He’s sitting in front of me, aching to help me, not because he really wants to see me in a better place. I know that. He knows that. He wants to do this simply to validate his existence and his view of himself. And who does he see himself as? A good guy. The good guy who can help another person out no matter how much of a little shit he thinks they are.
I repeat myself, “Don’t make me do it.”
“But it’s great therapy. Grab a pen, paper, or your ipad…”
“Don’t have an ipad.”
“Or sit down at your computer, and start writing. Listen, I’ve been here before.”
“No you haven’t.”
“Ok, maybe not exactly here, here, but we all struggle you know.”
Gee, who is this genius? Do we? Do we all struggle? I would have never thought. I am not feeling sorry for myself, you asked me how my day was, why my day was the way it was, and what some of my thoughts were. You ask me about my thoughts, I kindly ask you to back off, you ask me to write them down, I kindly ask you to back off…but you just don’t give up.
“You don’t know what happens when I write.”
“You release all that dark energy you have inside of you?”
“Dark energy…you don’t even know what you’re talking about.”
‘You know what I’m talking about. Your negativity is eating you up. Let it go. Write it down.”
“It’s been a year. A tough yet peaceful year because I haven’t written.”
“That’s what I just don’t understand….”
“Right. You know you’ve been so persistent…I might as well show you. A pen and paper, are the only tools I’ll need.”
Don’t. Fuck it. He wants it, he gets it….Breathe.
I’m not sure how much time has passed.
He’s sitting in front of me, tearing up, panting with scars on his face…black and red….in the right hands, a ball-point can be so sharp.
My hands are moist, bloody….it looks like I wrote vigorously. Vigorously enough to rip the paper into bits. Vigorously enough to tattoo my thighs with words and numbers, not all too legible: Bend, NOTHING, daughter, 4, 13 (followed by a massive exclamation mark), center, I Lo(four funny looking letters) you, 6, Brother, LAUGH, water, 3, HOME?, work, work, work, OFF……
There’s more on the walls. I don’t remember getting up.
“I’m sorry…I think.’