Absalom!

“Oh, I forgot to tell you". You pause, readjusting your tone. We were just talking about lighter things: my sister's drab new boyfriend, our Friday night date, the cinnamon tobacco breath of my history professor because he leans in real close to answer questions, your physics fellow making you work after hours. But then your voice drops. You're trying to be respectful, we're on the phone after all, and this sort of news deserves delicate delivery. It shouldn't be dropped in the middle of three other mundane anecdotes about our day. Ideally, this kind of thing deserves its own phone call. But you already know all of this, which is why you pause - out of guilt, out of respect. 

“What?” I'm only half-listening. They're putting up Christmas decorations in my favorite coffee shop. There’s a discount on salmon at the grocery store and I almost interrupt to tell you - we like salmon. But your silence is loud and I recognize that you're trying to tell me something difficult. You're quick-minded but when it comes to finding the right words, you sigh, frown and take forever. 

“Well, what?” I ask again crossing the bridge, this time, some light anxiety tinges my voice - I hope you're okay. There is the house-boat we like, Venus. She's blue, filled with sun-bathing plants on the roof. It's true, you take your time, but you're too serious and too kind to beat around the bush. 

“Ethan killed himself”. You deliver it clearly and concisely. You did that well, I think, I would've said a million things to dress it up, for tact or whatever. But tact is overrated between people like us. We say only what needs to be said; the rest is always quietly understood. You're not really sure what this information means to me, I can tell. So you deliver it like it was delivered to you, like you're telling me a high school classmate took his own life. But it knocks the wind out of me. I'm walking way too close to the edge of the canal. I stop, scared to trip. You didn't expect me to go quiet, did you? Unclear. There is an appropriate amount of shock and grief for someone that we-knew-but-were-not-friends-with. I'm not doing this right. My silence makes you uncomfortable. I'm exaggerating. 

“How?” I blurt out. Stupid. Always saying what I think without weighing how it will be received. Impulsive too. Truth is, how is all I'm thinking of now. I think about how he likes - liked guns and how I always thought it was weird. I would say, “you're so American” and think I could never trust someone who likes guns - they scare me. I think of blood and razor blades in a bathtub and that makes me think of you. I think of you and him sitting face to face in a bathtub, rolling back your sleeves and bottoms-up! - sharing a razor blade. You made it out - he did not. I think of high buildings and how much pain do you have to be in to push yourself into the void? And I feel him, like my bottom lip is the ledge and my feet are the ground. I look down and see a tiny him holding on, about to let go and smash on my shoes. My thoughts go dark and I step away from the water, forcing myself to walk the last fifty meters to my apartment. She really could have waited, I think as I walk. 

“I'm not sure how he died, his mom told Jack (highschool friend) and he told me.”

“Oh okay.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, just in shock”. I ask if I can call you back, because I'm almost home and they're over and I don’t want to be on the phone when I go in. You say that's fine but you have class in half an hour. I say okay not confirming whether I will call you back within that time. I don't. I see another ad about the salmon half-off and make a mental note to tell you about it later. The thought of fish suddenly makes me feel nauseous. I realize I'm walking very fast now, almost running to get to the front door, there is something rising in my throat, a ball of something up-and-downing in my esophagus or trachea or whatever thing connects my mouth to my stomach, which is tied, but still something tells me - not tied tightly enough. I get out my keys and unlock the main door, then the front door, take off my coat and bag and drop them loudly on the floor, open and close the door of the little bathroom by the entrance, kneel and violently vomit in the toilet. 

It feels good afterwards, like vomiting often does. My heart rate slows down and I sit on the cold floor. I adjust my sweater so my bare back doesn't touch the cold, freezing wall. Suddenly, I'm ashamed, I'm embarrassed and grateful that you'll never know I reacted like this. I just knew him, we weren't really friends. Then, I think of the little valentine's day post-it I have in my boy-box. It's insignificant, says something along the lines of: “happy valentines, glad we're friends” with a wobbly heart drawn underneath. He had bought me a rose, and I had run to you mocking him for even trying. Forked-tongued and gloating that he was crazy for thinking he had a chance, and how could he ever think that? I knew why he thought that. Because we texted. We talked about books and movies and music he really ought to be listening to. Because I was always trying to be better than him in lit class and we would smile and compete for answers and grades. Because he had asked me to go to the dance with him and I, who just never learned to set clear boundaries with boys, said maybe. And then later texted him, saying I was sorry and offered some vague reason - enough to make him stop asking but not enough for him to think he would never have a chance. He thought he had a chance because he did. I never told anyone. I never told you. He would call me with the excuse that he needed help understanding Faulkner, and I - who love hearing myself talk of these things - would smile through the phone and tell him all my thoughts. Then one day, we kissed, in the green room of the performance hall. I ran away ashamed and never told anyone. Neither did he. He saw me, truly saw me. And I never bothered to see him. 

This is stupid I thought, just because I was a bitch to him does not mean I should feel guilty right now. What a self-centered bitch I'm being - making this about me, blaming myself for something that has absolutely nothing to do with me. I realize I haven't locked the door, so I get up to lock it - my head spins right around and I vomit again. Then I start to feel angry. “I think you're wonderful”, his voice spins in my head, “I think you're really smart and beautiful”. I want to vomit again, but I do not dare. 

Stupid girl. 

I resolve to get up and swallow everything I feel deep down - feelings and vomit and all. This is too much, I think, even for me. I get up, wash my face and my hands, and open the door. In the living room, it's like no one noticed I got home. She’s at the table, sprinkling green into rolled tobacco, and the hot-box smell hits me and makes it hard to breathe. He’s on the couch already high, smoking a roach. 

“Can I have some?” I ask no one in particular, and he head-tilts towards Katie at the dinner table. Neither of them ask me about anything. There are dishes in the sink, I still have my shoes on. I always get mad at them for keeping their shoes on - we share a home, not a frat house! I'm grateful that they don't ask. I take the freshly rolled joint from her and sit on the couch. I grab his legs and put them over mine so I don't get in the way. There is New Year's Day playing in the background. Girls carrying their shoes down in the lobby. And I think of Gatsby, sharing notes on Daisy and what does she represent? The American dream, Ethan says - no it's more than that I say. I want him to think I know what I'm talking about. I take a long, deep, fill-my-lungs-hope-they-burn puff. Thank god I threw up everything and I'm on an empty stomach. It hits me fast and I feel better. 

High buildings. Blood gushing. Brains blown out on the floor. Smell of gunpowder - guns have a smell? Dead. Wrists cut, thud and splatter from the library roof, gun goes off. Blood, Brain, Dead. Brain, blood, Dead.