.

We begin.