Numbness

I felt it. The pain you’re talking about. You might not believe me because I know it seems strange. Impossible even.

But believe me.

I felt it.

Maybe more than you ever did.

--

It started more as a sort of numbness than any actual pain, but it progressed and transformed into something I never thought possible, and it consumed me.

Day and night I felt nothing but pain coursing its way through my entire body. Fingertips tingling. Eyes burning. Toes curling and cramping into such a contorted form of what they were supposed to be that I no longer went barefoot. I was embarrassed and ashamed to look at them myself out of fear I might vomit at the sight.

Then the memory loss began.

Days slipped by me. I’d stare off into the darkness, where I’d hide. No one knew me there and it was comforting.

I had no one to answer to. No one to judge or mock me. No one to point out my failures.

I started writing as a way to help the memories remain. I didn’t want to live a life where I remembered nothing.

--

The words I’d write became my life. My world. They felt like a greater part of my being. My imagination had blossomed and taken form in words which, as a child, I never thought about. I took them for granted.

Words.

Names.

Things.

Everything with a purpose when a purpose seemed unattainable.

They helped me cope. Helped me grow as a person.

Helped me remember what I wanted to be.

At least I think so. It’s hard to tell anymore.

--

I still feel a numbness from time to time. That never really left me. It’s difficult to describe even though we all know the word and the meaning.

I’ll try to put it like this.

Say you’re learning something for the first time and you’re excited and eager to learn and when you first learn this new task you can’t wait to show all your friends what you’ve just learned. You can’t wait to show them how simple it is to do something that before seemed to be one of the most complex functions you’d ever come across at that point in your life. So you show you friends and they’re excited for you and they feel a new sense of being because they learned something else they’ve never known.

So now we’re all on this same page. We’ve all learned something new. With time, that new task that we’ve learned becomes less of an excitement and more of a monotonous drone that wears at you. It’s like you do the same actions that only a few days, hell even a few minutes ago, seemed like you’d never tire of and you get good at them. So good, in fact, that what once had taken you maybe twenty-five … a half hour to do, become something you can finish in ten.

And then you wait.

Wait and pass the time and think about nothing other than how you feel empty now.

Now that there’s nothing new to learn … nothing new to do … you feel empty.

Once you know that feeling, you can almost understand what I mean by feeling numbness.

Almost.

But not quite.

I don’t think you’ll ever truly know the numbness I feel.

But it’s getting better.

Because of her.

--

I’ll keep it brief for now because they’re coming. You don’t know them yet but, in time, you will.

You’ll be able to sense them as well as I can. And when you get that second sense … that extra feeling that you’re not alone, you’ll know why I’m cutting it short.

Suffice it to say that she helped me through more than I ever led her on to believe and I can only wish I’ve returned the favor.

I don’t know that I’ll ever be able to fully repay her or thank her, but I want her to know I love her.

If you take nothing else away from this, let it be that I love her. And that I want everyone to know how I feel.
That’s all I can say for now. The ground’s shaking, and I feel them upon me. Gotta run.

--

SYSTEM ERROR

Frankie's Grillin'

     A long silence hung in the air after I completed my order and I was about to turn the radio back on, when I heard the sort of conversation I’d always dreaded hearing at Frankie’s Grillin’.
     “What do you mean off? Like completely?”
     “Yeah. Middle finger’s down to the nub.”
     “Dude! How?”
     “Jenny wasn’t paying attention when she was choppin’ the steaks and she cut right through the bone.”
     Another voice in the distance chimed in, gradually getting closer to the man with the headset still audible to me.
     “That’s not how it happened.”
     “How would you know?”
     “I was there. Saw the whole thing.”
     “So … ?”
     “It was a challenge, y’know? Jenny was braggin’ on her skills with the knife. Said she’s been practicin’ along with the Iron Chef shows at night. So Donny asked her to demonstrate. Said he was lookin’ forward to seein’ her fail. Then the rest of the guys in the back started eggin’ her on, cheering ‘Jenny! Jenny!’ until she caved in and started dicing onions paper thin. Pretty impressive. Donny dismissed the whole thing, sayin’ that’s amateur stuff. He learned how to do that just by watchin’ his grandma cook. So he sets another knife down on the counter. Says to impress him, she needed to up the ante. Two hands, two knives, y’know? She tried backin’ down, but the chants started up again. I mean she was so good with one knife, really, what’s one more? She gets a hunk o’ steak. Starts to do the whole tartare thing, and she’s doin’ it good, too. So good, that Donny left the back, pissed off. We’re all cheerin’ her on until she finally stopped. She sets down the knife from her left hand, the hand she’s not the best with, and for added flare, she tosses the other knife in the air. Gives us all a wink, and that’s when the blade came right down on her finger. Cut it clean off. She starts screaming until she faints. Joey calls the ambulance over and they just carted her away.”
     “Wow.”
     “Shit, man. They gonna reattach it okay?”
     “Nah. That’s the worst part. They couldn’t find the finger.”
     I pulled up to the window, feeling a little sick to my stomach. The window slid open.
     “Here’s your “Frankie’s Steak Special.”
     Before he could hand the sandwich over, I sped away.

How It Worked Out

     Time seemed to slow down, near the point of stopping, for three gentlemen, which was a feeling connected to the height of any argument. The gym had been moderately full, its patrons donning headphones to keep their minds off the grueling task of pushing themselves to their limits. Only those who were close enough to the front desk heard any of what was happening between the three men.
     “What gives you the right to interrupt me when I was talking to him?”
     “You don’t understand, pal. I --”
     “I don’t care what you think you were doing.”
     “Look, do you want me to call management over?”
     “I don’t care. Call the police.”
     The two men’s quarreling was put to rest by the employee, interested not only in making sure none of the patrons got hurt or needed assistance via the emergency defibrillator, but in keeping the peace this institution strived for. “Take it easy, the both of you, or I’ll have to call in security.”
     The two men stopped their trivial argument, of which neither could remember exactly how it had escalated. They stared at the worker, slightly frightened by the threat of an authority figure in a place where all who attended were adults. The men separated without a single glance at one another. One man returned to his workout routine that had been ignorantly interrupted, the other left the building to return to his family, who patiently awaited his arrival in their mini-van.
     The car door slammed shut, and this man – the man whose family could tell there was definitely something wrong without words being exchanged – started the car and backed out of their parking spot in silence. The mother looked over her shoulder, flashing a worried look to their children before breaking the silence.
     “Honey, what’s wrong? You’re shaking.”
     “Nothing. It’s just … nothing.” This man slammed his fists against the steering wheel, startling his wife so much that she jumped back in fear. “Just this guy in there. Real asshole. I was waiting for the guy that works in the gym for like fifteen minutes to get back so I could ask him about adding you onto the plan. He just gets back and I start to talk when this guy comes over and starts a conversation. I called him on it, telling him I had been waiting to ask a question, and he just brushed me off. Started calling me names, raising his voice, pointing his fingers at me like I was in the wrong.” This man takes a deep breath, adjusts his rearview mirror to see his smiling children in the backseat. “Never mind. It’s nothing. Really. I overreacted.”
     This man calmly pulled out of the parking lot, leaving behind his frustrations. As he waited in the left-hand turn lane for the light to turn green, his children had decided it was appropriate if they began singing. Their father’s anger had subsided, and their soothing voices could do a lot to help him. The light turned green and this man, with his loving family in tow, pulled across the four-lane highway to head home. There was a loud rumbling close by, and it was his wife’s scream that had signaled the presence of another car – a car that had appeared out of nowhere – bearing down on them. This man jerked the wheel to one side, their mini-van swerving off the four-lane highway onto the median, stopping inches away from hitting a parked car head-on.
     “Goddammit! What the fuck is wrong with people, today? The weather breaks, and they think it’s fine to drive like a bunch of assholes. Probably paying more attention to playing on his phone than he is to driving.”
     This man – the man whose family was all in a state of shock – finally recognized the silence that hung in the air. He jerked his head around to the back seat of the mini-van to see the smiling faces of his two adorable children. He looked at his wife. Found her shaken, but not damaged. His treasures were safe. His anger subsided yet again as he spoke to his children. “You two okay back there? No owwies?” The children shook their heads.
     “You said a bad word, daddy.”
     “I know, sweetie, and I’m sorry. I don’t ever want you to say any of those things, okay? Promise?”
     The little girl smiled, shook her head in agreement.
     “You too, little guy.”
     The little boy, too young to speak, smiled with his shiny gums before returning to quietly gnawing on his teething ring.
     This man – the man whose primary goal in the world was to protect his family at all costs – pinched the bridge of his nose, shook his head. Calmed down again. He looked to his wife, smiled. “Who wants some ice cream?”
     He was met with overpowering screams of approval. He checked his blind spots. Signaled. Pulled out when there was a break in traffic.

          *          *          *          *          *

     This man – the man who unknowingly instigated an argument he had no intentions of starting – had more time to let the anger filter out of his system. He used the gym equipment as a means of venting his frustrations. Each rep was met with the mental image of punching the man who had stormed out of the gym. When his routine was over, the man showered and left the gym, feeling more refreshed and sore than on any previous visit during the last year. A great workout called for a great celebration. Not that he really needed an excuse to visit the liquor store on the way home.
     The man pulled into the garage, shutting the door behind him. He exited the car, brown paper bag in each hand. He entered his house humming, something he hadn’t been excited enough to do in years. Resting on the couch with a book in hand was the man’s wife. She saw something different in him today that usually wasn’t present. An aura, maybe.
     “You’re in a great mood today.”
     “Great workout, doll. Got us a treat.” He resumed humming; only it was drowned out by the crinkling of the brown paper bags as he tore out a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of Merlot.
     The woman – his wife, the love of his life – set her book down on the couch. “Ooh, I wish all your trips to the gym rendered a treat for both of us.”
     The man walked over to his love and kissed her. “What, I’m not treat enough for you?” They both laughed.
     This man – a man aging and insecure – had married a woman much younger than what others might consider acceptable. That was why he got the membership. Went to the gym. Got in the heated argument. Bought the booze. For her. He didn’t like the way other men, both younger and much more handsome, had looked at his wife. He had found her, dammit, and he wasn’t going to let her go without a fight. She loved him and he adored her, and there was no one on this goddamned earth who would pry the two apart. Only death. Presumably his first.
     He tore open the bourbon and wine, poured the glasses and sashayed over to the couch. She – his wife, his pet – snickered as the man finally sat down on the couch. She propped her feet up in his lap and gratefully accepted her glass of wine.
     “So what did you do at the gym?”
     “I don’t know how to explain it. I was pumped. In the zone. This one guy got me so aggravated --”
     The woman almost spit up her wine. She rested a loving palm on the man’s toned bicep. “Oh my god, what happened?”
     The man recalled his version of the incident, embellishing certain details for dramatic effect.
     With his story over and his glass empty, save for the slight puddle created by his melted ice cubes, the man returned to the kitchen to replenish his glass. Rejuvenate the warmth the bourbon created in the pit of his stomach. He hadn’t noticed the look on his wife’s face. Not until he returned – humming that same tune, only louder now – and noticed the she hadn’t touched her wine did the man notice somehow, something had ruined their evening.
     “Something wrong with the wine?” He took a sip to test it. Tasted fine to him.
     The woman rolled her eyes in disdain. “Really? The wine? You think the wine’s the problem?”
     “Well, yeah. I thought – but,” he shrugged, “tastes fine.”
     The man reclaimed his place next to his wife, but she bolted out of the couch, strands of their shaggy carpet sticking up in between her toes.
     “The gym, okay. The fucking gym is the problem. You got in a fight at the gym that we both go to. The gym where we both have friends. And they threatened to call security on you and some other fucking guy … and, and you think the wine is the problem? Jesus Christ! Do me a favor and, just for once, think before you open your mouth. Was anybody we know there?”
     “Only that one chunky brunette girl.”
     “Stacey.”
     “That’s her name.”
     “Only Stacey. Stacey only lives to get into everyone’s business. She lives for that kind of shit. I … I can’t even stand to look at you right now.”
     The shaggy carpet dampened the blow of his wife’s feet as she stormed out of the room. He couldn’t totally sense how angry she had been until their bedroom door slammed shut. Then it became clear. Crystal.
     This man – a man aging and hurt and confused and alone – took his bottle of bourbon and retreated to his den. The door creaked shut behind him as he made his way to the leather sectional she had suggested. His wife – young and brash and more concerned with her image now that she had come into some money – managed to talk him into buying this monstrous piece of furniture. An eyesore. An uncomfortable, seldom used, expensive piece of shit. He was glad for the bourbon when his bare flesh came in contact with the cool leather. Instant warmth with each sip. Everything that hung in the den – his den – screamed of her. The seductress. She had all but designed their home. She wanted things, needed things to look a certain way. The house was her. All her. His second wife.
     The man reached into his wallet, pulled out a photo that had been folded into quarters from behind his license. The picture was old, stained. A woman’s face marred by the white creases of paper that had been folded for too long. She was in the wallet, tucked away but not forgotten. The man, skipping the formalities, began taking swigs of bourbon straight from the bottle. Tears formed in his eyes before falling down his cheeks, creating another momentary feeling of warmth. He spoke to the picture clenched in his hands.
     “I’m sorry, honey. So sorry. It was foolish of me to remarry. But I was alone and you were so young, and --. That’s no excuse. Who am I kidding? I’m old enough to be her father for chrissakes. But I just couldn’t imagine life alone. Forgive me.”
     This man – a man scared and broken and full of regrets – finished that bottle of bourbon. He drifted off into nothingness holding two mementos of his first wife: the only picture he had left of her before the accident, and an empty bottle of the godforsaken drink that had claimed her life.