Join Date: Oct 2003
Posts: 14
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"Falling Stones"
[b]Falling Stones[/b}
It was April 13th, and I blacked out again. It happened while a bunch of kids were throwing words at me like stones, and I guess my mind couldn’t take it. I wasn't too concerned, though, those things happen after all. I got used to it after a while, I guess. My mom got pretty upset though, and rushed me to the doctor. I remember her dragging me roughly like a plastic doll or something.
When we returned home from the doctors office, my mom began to cry. I never really understood why she cried after our visits to the doctor. Then again, nobody ever told me what the doctor said. Nobody ever told me anything. I think that they believed I would be happier if I lived in ignorance. I figured that my mother could use a little more happiness in her life, though, so I tried not to argue with her.
I always doubted that the doctor ever said anything important anyway; I find doctors rarely have anything useful to say. Unless it’s something they can actually fix, there’s not much point in knowing what your illnesses are. Well, outside of ordinary curiosity. There’s too much curiosity in this word as it is, though, so I figured I wouldn't help it out. Besides, one should try to live life like tomorrow will be their last. I try my best to follow that philosophy, though I sometimes think it doesn’t matter. Life has a way of forcing events on you, and usually there is barely a handful of options available.
"It's just like God to punish me. Why the hell couldn't my kid have been normal ?"
My mom got depressed when she drank, you see. She started drinking shortly before my birth, when her and my father broke up. It wasn’t all bad, I guess. I had long stopped looking at her as an actual mother figure. Calling her “mom” was merely out of habit. She was more like a dictator. I got the bare neccesities from her, but I had to make sure that I always did what she said and held my tongue while doing it. It worked out for both of us, I imagine.
“Sorry mom. It wasn’t really my fault.”
“Now what the hell is that supposed to mean ? You fucking ingrateful child, you know this is your fathers’ fault, don’t you ? If he hadn’t run off with that bitch, we would still be making ends meat !”
"I know, mom”
“Get to your room and stay there. I don’t want to look at your face again tonight. You just remind me of all my problems.”
I walked up to my room after that. I didn’t stay there, however. My room was located on the top floor, and I could climb out of my window and onto my roof. Often I might stay there, but sometimes my mom would invite her friends over. I couldn’t stand the sound of their drunken stumbling or their obnoxious comments. Besides, I didn’t want to talk to any of them. It was a small town, so everyone knew everything.
If I stayed in my room, I would often get “are you feeling ok today ?” from my moms' friends as they first arrived. Later in the night, however, as people became increasingly intoxicated, they began to make fun of me. It felt as though I was some retard in detox who couldn’t speak properly. There's something wrong with me, I’m sure, but I’m no retard. Actually, for the most part I think myself a relatively able speaker; certainly no worse than any of these people.
It was often of little consequence to me though. During those times that people were over, I just hopped from the roof since it wasn't too high. I loved that brief moment of air rushing past me, it was one of the few moments in my life that I actually felt free.
I had often envisioned my own death. I figured that if I were ever to cause it, I would do it by jumping off of something. That is how I would like to go. Sometimes I would think about something truly romantic, like a skydiving accident. Perhaps my parachute wouldn’t open, that would spare me the guilt I might have felt in whatever afterlife there may be.
I had grown up in a religious home, you see. The times when my mom was sober, she was quite an avid reader of the Bible. Mostly the old testament, of course. I guess that is often the case for people with a poor caste in life.
Anyways, I chose not to stay on the roof this night. Not because my mom was having her friends over, but because I had wanted to walk around; it was a beautiful night. Thinking that I didn't feel like being alone, I walked over to my best friends house. I went there often. His parents were also split up, so we could relate well to each other. It was sort of an unspoken understanding.
Besides, his mom was almost always at the bar, so we usually had free reign of his house. Not this night though. As I said, it was a beautiful night, and I had planned on spending it outside. Me and my friend walked down to the school and climbed it. We loved climbing. We were of similar build, and I guess that our build was ideal for climbing things. We would throw stones at each other from opposite ends of the roof as a game. Neither of us ever hit the other: we were far too quick for that. It was fun nonetheless. About as much fun as can be had in a shithole town like this one.
This night, however, I had peered at a grain elevator that was directly between me and the Big city. I looked at the elevator with a sort of longing. It was one of those moments when I thought about my death more practically. I figured that I could climb the elevator and merely jump off. It would be quick and simple.
My friends and I sometimes climbed it for fun. It was more exhilarating than climbing the school, because it was higher and we were more likely to get caught. It was hard for me though, because I usually looked at it with an envy of sorts.
I eventually jumped back to reality, however, when I realized that a stone was tossed my way. I was barely quick enough to dodge the missile, though I did manage to lob off one of my own in my friends' general direction.
“Hey Mark, it’s getting late. My mom has probably passed out by now, so I think I’m going to head home and try for some sleep.”
“Alright. I suppose I should get back before my mom does too. Who knows what the hell she will do if she shows up before me.”
“Yeah”
We then jumped off the roof together and went our separate ways. My home was across the street, after all, while his was a few blocks further.
When I got home my mom was, as I had guessed, passed out. I noticed something different this night, however. At some point she had hurled her Bible across the room and smashed a vase. The vase had been a wedding gift; one of those “I’m sorry that I don’t keep in touch with you as often anymore, but work and family are very demanding these days..” kind of gifts.
Later, I laid down in bed, and my mind was filled with thoughts of suicide, questions of “why,” and images of my own worthlessness. I sometimes believed that I caused all the problems in my moms life, and subsequently my own. Afterall, my father did find a new woman because he couldn’t handle the responsibilities being my dad, didn’t he ? That’s what I was always told, anyway.
I guess I did finally get to sleep that night. I woke up around 10:00am the following morning. As usual, I was late for school. I didn’t care much though. My mom was off somewhere as she usually was, and I could just find my own way in the morning. I threw on some dirty clothes, grabbed my backpack, and started towards school.
While I was walking, I picked up some stones and threw them weakly to the side. Not that I got to throw very many, since the school was barely a block away, but it kept my hands and mind busy for a few moments. It was better than simply being left to my thoughts, at least.
It was recess time, I noticed, when several students from my class came to intercept me. It was a little abnormal, since usually the kids would simply follow me home or bother me after school, as opposed to before it. Nonetheless, there they were.
“So, skipping class again today, are you ?"
“I was just on my way to school…”
“Why are you late, then, huh ?”
Something I should point out: although several kids often grouped together to bully others, usually there was only one who actually said anything. For me this was a kid named Jerome; he stood a full foot taller than myself, and easily 75 pounds heavier.
It was at this point that one of the kids behind Jerome threw a small stone at me. It was barely larger than a pebble, but it stung as it struck me on the shoulder.
“Why the hell were you throwing stones at us ? You got a problem ?”
He was slightly smaller than me, but often people gain more confidence than is appropriate if they are in a larger group than you are. I looked at him awkwardly for a moment, when the larger kid piped in.
“Yeah, how would you like it if we threw stones at you, huh ?”
He picked up a larger rock at that, and threw it in my direction. I guess he figured I would dodge. Actually, I figured that I would dodge as well. But, my legs were stuck to the ground for some reason. I couldn’t move myself at all. No more than I could have formed a response to the earlier question.
The rock struck me in the temple this time. I collapsed to the ground, and don’t remember a lot of what happened from there. I do remember the beginning of a pretty serious headache, though not caused by the stone. Usually before I black out I get severe headaches. I guess that is what happened this time.
The kids threw a few more stones at me, but I had long ago passed out before the third stone ever hit me. Apparently the tumour in my head began to grow uncontrollably shortly after the kids stopped me, and the combination of the tumour and the strikes from the stones made me pass out.
The tumour I had was located in my head, directly adjacent to the section of my brain that governed stress. Whenever I became too stressed, that section of my brain would become incredibly active. Because it was already constricted by the tumour, my brain was forced to behave abnormally, causing my blackouts. This last time was far worse than it had ever been.
The doctors had always said that they didn’t want to risk surgery on such a delicate area of the brain. The tumour was lying dormant, mostly, and if I was to avoid stress and take it easy I might have been able to live a relatively healthy life.
It was funny, I think that my mom believed if she was faithful enough, my tumor might go away. Belief doesn’t work like that though. Perhaps if I were to have shared that belief, and told myself that I would live, maybe I would have. Regardless, my mothers attempted belief didn’t change a thing.
As it was, I had no desire to live whatsoever. In fact, death was almost a relief. It wasn’t quite how I envisioned it, mind you, but that’s of little importance now.
Don’t ask me where I am now, though. I still haven’t quite made sense of my existence, not even my new one. All I know is that I had a tremendous compulsion to tell you this story. I hope that, having shared this knowledge, I may be able to finally find rest. Until then, I wait...
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