Luke Gibbs Publication

Chapman University Alumni | Writer | Artist | Fashion Marketing | Freelance Inquiries: [email protected] 

[lukegibbspublication]

10:20pm

“And now there is nothing left but nostalgia...But I know even that is a lie”

[lukegibbspublication]

American Realism v. Naturalism

The Frame of Frome: Neither Hero nor Victim

The construction of the narrator, being entrusted with the overall tone of the piece, is perhaps one of the most overlooked literary techniques in contemporary literature. However, Wharton’s novel Ethan Frome has received repeated criticism for the power the narrator employs onto Ethan. Being the narrator of both the story and the frame story, the narrator in Ethan Frome is often criticized for being unreliable, to the point that nothing is certain in the fictional content outside the fact that a sledding accident has left Ethan and Mattie crippled and in the care of Zeena. “In other words, maybe Ethan and Mattie Silver never loved, and feeling their plight to be hopeless, tried to commit suicide together,” (Hovey 6). In this article, I will focus on the role of the narrator in Ethan Frome with specific references to Johanna Wager’s main argument in “The Slippery Slope of Interpellation: Framing Hero and Victim in Edith Whaton’s Ethan Frome” -that the narrator’s personal goal is to romanticize Ethan as a hero but fails, instead framing Ethan as a victim who is void of any masculinity or heroic qualities. Contradictory to Wager, I will argue that the narrator, though wants the reader to empathize with Ethan, her goal is not to romanticize Ethan but ultimately exists to demonstrate the flaws of Ethan (most notably his unwillingness to act) which allows the reader to retrospectively feel a heightened sense of disgust for Ethan separate from that of the narrator, which could not have been achieved, to this magnitude, any other way. 

Wager’s argument is grounded in the idea that the narration is “no more than a fabricated picture framed to defend a manufactured hero, told by a narrator who is at once too invested and removed from the protagonist, and too much of a naive outsider to comprehend the nuances of small-town life,” (Wager 420). Even though this is true, I believe that I must first point out that this article does not pertain to the solipsism of narrators, after all literature is controlled by the narrator often in ways the reader does not realize until after completion. In other words, there is no altruistic story in fiction since the reader only gets one story and one point of view. This does not infer that the narrator is an objective observer who simply tells Ethan’s story exactly as it was, as McGiffert suggests, but alternatively the reader is told of his limitations from the very beginning. The reader knows, from the frame story, that this is not the real Ethan and instead must take the narrator’s story at face value. “I had the story, bit by bit, from various people, and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different story,” (Wharton 1). In many ways this makes the narrator the main character in Ethan Frome, and the only character who can be criticized for his individual interpretation of Ethan. I will argue my point in terms of the narrator and his role in construing the other characters. In short, I am more interested in how this influences the reader and to what end than arguing if this is the real fictional Ethan. After all, he is the only Ethan that exists fictionally. 

I now will condense Wager’s argument into three sections and articulate my arguments against them. The first half of Wager’s argument - that the narrator desires to frame Ethan as a hero- is upon close examination farfetched. Wager describes a hero as “entangled with a particular idea of masculinity…independent to the point of egocentrism, and should be not be distracted by the concerns of others,” (Wager 422). Wager argues that it is the narrator’s fascination with Ethan that ultimately progresses into him idealizing him to the point of a hero. It could be augmented that Ethan is a sacrificial hero, tending to the needs of his family and then Zeena, however this facet would collapse on itself since Ethan is the one being cared for in the end. But in no way is Ethan even close to egotistical not does he conquer any social or personal obstacles. However, Wager’s argument pertains more to the narrator’s desire to portray him as such. So instead the question becomes as Wager points out: does the narrator desire to frame Ethan as a masculine hero? 

It is quite clear that the narrator is fascinated with Ethan at first sight. He is after all described as “the most interesting character in Strakfield,” (Wharton 3). Wager argues that it is this infatuation of Ethan, driven by the narrator’s internal motives, that leads to Ethan being framed as a hero. “His (the narrator’s) desire (is) to romanticize Ethan…to evoke a ‘vitality’ that he finds lacking in the ‘sluggish pulse of Strakfield,’ and specifically in its citizens,” (420). Wager argues that in the frame story the narrator tries to get the reader to empathize with Ethan by imagining the physical nature Ethan has fallen from. The narrator uses language like “lameness checking each step like a jerk of a chain” (Wharton 3) in juxtaposition of how he envisioned Ethan’s physical appearance in his youth with words like “strong shoulders” and “lean brown head” (5). Perhaps the strongest elude to this is when the narrator remarks: “But if that were the case, how could any combination of obstacles have hindered the flight of a man like Ethan Frome?” (7). Again Wager points out how the narrator’s individual internal motives shape the framing of Frome- first by his desire to discover a “symbolic tale” (Wager 420) in Starkfield and secondly to understand Ethan’s physical deterioration. But Wager’s argument is not convincing enough. It is not enough to say that the narrator’s comments on the contrast between Ethan’s physical appearance makes him a romantic hero.

Besides being fascinated with Ethan, there is no real reason to believe why the narrator has picked Ethan as his protagonist. Perhaps he feels sorry for him. Perhaps he is more interested in the ‘smashup’ than Ethan himself. Or perhaps he is bored, being forced to stay in Strakfield through the dead of winter. In any case, I do not believe that the narrator seeks to frame Ethan as a hero. Instead his idealization of Ethan seems to stop at empathy. In any case, Wager’s argument is weak in that there is no real reason to frame Ethan as a hero since there is no inclination of past or present masculinity. Ethan’s compassion to care for his mother, Zeena and eventually Mattie create a sense of empathy in the narrator, however do not align with Wager’s definition of a hero. Following this logic, the narrator would be creating a fallacy, one similar in magnitude to Ethan’s suicidal fate. 

Secondly, Wager point’s out how this fascination with Ethan, juxtaposed against his physical demeanor, leaves the narrator at cross roads. “Since the narrator has chosen Ethan as his protagonist and has empathetically placed himself into his shoes, it is the narrator who dreads finding out what he fears most: that Ethan’s poverty and physical appearance translates into Ethan’s ow failures as a man,” (Wager 422). Ethan cannot be a hero in the mind of the narrator if he is physically disabled and powerless void of any inclinations. This leads to Wager’s second argument- that the narrator realizes Ethan’s short comings as a maculated hero and thus must now frame Zeena as the main obstacle in Ethan’s heroic attempt to leave Starkfiled like “most of the smart ones” (Wharton 7). Since Ethan never leaves, there must be someone who stops him, victimizing him in the process. 

However according to Wager, the narrator is than forced down a slippery slope in describing Ethan as a victim, since innately this would demasculinize him. Wager argues that vocality is the main form of power Zeena employs over Ethan. “There is nothing in the text, or from the neighbor’s comments, that suggest Ethan has any command over his house, least of all over the woman who runs it,” (Wager 430). Ethan is victimized by Zeena through her use of language or lack thereof. Zeena’s silence is seen as imposing while Ethan’s silence takes away from his ability to self-empower himself. Zeena “demonstrates that, unlike Ethan, her verbal restraint is productive. While the narrator fills Ethan’s head with dream notions of romance, Zeena is left to herself to argue the stark realities of her life,” (432). Zeena takes Ethan’s very own distaste for silence, being the silent one between him and Mattie and uses it against him. It is Zeena who plagues Ethan’s thoughts when he tries to commit suicide and it is Zeena who commands the language of the narrator, even with her simple presence. “Both bowed to the inexorable truth: they knew that Zeena never changed her mind, and that in her case a resolve once taken was equivalent to an act performed (Wharton 90). Wager points out that “if Ethan were in command, he certainly would not allow Zeena to patent medicines that double his burden financially…he might also curtail or refuse her trips to new doctors,” (Wager 430). Moreover, Ethan’s ambiguity towards Zeena, upsets him but he resolves to do nothing about it. Even in her absence, Ethan is unable to give into not only Mattie’s desire of polygamy but also his own subconscious. He cannot transcend Zeena’s ideals of marriage, he is forced to remain in Starkfield and cannot escape with Mattie who he cherishes at least to some Freudian extent. All these contribute to his victimization and ultimately escapism. 

It is true, Ethan has no power over his household. He has no power at all. Perhaps he is strongest when he tries to commit suicide or when he conceives a plan to glue Zeena’s dish he has broken back together. But even in these instances his authority is limited by first Mattie prompting him and in the second since he never fully carries through with his plan of deceiving Zeena. This is seen in Ethan’s dialogue: “I want to ride in front…Because I-I want to hold you,” (Wharton 28) which alludes to his desire for forfeit any control he has over his own fate. Ethan is ultimately hopeless. He doesn’t commit an affair with Mattie, he doesn’t run away with her (due to sociological pressure) and he cannot even entirely go through in gluing a broken dish together (a trivial mode of defiance). Victimhood plagues Ethan to the very end until his mental inability corresponds to his physical incompetence. Instead, as Wager points out, Zeena becomes the more traditional masculine archetype that the narrator fails to employ in Ethan. 

Wager’s conclusion is that the narrator fails to frame Ethan as a hero ironically by trying to frame him as a victim. “Ethan is not seen a heroic figure; he is not the romantic male protagonist who saves any damsels; he cannot even save himself. His reticence is his most masculine feature, yet the narrator mitigates this feature by demonstrating that Zeena’s reticence is just as stubborn as Ethan,” (Wager 434). If Ethan is a victim of Zeena he cannot be the physically imposing hero that the narrator tries to construct. Instead it is Zeena that possesses these ‘heroic’ qualities. Wager’s conclusion- that the framing of Ethan as a victim is plausible, however his argumentation that the narrator desires to frame Ethan as a hero is problematic. While the narrator clearly tries to victimize Ethan, it is more in regards to that of empathy than heroic. Instead I will argue that the narrator, empathetically, frames Ethan as a victim. That without a doubt, the narrator feels sympathy towards Ethan, which causes a feeling of regret and sadness onto the reader. However, I will secondly argue that the narrator serves as a vehicle for the reader to transcend this fictional tale and realize that Ethan, and only Ethan, is to blame for his short comings.

The narrator’s fascination with Ethan cannot be ignore, after all it is the driving force of the novel. Wager is correct in that the narrator empathizes with Ethan however this leads to more of a desire to understand Ethan and the smashup than of heroism. This is evident in the very construction of the frame story. “If you know the post-office you must have seen Ethan Frome drive up to it, drop the reins on his hollow-backed bay and drag himself across the brick pavement to the white colonnade; and you must have asked who he was. It was there that, several years ago, I saw him for the first time; and the sight pulled me up sharp. Even then he was the most striking figure in Starkfield, though he was but the ruin of a man,” (Wharton 2-3). Throughout the novel, the narrator victimizes Ethan, blaming his short comings on the harsh winter of Starkfield and most notably Zeena. The reader cannot help but feel a sense of sorry for a man who is disabled, unhappy yet at the same time willing to care for his parents, Zeena, and Mattie. Furthermore, it is the love story that the narrator so carefully unfolds for the reader that cements Ethan as a victim in the narrator’s mind. The reader cannot help but long for Ethan to leave Strakfield and pursuit his love for Mattie, or at the very least to die having ‘fetched it’. In these two short words, the narrator sums up Ethan as a man unable to fetch the life he should be living. “Her breath in his neck set him shuddering again, and he almost sprang from his seat. But in a flash he remembered the alternative. She was right: this was better than parting. He leaned back and drew her mouth to his,” (Wharton 58). Although it is easy to say that Ethan does not deserve his fate, in this Romeo and Juliet fairytale, Wharton skillfully creates an unreliable narrator in order to masquerade that Ethan is a hopeless romantic who rather escape in fairytales about his love with Mattie than take responsibility for his lack of action.

By constructing the narrator in both the story and the frame story, the reader is able to step back and realize the flaws in the narrator’s construction of Ethan. It must be asked: What is the difference between a victim and a coward? Ethan seems unwilling to take responsibility for his fate. There are repeated opportunities for him to ‘fetch it’ however each time it is his unwillingness not his inability to take action that prevents him from ever leaving Starkfield. Ethan could have easily plotted, with or without Mattie, his escape from Zeena and the farm since he was going to be paid for the lumber delivered to Mr. Hale within three months. It would have not been impossible to make a plan for the future. But Ethan is more accustomed to making do with choices made for him in the present and ultimately by others. 

At times it even seems as if Ethan enjoys being under Zeena’s control and embraces the lack of responsibility this gives. His lack of power stems not only from Zeena’s control but in him allowing her to have control over him, to the point that he doesn’t care what the future holds for him. “He used to think that fifty years sounded like a long time to live together; but now it seemed to him that they might pass in a flash. Then, with a sudden dart of irony, he wondered if, when their turn came, the same epitaph would be written over him and Zeena,” (Wharton 28). His unwillingness to act is without a doubt the reason he stays in Starkfiled. He doesn’t divorce Zeena like he desires to, he doesn’t have an affair with Mattie, he doesn’t leave Starkfield, he can’t even decide to commit suicide on his own or not. Instead he realizes on the actions of others, which allows him to feel as if he is not to blame for his short comings. 

Though the narrator empathizes with Ethan, the reader is not meant to. Instead the narrator serves as a vehicle for the reader to realize the flaws of Ethan Frome in a disgust and contempt that could not have been achieved any other way. The unreliability of the narrator and his infatuation with the disabled Ethan allow the reader to step back and realize that Ethan is neither a hero nor victim- instead a product of Starkfield just like everyone else- with no one to blame but himself. 

[lukegibbspublication]

short .2

The house well it was beautiful. Three stories counting the den that laid right next to the lake. A stunning white trim laced around the house like a bow on christmas morning and the rich, deep monogamy that lined the inside felt pleasant to the naked foot. It even had a small little terrace towards the master bathroom that Blair hung her flowers on. I could remember her as I stumbled back home from the bar every morning her cheerful and often downright gleeful presence as she pranced around the terrace tending to the various plants scattered about. Id then take my place, heavy on the bed where i’d waste the morning away. The sun had an awful color one that weakens the eye if you come home at a certain hour. My bedtime just happened to be then and so Id lay, the sun glaring into my drunk eyes and wish that I could just tear the curtains back and sleep.

“Love,” Blair coowed into my ear.

What,” I replied turning over to the cool side of the bed.

“It’s half past noon,” she said. “The deliveries are today.”

I opened my eyes greeted by her warm smile.

[lukegibbspublication]

short .1

You can never really expect your parent’s passing. Not really understand the moment, when you sit down to think about it, it will inevitably happen. Must happen. Yet when it does it’s unfamiliar, distant and at the time completely unexpected. Especially when it happens when you are quiet young. Not at all too young to know that it will happen, but still old enough to feel as if some of the liquor was left in the glass. I guess that’s how I felt when they both died. Together. Unexpectedly. Well, that’s what I told everyone it felt like. It sounded nice. 

When both of my parents died, I came into more money than someone at my age really could fathom. They weren’t rich by any means but they were always savers and the pennies eventually grew into nickels and then dime and so forth. I feel as if i could still hear my dad saying those words he used to as a kid, “A penny for your thoughts. A penny for a raining day. A a penny for your mother’s flowers.” as the bank teller told us the number. 

“I guess this is a rainy day,” was all I said. 

My fiancee looked at me sideways as the teller started blankly out the window at the sunlight as it protruded through the glass which could use a much needed wash. I could feel her small hand close around mine but I didn’t look instead I sat silently. 

“So what are you going to do with all of that money,” she asked as we sat in our little apartment on the edge of Sutton Valley.

I shrugged feeling the warm air from the ajar window.

“We should buy a house,” she said her head nestled in my arms. The walls creaked as the couple above us got into bed. Another night after work. Another night of play for the long lost lovers. Were we ever like that? Did we ever know that firefly ignorance of youth? 

“We should move out to Malibu,” I heard her whisper.

“And buy a bar.” 

Blair would later tell me I said that last part. But I don’t remember. All I remember is downing the last of the bourbon in my hand and listen to the people above us fucking the night away. Back and fourth. Back and fourth. And then nothing. Silence. 

[lukegibbspublication]

Bianchi Winery and Tasting Room Welcomes Veteran Winemaker, J. Chris Stanton Stanton joins the team to continue the Bianchi tradition of making handcrafted, exquisite wines

PASO ROBLES, Calif. (November 2016) – Envisioning a one-of-a-kind winery experience, Bianchi Winery and Tasting Room, a premier property on California’s Central Coast, is excited to bring on veteran winemaker, J. Chris Stanton, to head up operations in Paso Robles.

With more than 20 years’ experience in the industry, Stanton has a fruitful history of releasing highly rated and reviewed wines throughout the Central Valley and Coast. His eye for simplicity in his use of the land and the grapes pairs well with Bianchi’s goal of creating timeless classics under its label, while continuing expansion into the super and ultra-premium markets. Adding to its already knowledgeable staff, Stanton will continue the Bianchi tradition of making excellent wines at the serene 40-acre estate in Paso Robles. Stanton steps in for Bianchi’s longtime winemaker, Tom Lane, who retires this year.

“We’re thrilled to bring Chris onboard and are confident that his simple, but thorough and passionate approach to winemaking will fit quite well at Bianchi,” said proprietor, Beau Bianchi.

Previous to joining Bianchi Winery, Stanton teamed up with his brother to start Sobriquet Winery in Napa Valley, Calif. Together they crafted four Sobriquet wines – a Pinot Noir, Syrah, Grenache and Chardonnay, which consistently received 90+ ratings since its inception in 2008. The UC Davis graduate served also as the general manager at Blackjack Ranch Vineyards & Winery in Solvang, Calif., where he was responsible for making more than 20 unique wines. He oversaw wine operations at Koehler Vineyards & Winery in Los Olivos, Calif. and Mayo Family Winery in Glen Ellen, Calif. At these estates, Stanton was able to hone his craft, becoming known as one of the premier winemakers in California. He is a graduate of the University of California, Davis.

Stanton’s passion for winemaking paired with his knowledge of the region, aligns with Bianchi Winery’s mission to create wines as exquisite as the surreal scenery and rich history of Paso Robles.

ABOUT BIANCHI WINERY AND TASTING ROOM:

With more than four decades of winemaking history, Bianchi Winery and Tasting Room now continues the legacy of founder Glenn Bianchi and his father, Joseph, in Paso Robles with wines in the super and ultra-premium categories with estate-grown and handcrafted wines. Combining the most advanced farming and production technologies with the finest terroir of Paso Robles, Bianchi Winery and Tasting Room has grown to be an industry leader, producing award-winning wines. The winery and tasting room sits on 40 acres overlooking the undulating vineyards of the area, rising above a waterfall fed lake nestled in its estate vineyards. Its Heritage Collection is made with estate grapes include Cabernet Sauvignon, Zinfandel, Syrah and Merlot, which grow along the property’s gently sloping vineyards. The

Bianchi Signature Selection is made with grapes purchased from premium growers in and around Paso Robles, who Bianchi maintains close relationships with to ensure access to top-quality harvests. Bianchi Wine is available in restaurants and retail stores throughout the United States. For more information about Bianchi Winery and Tasting Room, visit www.bianchiwine.com. 

[lukegibbspublication]

June 5th: short

Frank’s eyes darted to the right, following the motion of the van as it lurked up the windy road. Dirt cuffed the windows, covering the sides. He took another long drag of the near death cigarette in his fingers his eyes darting to the little lever indicating the gas tank.

“Don’t push her too hard,” Frank said.

Billy nodded throwing the van into third.

“We need enough to make it back down.”

Billy watched as Frank’s leg shacked in anticipation. “We’ll make it,” he finally said bending the van around a sharp turn. “Besides, you don’t need much going down a hill like this.”

Frank followed his old brother’s eyes upwards were the cliff climbed. No they wouldn’t.

The road to the top wasn’t really a road anymore. Instead the van began to bounce slightly side to side as it rose to the top, over the dirt and rocks blocking their path. The road was also slowly but surely dwindling on the right side, cutting them off into the depths bellow. Billy suddenly slammed on the breaks, the van thumping to a halt.

Frank flicked the remains of his cigarette out the window, his eyes wide.

“There’s no going back now,” Billy said.

Frank’s eyes followed his and looked at the path before them. Vertical rocks formed the right side. The left, nothing. There was no way the van would be turning around anytime soon.

“Punch her,” Frank said.

Billy didn’t need a second go. He slammed his foot on the gas, the van barely responding. It slowly rose upwards, being egged on my the boy’s heartbeats.

“Can’t see shit,” Frank said straining to see past the top of the van. But only clouds of smoke covered his vision.

Billy didn’t seem to mind. He pushed the van upwards, his foot nearly touching the ground, as if he could have driven up blindfolded.

But Frank knew this already. Billy was the driver. Frank the digger. They made a good team, even if Billy was blind out of his left eye. And even if being the digger was the much harder job of the two.

[lukegibbspublication]

6:03am

I’m not interest in music you listened to in your teens, when you were invincible. I’m not interested in the music you listened to in your college dorm room, drunk and often alone. No. I’m interested in the music you listened to when everything began to slow down. When you married that guy from work. When you had your very, own first kid. When you got fired from your first real job and the weight of the world was not only against you but everyone. What did you listen to? Or did you forget how music used to feel.

[lukegibbspublication]

“If my love could evolve, it grow legs and walk up onto the shore just to breathe the same air as you. But no, love never changes. It is already drowning in the past.” 

[lukegibbspublication]

SPR:PR:1.2

BIANCHI WINERY TASTING ROOMS AND VINEYARD Hand crafted exquisite wines that reflect the characteristics of local estates

PASO ROBLES (October 23, 2016) - Nestled between ancient oak trees and a surreal lake teaming with Koi fish, Bianchi Winery overlooks 40 arches of breathtaking vineyards on the East Side of Paso Robles. Bianchi Winery offers a fulfilling wine country experience within a relaxed, unhurried atmosphere. Opened in 2000, Bianchi Winery is considered one of best wineries in all of Paso Robles making it the perfect place to visit. One can peruse through and taste their exquisite selections of wines which are made from grapes purchased from the highly recognized vineyards in and around Paso Robles and the Central Coast. They also crush, ferment and finish Estate wines which are 100% made from the grapes at Bianchi, offering a unique blend of perfection and character. Pared with their knowledgeable and friendly team of experts, one can enjoy a variety of wines in the Tasting Room that bear the characteristics of the terroir of the estate ranches. After a day of wine tasting, one can stay at the lucrative Bianchi Vineyard House. The house includes a full kitchen and BBQ outback which is perfect for enjoying the sun as it sets over the vineyard. One can enjoy the crackling of the fire place during the chilly winter nights or the sound of the waterfall fed lake in the summer. The blend of modern comfort and nature has never been closer. Either way, one cannot go wrong with the nature driven atmosphere of Bianchi Winery. The soaring glass walls take every advantage of the peaceful surroundings, offering something for everyone. Bianchi Winery is sure to leave its visitors with a dreamlike experience that will leave them writing about for years to come.  

[lukegibbspublication]

Internal-View

Psychiatric practices have come quite a long ways from their origins in insane asylums and their practices in lobotomies but one thing has remained constant- the view that there is a right and wrong when it comes to the matters of the mind. What actually constitutes a mental illness today can be traced back toKraepelin’s idea that all mental illnesses stem from biological deviations as well as Freud’s psychoanalytic theory of where these emotions and outward effects can originate from. But is this true? Or do humans just determine what is considered socially expectable and what is not? The concentration of this article is on individual personalities such as anxiety, depression, schizophrenia and bi-polar disorder and wether or not there is always a biological unbalance associated with a mental condition. I’m personally interested if the mind truly has the power to “right to body” in a sense and if these are really conditions or instead simply personalities of the mind and intern part of the individual. Do mental conditions hide a person’s true self or revile it? Ultimately, what would provoke someone to want to change, that is change who they have been their entire life?

According to Anxiety and Depression Association of America, Anxiety is the most common mental illness in America making up 18% of the population. Depression closely follows at 6.7%, Schizophrenia at 1.1% and Bi-Polar at 2.6% (National Institute of Mental Health). Often times, people suffer from more than one. Anxiety and depression are becoming quiet common in young people today. In fact 13% of college students have been diagnosed with anxiety or depression. There are also people who experience  some of the symptoms but are never diagnosed, lacking the biological evidence as was the case with my sister. During her junior year in college, she experienced a panic attack followed by periods of insomnia. One night she was rushed to the hospital after being unable to breath. But after running a few tests, they deemed her “fine”. But what is the definition of fine and whose definition is it?

On April 18, 2013 I interviewed Dr. Carole Harris who has been practicing psychiatric treatment since 1991 in areas such as: adolescent psychiatric programs, the Country of Orange’s Drug and Alcohol Program and now has opened up a private practice in Huntington Beach, California where she provides traditional therapy as well as equine assisted psychotherapy. She invited me to her new facility at Orange Park Acres in Orange, CA. There she gave a demonstrated what they do there in regards to equine assisted psychotherapy.

Up a few windy roads, secreted in a quiet and peaceful neighborhood, I knocked on the new red door. Dr. Harris along with Marissa Walker, the team’s horse professional, greeted me warmly into what appeared to look more like a home than a facility. Immediately, they brought me though the spacious house to the dusty backyard. Around a mossy-green pool and behind a barn they showed me a slightly larger, brown horse. Walker explained that horses have the ability to mirror human emotions and intern communicate what an individual is feeling. I proceeded to follow them into the space, enclosed by a rusty, white fence. Silence prevailed as they stepped back and left me with the horse. I started to ask what his name was, how old he was and how many years he had been in training. But instead of answers Dr. Harris responded with questions. What would you call him? What do you think? Everything that happened in the reserved space represented something in my life. I felt pressured and on edge, as they continued to comment on everything the horse was doing and speculate of what it might entail. Midway though, a grey speckled pig entered the space in which the horse quickly scared it away. It scampered back to underneath some nearby trees. More questions resumed. I tried to answer them best I could, but I felt as if they were pressing for answers to questions that did not exist. Eventually the session ended, in which Dr. Harris explained what she believed I was feeling. I was surprised by the over simplified nature but at the same time knew that this was not how the world worked and truly how I felt. Following her back into the house, we sat down in the kitchen. Here we switched rolls. I became the interviewer, she the interviewee.

Interviewer: What was your childhood like?

Dr. Harris: I grew up by my identical twin. I have an older brother and younger brother and younger sister so I grew up with a big family.

Interviewer: And you grew up with two parents?

Dr. Harris: Two parents up until the age of ten. (She takes a long pause)…and than we went though a divorce.

Interviewer: Do you have any relatives or close friends that suffer from a mental conditions?

Dr. Harris: I have a cousin…he’s two years older than I am, very close. He, after 9/11…he broke down and had a sever bi-polar episode for 5 years. He’s better now. He went from doctor to doctor, taking medication and couldn’t sleep…he went into a manic episode…sever…he didn’t sleep for weeks.

Interviewer: Did you aid him in any way?

Dr. Harris: I took him to see a psychologist and tried to get him to stick to one…but he didn’t want to and I tried to help him get his medications together.

Interviewer: Has the use of medication and diagnosis changed during your time?

Dr. Harris: When I first started learning I was taught not to put a diagnosis on someone because you are putting a label on them. And I still believe that. Cause when people get a label on themselves, they go with it and think that, even if they don’t have to be. And there are many better medications than they had back than….And I try and help people not take medication unless they need it because I think they can do things if their brain is strong enough. They can…don’t have to be medicated since there are so many side-effects. It depends on the situation though….if it’s genetic or situational.

Interviewer: Are all mental conditions genetic?

Dr. Harris: No.

Interviewer: Can your mind produce biological off-balances?

Dr. Harris: Let’s say this person that had a gun held to her head, has taken that to extreme and become mentally ill because of that. So trauma. I think death is a very difficult thing to get though….like being the only survivor of something but I think that you can look at this and live life to it’s fullest.

Interviewer: You said that you don’t like to put a label on people but do you know ahead of time when they come in.

Dr. Harris: They tell me on the phone sometimes but I only know that much, they say the rest.

Interviewer: Are there any specific mental conditions that you focus on?

Dr. Harris: Post traumatic stress disorder, depression, anxiety. I stay away from the hard core ones like schizophrenia.

Interviewer: Say that someone has depression and it’s been biologically proven, does the mind have the power to right the body?

Dr. Harris: I think so. But it takes a lot of work and constant thought about it. But sometimes you have to take the medication.  I think you have to have a strong mind to do it, not a lot of people do. It takes practice maybe every second of the day. I think exercise and getting out of the house helps.

Interviewer: Does this mean a change in life style?

Dr. Harris: Yes. Because when you are depressed, you want to stay in the house and isolate yourself. But you can’t do that you have to go outside, exercise and meet people. But that’s not what depressed people feel like doing.

Interviewer: Is a mental condition ever just a person’s personality?

Dr. Harris: No….not depression. Well (She pauses, glancing away)…you can tell the difference some people like to be negative and that is their personality. Some people just like to focus on the negative. But you can tell the difference.

Interviewer: Is there a fine line between the two?

Dr. Harris: Well someone can throw themselves into depression by being negative. Or they just like to complain.

Interviewer: Is this bad?

Dr. Harris: I don’t think it’s healthy, because the person feels unhappy. And I think we are all searching for happiness and they don’t find it because everything is bad or wrong. And they distance themselves because no one wants to be around that negativity and it gets worse for them. It’s like a….it just doesn’t work. Self fulfilling prophesy.

Interviewer: Do you believe that someone can change their perspective or are they born with say this negativity and that is who they are?

Dr. Harris: I think people are born pessimistic or optimistic. But you can really work on it, if you want to change it.

Interviewer: Is it wrong to not want to change?

Dr. Harris: If it works for them….Some people like to get a lot attention. They say pessimistic people live longer because they don’t take many risks. (She laughs lightly)

Interviewer: Than if you always take medication, does this not take over who you are as a person?

Dr. Harris: No….like an anti depression just allows you to cope with things differently but doesn’t change your personality. But say a bi-polar or schizophrenia takes medication, it does change their personality and level it out but they are happier in life. Like in a schizophrenia if you interacted with them you’d think they were erratic but once they are on the medication, they are just like you.

Interviewer: Is that not than based on what someone else is telling them what the norm is?

Dr. Harris: Yeah.

Interviewer: So in a sense do they change who they are, since the definition of what the norm is changes from them based on what someone says it is?

Dr. Harris: On a natural level yeah…because if we didn’t take a medication…I think everyone wants to be normal and happy. It would change their natural state but they change it to feel happy. (She places one leg over the other).

Interviewer: What does someone have to give up to be happy if they have a mental condition?

Dr. Harris: They have to give up their past beliefs…like everything is bad, or they had a bad childhood or everyone is against them.

Interviewer: Where than does the imagine of yourself come from if you have to give up your past?

Dr. Harris: Maybe not give up…but accept and coming to terms with that is what happened and making sense of it so that it doesn’t make you unhappy.

Interviewer: Do you ever have patience that feel fine again but end up falling back into their old self?

Dr. Harris: All the time.

Interviewer: Than why not just take a pill?

Dr. Harris: Because if someone works though it,it shows me they are willing to look at their new situation and work though it. Take a pill is a quick fix, like putting a band-ad over the problem. Because eventually you are going to stop taking the pill.

Interviewer: Do you ever have anyone that is brought in and doesn’t want to change?

Dr. Harris: Yes, like sometimes a wife will bring her husband in and he will say that he doesn’t have a problem but that his wife does and doesn’t need help. I try and tell them  that they cannot change other people only yourself.

Interviewer: How do you determine if theory is needed?

Dr. Harris: If they want it and feel like they need it. It’s a perspective…some people have very minor conditions but if they are struggling and need someone to talk to and need help working something out than I will. And those people are typically short term opposed to long term.

Interviewer: Do you ever deny services?

Dr. Harris:Yeah.

Interviewer: What would be some of the reasons?

Dr. Harris: If they are someone I am not comfortable working with or if they need a lot of attention…if they want to call me all the time. Or children…who I am not trained to work with.

Interview: How much of the control do humans have over the future?

Dr. Harris: I think we have 100% control over our own lives…99% of control over our own lives. I can go live anywhere I want to, I can have kids if I want to. If I biologically can’t have kids, I can adopt. You can do things and get around other things…I could be broke but I could go and rob a bank and find ways to get money. So I think we have total control. It’s just the way you think about things…you put limitations on your life.

Interviewer: Do you have less control as an adolescent?

Dr. Harris: Yes. You don’t know much….experience or knowledge of the world. People treat you differently. You can’t get a job. You could rob people though.

Interviewer: What would you say to a person in this situation?

Dr. Harris: Self esteem makes a big difference…you can always leave or talk to a teacher. I think we are either born with drive or pessimism.

Interviewer: Do you think that it is wrong to not contribute or influence the world around them?

Dr. Harris: I think those people make up the world. It’s not wrong. Some people are unhappy because they don’t have drive and feel like failures in life. Everybody wants to be rich or famous or whatever. If everyone had drive than there would be too much competition.

[lukegibbspublication]

Oceans Like Red Elephants

“It’s hot,” she says.

The condensation slides down the bottle in droplets forming a puddle at its base. I watch as she picks it up. She places it to her lips, gently pouring the liquid down her long, slender throat. Her lipstick stains the rim, red. A slight breeze blows her red hair across her face. I adjust my sunglasses as they slide from the brim of my nose. And that’s the thing about drowning, if you drown in the ocean or a puddle, you still drown.

“We should go back inside. Take a break.” The words fall from her lips. Those smoldering lips that used to be mine. All mine. The very ones that used to be coiled around my dick sucking the semen from me. I don’t say anything. I stare out at the ocean the heat burning the skin on the back of my neck.

She places her arms against the table leaning forward. I stare at her breasts, glistening in the sun. They’re right there in front of me, protruding from her black laced bra. She’s talking again. Bitching again. But I don’t hear her. I only watch her breasts move with those lips.

“Are you even listening to me?” she says.

“No, not really,” I reply looking up, my glasses dark against the sunlight.

“You’re drunk,” she says. “Come on, I’ll drive you home.”

“I’m not drunk….I’m just buzzed.” I pause looking up. I’m drunk. I know I am. The fact that I cant even remember what number I’m on or even when I started testify to the fact that I’m drunk. I’m drunk and she’s in love. Whats the difference?

“Come back with me,” I say, “You look beautiful.”

She chuckles, her back arching forward, her lips parting. “What does that fucking word even mean?”

I don’t respond. I close my eyes listening to the long melancholy roar of the ocean.

“You’re drunk and just horny,” she continues.

I open my eyes. “I miss you. We hardly see each other anymore now…that we work so much.”

She just looks at me. Her red hair but seaweed in the vast ocean.

“And I’m tired you know…of waking up alone. And…and I love you.” But even as I say the words. The words that I mean, I know she won’t hear them. I’m just a drunk to her, saying anything to get into her pants again. But I really do miss her. I miss fucking her. I miss kissing her drunk lips. I miss her when I’m sober and everything's fine but us.

“I just want to go home,” she says. “I’m tired it’s been a long day. I just want to curl up in bed and smoke a bowl.”

I lean in. I try to kiss her. But she pulls away looking at me.

“Don’t,” she says.

I lean back in my chair, feeling the sweat on my shirt as it clings to my body. “Do you ever think back to that night?”

“Which night?”

“In your car.”

“No.”

“It was hot. Like this.”

“You can’t think like that. Life goes on. People change.”

“Do they really though? Like what if everything is the same shit and you just don’t realize it until its over.”

“Don’t talk like that please….I thought we were having a good time.” She leans back, her breast blind to me.

“But maybe we don’t. Maybe he was right.”

“I’d be sad if you did.”

“Sadder than this?”

She pauses taking a sip. “Yes,” she finally says, “Sadder.”

“Maybe the people that drown never had a chance. Maybe that’s how he did it.”

“Maybe.”

And right there I sit. Three feet from her. Three hundred miles away from her. I’d call her the next morning if I thought she’d pick up. But if she doesn’t want me now, does she really want me? Because this is who I am, really deep down. I’m the vodka coursing through my veins. I’m the cigarette smoke lingering on my tongue. I’m him.

So I drive home. Buzzed. Drunk. Maybe love is walking away. Maybe it’s giving up. Maybe’s it really is paper thin. And paper fake. I guess whoever cares less wins. I listen to the ocean, her blonde hair on my chest. As I roll over lying to her that I came, I know that don’t want to win anymore. But I’m so tired of losing.

I don’t like the answers that creep into my mind as I fall asleep. And I don’t like the bitch next to me. But she’s real. I can hold her in my hands. I can feel her ass pressing against my dick. Isn’t that worth something?

I don’t know. All I know is that my mouth is dry and my feet are cold. And all I know is that I’m so thirsty that I could swallow a whole ocean even after my lungs explode and I drown in my own vomit. I wonder if he ever felt like that.

[lukegibbspublication]

Crawford Street

When I moved into that old house at the end of Crawford street I knew I was getting the best spot in the neighborhood. My bedroom was located upstairs with a pair of large double windows that opened up to the back porch. There was even a small balcony that stretched the West Side of the room, looping around the corner of the house which made a three or four foot ledge that laid slightly above the lake. If I jumped to the right I bet could make it into the deeper parts of the water which would be just perfect for those hot summer days. And the floor was a nice deep mahogany, not the cheap kind, but the kind that felt smooth to the touch, the kind that would feel great against my bare feet no matter the temperature inside.

I could just imagine myself sitting outside and falling asleep under the sycamore trees that reach almost to the rooftop. But what made me buy the house on such a short notice was that it reminded me in a weird way of my childhood. I’m not sure if it was because of the dark bluish tent, almost white in the sunlight. Or maybe it was the fact that the driveway looped into a half circle like my father’s did back when he used to live in with mum. In any fashion, I bought it. And all upfront, 150,000 pounds.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

“You have read the paper work right? About the previous owner that is,” she said glancing to the side as if this information would scare me off from purchasing such a lovely place.

“Where,” I said.

“This very porch actually,” she replied.

“Show me.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Show me how. How’d he do it?” I said.

She glanced at me funny, hesitating for a second. “Well he hung himself. Right here I suppose.”

“Is that so?” I said.

This very porch! It had said he had hung there, three days, with the knot taunt around his little neck and his face drained white. Three whole days. I can imagine the stench of his rotten flesh hanging there in the summer heat with the bugs prying at him. I read once that they start with the eyes before eventually making their way down to the other pieces. But the place had been well cleaned. I had made sure of it. I couldn’t even tell as I sat out on the porch, not in the slightest, well besides the beam of wood that had bent a bit from his weight.

“He must have been pretty heavy,” I said looking at the large beam.

“I suppose so.”

I sat outside that first night enjoying a cigar on the porch. It was dark. I couldn’t even make out the lake which was not more then ten feet away but it didn’t matter I knew it was there. I leaned back. I puffed away watching the smoke dissipate over the imaginary waters, out into the darkness. All I could see was the end of my cigar, a faint orange. I drew in the smoke, savoring the taste in my mouth, as I watched the heat eat away at the tobacco. It didn’t matter to me. Why should it? My old man never taught me about something people made up in their minds. He taught me how to drink my whiskey straight and how to get a women who was slightly above my looks to sleep with me, but never something so absurd as ghosts. Utter nonsense. But still I couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe the house was a bit big for me. I didn’t need three bedrooms all by myself. What could I possibly do with the extra two rooms?

And than I heard it, a pounding on my front door. I glanced down at my watch. It as a quarter past one. Quite too late for guests. I racked my brain for someone I might had invited over from the pub earlier today. No one came to mind. Even the redhead I met, with her crooked front tooth and collarbones spotted with freckles, surely had the decency to call I would imagine. But maybe that was how people acted in such a posh-less town.

Again I heard the pounding. Reluctantly getting up, I put out my cigar. Possibly it was the police. Maybe there was another lonely guy in another house that decided this was the night he would off himself. This night when I had just moved in and was enjoying my night. How indecent.

I flicked on the hallway light slowly making my way down the stairs to the door. I pulled back the curtain. There was an older women standing there.

“Who is it?” I said behind the door.

“You parked in front of my house. You can’t park in front of my house, you bastard.”She proceeded to bang on the door, fist clench along with her teeth. A wild grin crossed her face as her thin grey hair flapped to the side. “You parked in front of my house,” she continued. “You can’t park there.”

“I’m sorry I think you’re mistaken, you see…”

She cut me off. “You can’t…you can’t park there, ok. Open the…”

I unlocked the door seeing if I could settle the matter. A pair of dark pupils stared back at me, almost matching the darkness around her.

“I don't have a car,” I said.

“There-there that’s you,” she said her arms outstretched.

I squinted my eyes but still couldn’t see her house much less past my driveway.

“You cant do that.” Her nostrils flared as spit flung from her bottom lip.

I stared at her. “Sorry.”

With that she turned around disappearing into the blackness. I shut the door behind me, making sure to ease the deadbolt back into place. I made my way upstairs to my bedroom and laid there. To think I thought it was that redhead wanting to make love instead of some cunt who was probably just drunk. I drifted off to sleep, feeling the cool breeze against my back that crept thought the ajar window which lead to the porch.

#

“It is a lovely house,” she said as she sat with her legs crossed.

I glanced down at her pale legs protruding from her thin dress. “Would you like another?”

“Please,” she said. She smiled taking a sip, letting her lips linger on the glass staining it slightly red.

I watched her gulp it down.

She handed me the glass. “So I wanted to ask you if its not to much..I was wondering what brings you out here? I mean no one comes to Crawford. I mean no one.” She smiled again revealing her one crooked tooth. It was the only thing about her that I didn’t like. Besides that she looked nice sitting there in my living room on the couch across from me. Possibly a bit too young, but I liked them like that. Innocent, wide eyed.

“This house, really,” I said pouring the Marlow gently at a slanted angle into the glass. It clinked slightly as I pulled the bottle back up.

“Do you have others?” she said.

“Oh, yes. It’s a bit of hobby of mine, actually. I have five total.”

“Really?” her dark blue eyes widened. “Which is your favorite?”

“This one.”

“Why?” She leaned her head to the side, puzzled. Her skinny strap swayed down her shoulder showing her beautiful freckles. She looked even better than I the times I saw her at Rosie’s. Probably because of the lighting, that place was always so illy lite.  

I leaned in. “I don’t know…It’s new and exciting.”

She leaned, her eyes widening. Sometimes I saw her there with a guy about her age, sometimes with a friend or two.

I glanced away looking upstairs. “Do you want me to show you?”

Her eyes screamed yes but she didn’t move. I grabbed her hand, small inside in mine and led her upstairs. She swayed, leaning against the handle, her heals clicking against the hard wood floors.

I led her upstairs and onto my bed, kissing my way down her slender body. I began to slowly take off her dress letting it fall to the ground in front of me. I looked at here, laying there in front of me. Her hair matched her undergarments I noted as I threw them to the side. I got on top of her smothering her into the covers. I traced the moonlight against her skin, silky soft. I kissed her pulling her hips into mine. She pulled away glancing out at the window, as if she could see his body dangling there.

“Why?” Her eyes looked at me. “Tell me why.”

I brushed that red hair to the side. “You’re so pretty,” I said into her ear.

She pulled away. “No, why did you buy this house. Why this one?”

I looked at her naked in the moonlight.

“Why,” she pressed. “Tell me.”

“That view. I just had to have it.”

She paused for a second placing her hands against my chest. “Show me.”

I took her off the bed and out to the patio. We stood there naked in the moonlight, the wind brushing against our skin. I pressed her against the ledge and kissed her. Hard. I could feel her back arching into me. I could feel her lips pressing deeper into mine. I could feel her freckles with my eyes closed shut.

And then I heard it. That pounding on my front door for the third time this god damn month. I threw on my rob, lacing the top up. I thew open the front door yelling into the darkness. But she was gone. Vanished without a trace. I stood there speechless for second. I turned to leave but saw something out of the corner of my eye. It laid there on the ground motionless before me. But I knew what it was. I could see it stained. Stained with his blood. A little bit of rope. A small little tinny piece. But I was sure it was the very one they cut his body from. I didn’t go to bed that night. Even after I fucked her brains out until she laid exhausted her lungs heaving and satisfaction written all over that tooth. No instead I sat out on the porch holding the rope listening to her snore peacefully in my bed. Poor little thing.

#

Don’t take more than two per twenty four hours. If insomnia continues after three days contact doctor immediately. The bottle read.

I popped two and waited. Three hours passed. I laid there in the bed. Why wont these damn pills work? I mean they’re shipped from all the way across the pound. Only way I could get them really. I even contacted my specialist. I had done everything he said. I ate three solid meals a day. I bathed twice. I even cut back on smoking. But still I would lie awake for hours only drifting off for a few before I felt the sun glaring against my eyes. Sex didn’t help either. Which oddly enough I had been having a lot lately. The only thing my father had been able to give me good advice on.

But besides the neighbors, the house was everything I dreamt it to be. The redhead just happened to be a plus. I guess I would miss her after the summer. Figured I rent the place out. The lake would surly be frozen over and after bringing it up to her one night I decided that was what I would do. I had no need for it besides she said she would be at school. So I set out to fix up the other two rooms. The one I turned into a din of sorts. I had a large tv installed into the wall and surround sound placed within. I didn’t use it often but the redhead liked it so I kept it. She would come home from work and plop down on the couch, her bag thrown across the floor and the tv clicked on. Then we would go at it. And at it again. Sometimes four or five times before she had to head home. I gave her a key and told her to use it anytime. Maybe if she took a winter break or whatever. It was really no use to me. The second room, I turned into a spar bedroom. I could already tell that the floor had been worn away in two opposite corners. Twin beds must had sat there for sometime. Then again the report said he had two twin daughters. I bought two twin beds and placed a telescope out the window. The window in this bedroom gave the best view of the lady’s house. I could even see into her kitchen. And I could see her rubbish outside from my perch. Oddly it was always full. There were no bags, but instead filled with black ash probably burnt cuttings of grass. But no one came in or out of the place. I was certain that no one lived there. I spend hours when she was at work looking out the window for that old lady. But I never saw her or any car park outside her place. But still I waited for her knock at my door. I knew it would eventually come.

#

Then I saw it one sunny afternoon. An old Chrysler maybe 85 or 86. A faint blue color. She was driving. Her head bent to the side of the car and I swore she looked directly at me and smiled at me. But there wasn’t anyway she could see me. I was too far away. Unless of course she knew. I watched her car slowly pull into the driveway. I craned my eyes looking at it, trying to read the license plate with my old Schmidt & Bender scope that I had found stashed away in an old cabinet. I could make out the first two symbols a 3 and then a K. But I couldn’t see the rest as her car eased into the gauge and shut, sealed tight. I ran outside yelling at her, banging on her door. Her old green wooden door pealed off with paint as my fist beat into it. Why wouldn’t the cunt answer? Finally I gave up strolling back but I stopped before her rubbish. I peal back to lid, looked inside, only to be accompanied by a smell stronger than I have ever smelt. I peered into the corner, my eye glancing at pieces of wood. Burnt wood. But not any wood. The very same mahogany from my house. How did she get it? I pondered this, walking back inside my house.

There I smoked a cigar out on the porch watching the water. The sunlight glistened off the water top shimmering in the afternoon heat. When did he do it? Did he wait until it was dark and hung a light to guide himself? Or maybe he did it now, in the daylight right before dust. That was probably the better choice. After all thats when I’d probable do it. The smoke lingered in my lungs, cupping my throat with its sweet aroma. It was so quiet out here, different from the bustle of the city. I could get used to it. Then I heard it again, a faint steady knock. On my damn door! The nerve that she must have had. I would show her this time.

I ran down stairs not even hesitating to put out the cigar and instead flinging it into the waters bellow. But I tripped over the hard wooden surface. “Fuck,” I yelled. My toe hit wood. It started to bleed a deep red color onto the floor but I couldn’t feel it. I could only see it spreading everywhere. I opened the door and yelled.

“You son of a…” the words stopped in my throat. It wasn’t the lady. How could it not be her? Instead two officers stared back at me. They both wore hats but I could tell one was balding.

“Oh, hello officers,” I said a knot forming in my throat.

“Is this a bad time?” the one on the left said. I felt his eyes look at me.

“No, I just sort of stubbed my toe it seems. Nothing big or anything. What can I do?”

“I see,” the one on the right said. He looked down at my toe. He looked back at me behind a dark pair of shades.

“The thing is we got a noise complaint,” the left said. He put his hands on his belt. They lined the gun resting on his right side.  

“Yah, we did. Do you know anything about it?”

“Oh, yes. My neighbor she comes over at night and bangs, well she bangs on my door. She says I park outside her house or something…not that I do but…can you talk to her. It seems that maybe he have a misunderstanding or….”.

“We got a complain for this house, sir. You know anything about that?”

“Can’t say I do. I don’t know why someone would call. I mean I’m pretty quiet always water my grass too.”

“It seems that it regards someone seeing you banging on your neighbor’s door this afternoon.” “Oh, no you have that wrong. I…”

“Did you bang on their door, sir?”

“I mean I did but I saw her pull up and like I said he’s been harassing me and..”

“She’s harassing you?” the left asked.

“Well yes officer she…”

The right spoke up again. “Were are you from?”

I stared at him caught off guard. “I’m from Oslo. Norway that is.”

They both look surprised.

“What are you doing out here?” the one on the left said.

“I’m enjoying the summer. I bought this house for the summer. Quiet a nice house, sturdy wood and…”

“What do you do in Oslo, sir?”

“My uncle and I own a law firm. Quiet successful actually. So I’m just here for the summer like I said. Don’t want no trouble or anything.”

“I see.”

“Try and keep it down.”

“And maybe try and get some rest.”

“Yes, I will. Sorry for the confusion officers,” I said shutting the door.

That fucking cunt. She set me up. I ran back up the stairs and into the bedroom. Their car slowly pulled out of the driveway. I watched them go. I held the gun, my eyes strained on the scope. My sight rested on his head, the cross hairs in between his eyes, the whole time.

#

The redhead left, went back to school last week. We fucked one last time the night before,  out on the patio, out in the moonlight. I remember the smell of her hair mixed with sweat and wine. I wanted to leave with her but decided to stay a few more nights. I found a box of old photographs in the closet of the third bedroom. The daughters were red heads oddly enough. But the father had brown hair. I’m not sure what this meant. Maybe his wife had an affair with someone so he killed himself. That’s the best solution I came up with.

I set a fake car, a casual white SUV outside her window. I waited till it was dark and waited in the bedroom for her to come out, storming across the street. I’m sure she’d take the bait then I’ll be waiting for her, ready to finally catch her in the act. I looked out the scope, pinned on her front door. It opened and she looked at me. I sworn that she looked at me. My eyes pressed against the cold glass. I felt my eyelashes flicker against the bulb. She started to run across the street screaming, coming for me. I ran down stairs with the rifle against my side. Sweat dripped from my hands but I held it highly above my head. She knocked. A loud forceful knock. I flung open the door and threw the blunt of the gun into her skull. I felt it connect with a thud. Her body fell to the ground. But there was a garment dropped her her head, covering her face. She fell face down hard into the mahogany. Her head hit with a bang. I even heard a small crack of her neck.

I got on top of her my hands tugged around her neck. Harder and harder. My heart pounded against my rip cage. My knuckles turned white. And then I lifted her hood. Red hair. I fell back. My hands shook. She stared blankly back at me. Those precious deep blue eyes. Red hair. Sticky red hair clung to my fingers as her blood worked its way into my nails. Red hair. Red Rope. Red Rope. Everywhere.

[lukegibbspublication]

[lukegibbspublication]

Silver, Bone Shaped Tag

I picture her bellow the ground, her body being eaten away by worms. In my imagination, her big wet tongue doesn’t lap any longer and her black Labrador coat doesn’t shine in the sun like it used to. In fact, I’m beginning to forget what she really looked like. One of the only physical thing I have left of her, is her rusted silver, bone shaped tag; the one she wore as a puppy when her black paws were far too big for her feet. I can still make out her name Misty engraved on it every time I see it dangling from my keychain. It reminds me of that early morning phone call I received from my dad, the day I learned that she died. Somedays I wish that I could forget all of the memories I have of her and somedays I do. “We survive by remembering. But sometimes we survive by forgetting” (The Uninvited). But I wonder if forgetting means not caring anymore. Because I still care. But it seems as if each day I care a little bit less. And I’m stating to believe that this is the only way out of this labyrinth of suffering- to simply not care anymore.

My phone buzzed, waking me up form my slumber. It was my dad. I answered it, confused and not fully awake. “Hello?” “Luke?” His voice sounded strange, tense even. “Yes?” I answered, rubbing my hand through my hair. “She died. There was a small percentage that she would have made it anyways,” he said. I clung onto the phone unable to say anything. My throat choked up. “Are you still there?” “Yeah,” I finally let out. “I’m sorry,” he said.

I turned off the phone as tears fell down my face. I crawled back into bed wishing that I could just disappear. How could she be gone? I had known her almost my entire life. She wasn’t that old. But her heart had given out. And just like many things in life, that was that. When I woke up, I didn’t feel anything. I went to school. I eat dinner. Nothing was different but at the same time everything was. After that night, I stopped calling my parents. I stopped caring about life. Even though I was not sad, I was not happy either. I was floating in limbo and I didn’t want to be saved. You can’t be saved from yourself.

When my dog of eight years died, people kept on asking me if I was okay. I didn’t cry after that night. Why should I cry over something that just wasn’t anymore? I was fine. But for some reason I kept thinking that she just ran away and that any day now I would get a call that she was in the backyard, laying out on the grass with her legs in the air enjoying an afternoon nap like she used to. But she wasn’t coming back. The times we spent running on the beach or the moment I bought her after saving up for almost a year, where just memories. I would never again get to run my hands over her ruff, shinny black coat or feel her tongue lap at my face. And as I thought back to how much she changed my life, I thought back to how little I changed hers. I abandoned her when I left for college. She became more depressed towards the end of her life. I only took her on walks about once a week. And even then, she often seemed too tired to continue our usual route. It was as if she knew she was dying and wanted to make it as painless as possible.

The death of a loved one is a peculiar thing. I didn’t lose a family member, but it still hurts. Dogs aren’t people but sometimes we invite them into our lives as if they are. We attribute human emotions towards them. And we cry when they die, even though they never feared death to begin with. We no longer hunt them like our primitive selves used to and we no longer use them to hunt but we still need them, if nothing else but for the love they put into our lives. Every since the 19th century, they have been known as man’s best friend. But I often wonder, if we truly treat them that way or if the notion only passes our minds in their absence.

I asked a few people on soulpancake how they coped with the loss of a family dog and most of them said that they grieved for a long period of time but eventually found that getting a new dog helped. One lady wrote, “After years of loving her and feeling loved…I can’t imagine that love will ever dissipate and the hurt from her life ending won’t either. Luckily, when the family pet dies we still get to keep all the happy memories”. I don’t think that reminiscing helps. You can’t just live in your memorizes and count that as the present.

One of my favorite authors, John Green, wrote “When you stopped wishing things wouldn’t fall apart, you stop suffering when they did.” It feels, at times, as if I am floating through life. I’m not going to pretend that I am special. Everyone has at some point in their lives have lost something that they thought they could not live without. It’s as if you lost your glasses and went to the doctor and he said that there are no more glasses and that you will just have to do without them. Life goes on and life stops for no one. The only way to not survive, is to stop- to stop talking, to stop participating, to stop writing and to stop moving. The keys to surviving, is to not let anything mean too much. It takes forgetting and just letting the undertow of life drown you until you forget what it’s like to feel.

I remembering feeling angry at my parents after my dog died. They wouldn’t pay the money for her to have surgery. They never took her on walks when I was away. And they let her body fall apart by feeding her way too much. Sometimes I think she died from lack of love since she wasn’t that old. The first time I went home after Misty died, it didn’t feel right. It felt so empty and now every time I go back it doesn’t feel right.

It’s easier to just pretend that nothing really matters. It’s easier to forget how much Misty means to me and to forget what it means to be a family. But if you don’t, you find yourself stuck in what psychologist describe as the five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. And this means you can’t move on in life. Maybe I’m still stuck between the third and fourth stage. But accepting grief in life, means that it doesn’t hurt anymore and that it doesn’t mean anything. But it still hurts and it still matters. I don’t know what is so bad about being stuck in these stages and wondering back and fourth through them. It means being hurt but there is so much power in being able to feel emotions towards life. Isn’t this what it means to be alive?

My dad used to tell me that I should just change my perception on things. That things aren’t so bad and that I will not always feel this way. That in short, there is no glamor in sadness so why not just be happy. But he forgot to mention how there is so much more meaning in being to express how you actually feel, to wake up in the morning and stare at yourself in the mirror and proclaim the truth. I can’t just wake up one day and change how I feel. You can’t make up happiness. You can’t capture it in a bottle and force it down your throat until you’re yellow inside. It doesn’t work like that. Happiness, genuine happiness is not something you can force. It comes and goes as it pleases.

I will not be sad forever. I will forget what her death meant and I will move on. I will accept the anhedonia feeling towards pain because this is what people do. We care less and this allows us to move on and embrace life again. But right now I’m still going to hold on to the hurt. I’m still going to hold on to that rusty tag. Because there is so much to learn about happiness in grief. But happiness that is kept in isolation, is not happiness at all. True happiness must to shared and must be real. And it is days like today, that I wish I could share them with her. But I’m stuck in this labyrinth, alone and only comforted by the fact that I will eventually forget that I’m really lost because this is what humans do.

[lukegibbspublication]

Change Is A Side Effect of Dying

“To live is the rarest thing in the world, most people exist that is all” –Oscar Wilde.

Wilde recognized something that science did not, that there is a distinct difference between being alive and actually living. Living is more than just sustaining life, more than just surviving. It is participating, saying true things, feeling, listening and being aware of yourself and the things around you. Things exist. And sometimes people act as if they do to, always daydreaming about someday until that someday comes, passes and that is their life. People live in fear of dying and systematically fear of living so that all they end up doing is simply existing, escaping into their minds, while staying trapped within a metaphysical labyrinth.

“I’m Kat,” she says, “but with a K not a C!” Her eyes are wet under the diluted skyline as we continue down the street. It’s cold. I can almost hear the sound of her eyelashes as they blink. Black and wet. Small droplets clinging to her thick mascara. She pulls out a cigarette, lighting the end with a sky colored lighter she slips from underneath her bra. She puffs on the filter, her face glowing, as the fire emits from the burning tobacco. She smirks. “My mum liked it,” she says blowing out the smoke into the air. She passes it to me and I take it, letting the smoke emancipate my lungs. We continue down the streets, bumping into each other playfully as the vodka swarms around our heads. Is this what the world, stripped down to its bones, feels like?

It is a undeniable reality, that humans live a temporary life in a temporary universe, that in short everyone who wades through time eventually gets dragged out to the sea by the undertow (Green 120). In saying this, time or when we cease exist is of no importance. This single statement must be grasped if any change is to arise from how we view death. Humans are the only living creatures that keep track of time, to the point that they obsess over it. Animals and nature, value time in the sense that they know when to let go. They know that their death brings about life, that destruction is a form of creation. But humans do not. We see ourselves making a lasting impression on the world, one no one will forget to the point that most of the marks we leave end of being just scars. We envision the kind of person we’re been, who we are, and who we’d like to become, which alienates us from ever being truly present. This manipulation of the future is a kind of nostalgia which we use to transcend the present. We must learn to let go and know that living is more important than surviving. And that living is not a product of this abstract idea we call time.

Her heels tap against the pavement as we run across the street. She stops at an ally and rummages through her purse, pulling out a bag filled in whiteness. “You want any?” she asks as she proceeds to place a bit on her hand. I just stare at her, my mind racing. “Well, do you?” The letters drip of her lips, nonchalantly. I shrug. She smiles, her blue eyes glowing, as I take it from her small palm .She laughs. “You have a bit…” she says whipping the end of her nostril. I follow her gesture and whip the remaining powder from under my nose. And then we continue down the streets of Melbourne together, in a daze towards another club. My heart is racing but somehow I really don’t care. I mean, I just really don’t care what happens.

What makes life so important to us? And the answer rests in the single fact that life ends and that it can end at any moment. But what keeps us living, is that we enjoy life. Living makes us happy. If not, what is the point in living when you much rather be dead?  “When you stop doing things for fun, you might as well be dead”- Ernest Hemingway. A part of living is crying or experiencing suffering. But what if this suffering grow to the point that it becomes who you are? And this is the case with many people facing the option of euthanasia. Death is starring them in the face, incurable and painful, eating their body away. As Marc Weilde said in his diaries about his suffering mother, “ [It] is not so much her pain and sickness, but the fear of it getting worse and of losing control.”(Weilde). She fears losing control of her life and all that she knows.

The night cares on. We order a few Gin and Tonics at the bar before continuing towards the dance floor. The lights blur together, long ecstatic rays, as our bodies move in slight titilation. The worries of the world fade away with every thump against out chest and every dissipating soliloquy. Sometime later we make it to the outer porch and she dips her finger back onto the bag, licking it clean. We sit together on the ledge, her bare legs touching mine. She slowly crosses her legs, smoke falling from her perched lips. A wild smile crosses her face. And then she leans into me. Her lips indulge mine, the sweet Marlboro Lights passing into my lungs. I place my hand on her check brushing her blonde hair aside. And that’s when the alcohol begins to take over and I lose consciousness. We fall into the plush seats of a taxi.

In most of the countries today, euthanasia is illegal. In fact, Washington and Oregon are the only states that allow physician assisted suicide, which is made up two deaths per every 1,000 in 2011 in Oregon according to Parement of Canada. In the Netherlands, Belgium and Luxembourg it is legal with strict guidelines. While in the UK, Switzerland and Australia it is practiced with little or no government enforcement. But it is downright illegal in France, Canada and most other places in the world. And this is an infringement on human rights- the right to live and more importantly the right not to. Euthanasia is purposely allowing an individual to die though medication or some other “pain free” form instead of letting them die by natural causes. It is shortening a person’s life span not taking it. People inevitably die but their matter, which cannot be created or destroyed, does not. By these definitions, euthanasia is similar to suicide. Both evolve a level of individual pain (emotionally or physically) as well as choice, which is a factor usually overlooked. And possibly most importantly both offer a measure of time- one being physical the other psychological. There is no winning against death, simply acceptance.

Her heels wobble as she climbs out of the window and onto the roof top. I follow her, my balance teetering. And there we sit, looking out over the city as the sun makes it journey towards the surface. The bright yellow decimates the grey ski, though the moon remains. She passes me a Coors Light. I take a sip, gagging from the taste. She laughs, like it’s the funniest thing in the goddamn world, finishing the bottle.

“You know, what’s the point in living if you’re not happy?” she says.

“I don’t know.”

She lets the bottle, roll off the roof and hit the ground with a crash. “My mum once told me that.” She pauses. “Are you happy?” I don’t say anything. “I wonder if you could jump across onto the other house without falling?” she says adding to the silence.

“I don’t think so, it’s far. You’d break a leg…maybe even die if you land wrong.”

“I’m gonna try….dare me to?” she counters standing.

“No”

“Why?” Her voice is defiant.

I don’t have an answer for her. I don’t know her yet I fear her death. But why? Why do we as humans value time above all else? People live as if the point to living is to live. That the greatest thing in life is to live long, only dying when it takes you. But I’m not her. I don’t know what she is thinking, what she is feeling. And who am I to say what she should do with her life? Who am I to stand in her way, if death makes her happy?

Euthanasia should be available to anyone who wishes to end their life earlier. It is a personal choice and should be protected as such. It is selfish to hang onto someone, who is in pain, so that you don’t have to let them go. This comes from the belief that love has to possessed instead of merrily appreciated. Love is letting others go, not because you want them to but because they want to. It is the choice of every individual of what they do with their remaining days. Life should not be valued based on the days we live, but how we live those days.

According to ProCon.org, one reason euthanasia is seen as wrong today is that it is view from the perspective of what will happen if the power is abused. “What we are arguing against is the idea that other people can legally help someone accomplish that goal. Why? Because people can be pressured, can be tricked, and can be taken advantage of. The weak, troubled, sick, and handicapped have very small and easily ignored voices in this world. The healthy, powerful, and well-off have loud voices and commonly believe that they know what is best for those who are in their care. This law can easily be abused.” (Diary of a Pro-life Girl). This issue, of government control over a personal decision is one major reason euthanasia is not legal in most countries. Governments don’t fear people willfully choosing when they die but being forced or persuaded to. This is why euthanasia can only be performed in a safe and secure environment with multiple doctors and the possibility to not carry though at any time. But this fear should not keep people from being able to leave peacefully.

And I look at her, the small of her back against the oranges and purples and the sun casting a shadow over her. The fact was, I didn’t get to choose how she made me feel. It was as if I didn’t have a say in the matter. I was attracted to the mere fact that her head just reached the tip of my shoulder. And the way her crooked smiled look when she smirked. And how she felt, all one hundred and fifteen pounds of her in my arms. Why humans are ever given emotions, I’ll never know. I didn’t know her, but I wanted to. But I knew I would never really know her. Just as she would never really know herself, but simply undefinable fragments. But that didn’t mean I didn’t care about her. My physically body cared about her; like how a fish physically cares about water, even though he holds no emotion towards it.

When students were surveyed at Chapman University and asked about what they thought about euthanasia around 75% said that it was wrong based on the claim that they would want to exist. Many also had religious affiliations though agreed that government should not place a law against euthanasia. An even higher percentage, around 80%, said that they would not choose euthanasia if they found themselves in that position. I believe that these statistics revert back to the claim earlier that humans desire to preserve life at all costs. That it is better to suffer and wait it out knowing that you did everything to survive. But this points to a worldview aimed at survival. Is the point of life to simply exist? Is there nothing more? Society places survival as the most important thing in life when it isn’t. We are taught to cry at death and spend our lives in fear of our fate. But death is so beautiful, peaceful and silent. Without death there is would be no such thing as life.

If you can see the problem with viewing life as nothing but time spend on the earth, then the option of euthanasia is enlightening. It relieves suffering, for the mere sake of suffering. And most of all it gives an individual a painless option of saying goodbye. For it is not that we question whether humans have the right to die but if doctors can medically help them reach this state. And why shouldn’t they? It isn’t murder if they want to die and they agree to their terms. It is instead an act of love. And should be viewed as such. If you ever find yourself or someone you love facing the option of euthanasia, I hope you think of Kat. Not whether or not she jumped off the roof that day or a thousand days from than but that she did eventually jump off. It is not when we died but how we live that defines us. We will all fall off that roof someday and when it happens doesn’t matter. Learn to accept that all things fall apart and that this doesn’t have to be sad. For it is within the broken pieces, the thousand shattered bits of glass cutting through the corners of your skin, that you can find what it means to truly live.

[lukegibbspublication]

RY application

A young guy out of high school, I couldn’t help but want to travel the world. I was from a small, hick town (to put it quite bluntly) and wanted to get out. I want to see things. Experience people. And I wanted to explore myself. I wanted to be different. I was tired of the person I had become. The person that spent 9am class in calculus, spent lunch with the girl who KISSED ME, and then spent the afternoon playing ball. I was tired to reading books until I passed out at 2am. I wanted to get away from people, but I think the person I couldn’t stand the most was myself. 

So I boarded a plan to Australia. Just me, two suitcases and an empty notebook. To say the least, I returned less then six months later. The note book still empty. That’s not to say, it wasn’t a trip I would never forget. (But I found out I can only spend so much time with myself). In any sense, I returned to California were I spent the next four years going to a small liberal arts college. 

In many ways, it was exactly what I expected. I had my fair share of parties, fair share of one night stands and definitely more then my share of booze. Coming from a poor family and already in debt from my earlier adventure, I ended up landing a bartending job my junior year. I don’t know what it is, but every time I get hooked on something, I get addicted to it. For the next two years. That’s all I really did. I spent the days, making excuses to not attend class. (And begging my professors not to fail me for missing too many). I got Cs. And I wrote some good words during those years, but the nights were mine. And I spent them. I’d get home at 3 sometimes 4 in the morning, from slinging drinks and sit down in my garage, on my worn couch, smoke weed and think about ending it all. Work was great. The only thing that kept my mind from thinking. I met tons of cool people and there were always girls asking for my number. I even asked my boss to give me shifts (even the slow ones) Just so that I didn’t have to be at home. Sitting. Thinking. About everything. 

Yes, you can probably guess why. It’s cliché. And I always hatted being predictable. But I couldn’t help it. I kept coming back to her. Thinking about her. Writing about her. And then eventually taking a stack of bars and washing it down with a fifth of Ketle One (If you want me to go somewhere, anywhere just bring that. that is it) And yes, I spent nights drinking alone at the bar because of her. And I spent more in that garage, trying to write a coherent sentence. But I was addicted to her. And consequentially everything about her. 

You see at the beginning of my junior year, before I started working full time. I still got mostly Cs but I went to class. (yes, Mrs Leahy that is the story I’m going with). But things were different. I was different. I was fine with going to lame parties with my friends. I was fine not going abroad that year. I was fine. But she changed me. I met a girl. At a party, out on the lawn waiting for an uber. She was bitchy. I was an asshole. I got her number. But god, did she not change me over the next six months. I thought about sex and love differently. I was fine with being sober. Enjoyed it. Enjoyed texting her. Enjoyed kissing her. But afterwards, I didn’t want to think anymore. I didn’t want to look in a mirror at who I was . So I spent my time at work and in my garage. Trying to hold it together. I heard music differently. I wrote differently. I drank differently. And for the next two years (and maybe the rest of my life). I was looking at the end of the bottle, and I didn’t know what to think about it.

There’s something I learned while bartending. People don’t really know what they’re drinking. They don’t know how to drink properly. They wanted a chilled shot because they think it will go down smoother (Are you taking a shot or not?). They want liquors (the sweet shit) poured all over their drink. And they drink it fast, through a straw as quickly as possible (at least at clubs). Any alcohol will do. But I learned you have to let the alcohol sit there. Let it mix with the ice and leave a little ring on the bar top. Let the lime flavor drip down the side. Let your lips sip the side of the glass and taste it. Really taste it. It’s strong. Yes. It hurts your stomach a little. And yes it burns doing down (and coming up). But what does it taste like? There’s a moment before your lips taste the liquid and before your taste buds scream. It’s a small moment but can often feel like forever to the trained tongue. 

She took things from me I will never get back. Pieces of myself. She stood a moment of my tongue and it felt like forever. And I threw up. She tore my insides out until I couldn’t stand the person I was compared to who I had become. But you wake up, swear you’ll never get drunk again and drink an ice cold Gatorade. But the itch comes back. Maybe not this week. Maybe not this month. But it comes and it goes. And it’s never to late to order something else. Try bourbon. Heck drink tequila.  I guess pieces, versions of ourselves, come and go. And that’s the definition of wanderlust. Finding a different piece. And letting another one go. 

[lukegibbspublication]

Shot of Patron, Shot of Water

CHAPTER 3

Day 364: I’m not sure how someone can mean everything to you and then simply, without warning, not be there anymore. She changed me. She made me think differently about sex and about love. And then suddenly she wasn’t breathing anymore. It was as if there was no longer a breathing, physical evidence of how I became who I was. I was just left there. I found her used bandage, green with black letters on it, in my bed that morning. There was a little bit of blood etched into the white cotton, but it was dry. She probably never noticed, as it peeled away from her skin. Peeled away, leaving the cut to heal itself. I guess like all cuts though, it would eventually scab over and then it would slowly disappear until there was only a small, unnoticeable scar. I can’t say the same for her. Some of her laid smashed up in a ball, blood covering her once white sheets. The other colors of her laid scattered about. The carpet. The beige walls. Even a spot of red on her blue bong in the corner. Everywhere.

# “What are you, you doing here? I thought I made it clear. Family only,” Rodger says. The bastard eyes me as I stand at the door idle. My palms begin to sweat as I look over at her standing next to him. Him. How is she still married to him? “I thought he should be here. She would have wanted it,” her mom says. Her stance wavers. She’s looking at him. Rodger turns to her, his face red. He turns back to me, his eyes looking directly at me. “No, you don’t get to see it. It’s family only … And you’re not family, not even close.” “I…she’d want me to see it,” I say. Stay calm. But this isn’t going to be easy. I have to see what’s written. I have to know. I have to. I’ve already waited a whole year. He isn’t going to take this away from me. The bastard just looks at me, grasping the paper in his hand, crumbling the white edges in his grasp. Those are her fucking words. NOT his. “Just let him read her … her letter,” she says. Even after a whole year, I can still see the hurt in her eyes. The hurt because of me. “That’s all I want.” That’s all I want. “You dated her, what, less than a year? You didn’t even come to her funeral. No.” “Rodger, stop,” she says. She laces her arm on his, restraining him there. But who’s holding me back? “You’re a kid. A druggie,” he says. He’s right. He is. “I love her,” I say. But it’s not true. How can you love someone that’s dead? How can love be that fragile? That paper fucking thin.   “I’m her dad. Wh…what the fuck do you know about love, huh? How could you, you possibly understand? It’s not like you watched them take her away … away from us.”   “Stop. Just stop…stop it,” she says. But I don’t listen to her. Instead I take my hands out of my pockets and walk up to him. I look him in the eyes. They beat back at me. Chest forward. His black tie coiled around his thin neck. His watch wavers in the air, tight against his skin. Money can’t buy dead people. “She doesn’t even mention you.” “Please. Adam, I’ll talk to him later. Can you leave, please?” Lines form on her face. But neither of us care to stop and see what they mean. “She didn’t care about you. She never did … Just some random guy. I mean you weren’t even the last.” He says the last words like he knows something that I don’t. I take a breath, squeezing the oxygen from my lungs. My heart’s pounding. My fist clenches. I’m not going to say it. I’m not going to say it. “Maybe,” I say. He laughs to himself, turning away from me. That fucking bastard. Then I say it underneath my breath, so low that it feels like the words are etched into my spine. “Maybe … But I found her. I fucking found her.” He turns. Anger. Smile gone. “What did you say to me?” “I found her…I’m the one that...” “Get out!” “Not you.” “Get the fuck out. Get the fuck out!” He’s quiet for a second, and then he says something under his breath. I can barely make out the words. “It’s your fucking fault. You could have…” And then right there he starts to break up. I can see the tears. Why is he crying? Like tears really mean anything. I leave. I slam the door behind me. I throw my fist into the fucking wall. Hard. My knuckles ooze red. But I don’t look down. I can feel the blood running down my hand. I get into my Beemer. My hands grasp the steering wheel. I smear the blood all over the car. And just sit there. He’s fucking right. “FUCK YOU. FUCK YOU BITCH,” I yell. I scream until my lungs ache and my throat dries up. But who am I even yelling at? No one can hear me. It’s just me and my thoughts. “Get the fuck out of there. GET OUT,” I say banging my fist against my head. But nothing comes out. It’s as if I’m in one of those black and white movies with no sound and the viewer is left to make up the words. It’s my fault. If I was quicker. If I loved her more. If I….

# Something’s pushing me. Hard. Harder. Like waves crashing against … What? Mike finds me passed out on the couch, half a fifth of Jack in my hand. He sits down next to me. I can feel his weight on the couch. His arms wrap around me pulling me to sit up. Roughness. My hand grazes his beard. Dried blood everywhere. But I can’t get up. Instead my eyes glaze over the box as images flicker. Some cartoon. Red. Blues. My eyes fall to table. My hand reaches for the square glass. It falls short. “What are you doing man?” I look up at Mike. His brown little eyes match his full beard. “Nothinnn,” my lips form. Spit falls to the ground. I wipe my lips. They’re bloody too. And now I taste it. I lift it to my lips. My stomach arches forward at the smell. That distinct smell. I swallow, letting the liquor make its way down to the pit of my stomach. The burn rests in my throat. Coke. I need to wash the taste down. I reach for the glass. Fuck. It falls to the ground shattering. “Are you fucking serious?” “I’ll…I’ll…it, don’t worry…clean it up,” I say. “It’s okaay. Okay. I’m okay.” Lean over. I reach for the shards of glass but they move. My finger touches its edge. I pull back, licking the blood that gushes from my finger. “Stop it. I’ll get it,” Mike says. “Thanks.” He bends down picking up the pieces. But he can’t possibly get them all. They’re already making their way into the carpet. Lost there forever, probably. Mike sits down next to me, not saying anything. I close my eyes. “What it say?” his voice finally says. “Do..don’t worry. It’s okay.” “Yo, you can tell me man. I know she meant a lot to you or whatever.” I raise my head. It’s already dark outside. “Who?” “Um what’s her name? I mean what did you even like about her. She was kinda a bitch, man. I mean…” “Whatevers,” I let out. What the fuck does he know? “It sucks but it wasn’t going to work out. So whatever she said, fuck it man. It’s over. I mean you broke up with her ass.” He continues to talk, but I don’t really hear him. I just want to be sad. Can’t I just be sad for one moment? “…I mean we used to smoke weed all day and used to watch T.V. We used to sit right here and just get so stoned that we couldn’t think anymore. Look at … look at this.” “Yeah,” I say.   “You couldn’t have changed what happened.” “Yeah.” “Okay, be like that,” he says. “What you wanted me to say …That I’m better … better now? Like this.” He’s silent. I can only hear the faint noise in the background. My temple pounds against my earlobe. Then he’s talking again. “…I mean everything’s always about you. Oh, what does Adam feel like doing? What does Adam want? She’s not worth it man. Like what made her any different?” I watch him leave. And I continue to stare out into the blackness of the doorway. Is he coming back? I don’t know. He’s my best friend. But he doesn’t understand. She didn’t stay up until 3 am talking to him on the phone when her little cousin died. She didn’t fall asleep on his chest, with the rain pouring outside, when he dropped out of law school. She didn’t call him right before she offed herself. What does that mean? My eyes close into the blackness. What did she want to say? I can feel her head pressing against my chest and then it falls like dead weight. I can see her body being eaten by bugs, her flesh rotting in the ground. My head hits the cushion. I swallow, Jack covering the dried blood clinging to the inside of my upper lip.