Stones Throw

  The sun is already high by the time I get up. Its summer and the days are long and bright and hot. I escape from the house early in the morning. There is nothing much to do today but I can’t sit around at home. Not after last night. I’m still so raw and angry.

               Outside a light breeze is blowing but I don’t appreciate it. Instead, I scowl and put up my hood. My shoulders are slumped, and I can feel my angry walk. At least I’m making good time, if only I had somewhere to go.

               Images of the night before gather around me and I can feel the thoughts buzz around my head like murderous hornets.

 “Because I said so” he had said to me last night. A justification for a point that did not need to be made. Especially in that tone. The one that made me feel like a small child being berated by a parent. There are few things that make my horns pop but this, this old and ill used set of words just about destroys my calm and collected demeanor. I was livid, am still livid at the sheer audacity of the statement. Who the hell are you? I think as I stomp to the next street. I make a right, then a left and end up at the ocean.

The air smells salty, but ocean salty. Already the temperature is climbing, especially here. The concrete wall at my back reflects the sun at me from behind while the cool ocean breeze touches my face. The sun is too bright, and I squint at the blue grey water for a time.

There are a few people with their dogs wandering the stony beach. Had it been any other time, I would have been friendly, petting dogs and chatting with the owners but now I can’t. I feel toxic and contagious. If I use my words, they will be poisonous and unkind. I’ve been this way before. My hand is suddenly at my mouth, covering it. A gesture of protection, I think. Don’t let me say something I will regret, I pray and wrap my arms around me.

No, I think, as I stretch and shift and find an easier position on the log, the best thing I can do is just stay the hell away. Inside there is a war, voices arguing about who said what, why they said it. Who is to blame? Like a wheel, the blame keeps turning. First it's his fault, now it's mine. Sometimes it manages to snag others into the game, and I find myself blaming other people. The neighbor, the stranger, the candlestick maker. If he did this, then I would have done that, and so on and so on. It's exhausting I think, but I just can’t help it. Tears are stinging my eyes, and my throat hurts but I stay silent. Chewing on my pain.

Soon I find that sitting is uncomfortable. Inside I am boiling over, and my body is demanding that I move. I sigh heavily and get up. Fine, I say to myself, where to now?

The stones shift and crunch under my feet as I make my way along the water. I could head up to higher ground but somehow this discomfort is comforting. I am distracted by the need to concentrate on where I step and for a while the voices quiet.

“Because I said so” rings through my head again, in that tone. That stupid, jerk face tone that he knows I hate so much it makes me want to spit. I nearly trip over a stray log. The anger is back, and I fling myself onto the ground in frustration. My ankle is sore. Good, I think, serves me right. How could I be so stupid? I think as I massage the joint. I picture him standing there, arms crossed, looking down at me from his mighty stance of “you are wrong and I am right”.

That utter dismissal of it stings and I writhe with indignation. How dare he? I scream in my own head and pick up a stone from the ground. I fling it high in the air and watch the graceful arc before it hits the water with a small splash. That felt pretty good I think as I picked up another one.

“Screw you!” I whisper fiercely as I pull my arm back and throw another. It hits the water with a satisfying plop and I reach for a third.

“This is for how you talk to me!” I whisper louder, throwing the stone as far as I can.

“This is for how you treat me!” I say as I hurl another.

“This is for all your B.S!” I say louder as I throw the stone as far as I can.

Reaching for another I shift positions as the rocks slide around me. I’m not on solid ground I think, realizing that this was the first thought all morning that wasn’t thought in anger. This stopped me short for a moment. I sigh, tired now, drained. The anger is ebbing away, and I just feel hollow and depressed. I just want to go home. I think, but I don’t want to go home.

I imagine walking in the door. Him sitting on the couch, ignoring me. Who would apologize first this time? I wonder as I make my way off the rocky beach. My legs seem to have chosen my direction, so I follow them into town. Maybe a coffee? I think but my stomach turns. No food either I guess. There is only one thing that will help I think and take a left towards the mall. Bypassing the large ornate building I go down the ally to the Green man’s Medicine bag.

Inside the walls are covered with plants, shelves, hooks, ceiling fan, all covered with vines and leaves. Pink and green lights hung in random spots around the room giving the place an eerie glow.

“How can I help you?” asks the goth looking girl behind the counter. I want to tell her that I like her dress, but my throat is still clogged with all my frustration and all I can manage is a weak smile.

“I see” she says, nodding sagely at me. She turns her back for a moment and returns with a small cardboard box. “this is what you need,” she says to me with a knowing smile.” Trust me I’ve seen that look before. Go to the park, sit under a tree and smoke one of these” she tells me, and I gladly pay.

Decision making, like kindness, felt beyond me at that moment and she had just rescued me from further anxiety. I take my purchase and just as I am about to leave, she taps me on the shoulder. I turn, surprised and with a grin she hands me a box of matches.

“just in case” she tells me.

Back at the beach I find a good, secluded spot. Out of the breeze and in the shade. I pull the box out of my pocket and the matches.

“Rainbow Sherbet” announces the label, a cartoon ice cream cone with laughing eyes, spewing a rainbow from its open mouth. Who comes up with this stuff I wonder as I pull out a joint and spark it.

The smoke enters my lungs and already I can feel as the green tendrils reach up into my brain. I imagine green Smokey fingers caressing the ridges of the meat lump in its bone prison atop my body. Cannabis always makes me feel poetic, I think as I exhale a large plume of smoke.

I take another hit, hold it, exhale. My body is relaxing, I can feel the tension as it goes. Inside my head the angry hornets have gone quiet, and I imagine them sitting around on tiny bean bag chairs smoking tiny joints of their own.

This thought gives me the giggles and for the first time that day I laugh a little. Soon the joint is finished, and I stretch out over the rocks. I watch as the water as it washes in, washes out, plays along the sand like fingers playing over a piano, I fall into a meditative state and suddenly the image of last night's fight runs through my mind. Not my version of it, the one where I am the damsel in distress and he is the mean dragon trying to singe my hair. Instead, I finally see the look on his face, the fear, and frustration and defense.

What if that wasn’t a smug dismissal, what if that was just the reaction of someone who felt backed into a corner, someone who felt just as angry and hurt as me? Suddenly the words ‘because I said so” don’t feel so condescending anymore. The whole thing feels stupid now, petty.

I stand, ready now to go home and face the music. I want to hug him, tell him everything is going to be ok. Laugh with him about how stupid the fight was and then spend the day doing something fun together.

I would apologize, I decide, feeling bad for all the things I too managed to say. I pull back my hood, feel the sun on my face, feel the breeze as it plays with my hair and I take a deep cleansing breath. I smile down at my legs and then I let them take me home.