This is What Happens When You Write Too Often
written by: Derrick R. Lafayette
My days mimic the sky during the months when the green leaves fade to brown. In this town, everything is gray. I shouldn’t have moved here alone. Technically, I didn’t, but I’m alone now. There’s a water stain on my uniform shaped like Canada. I rub it with calloused fingertips. The school kids point at me from behind glass windows, fidgeting in their chairs. Their uniforms are two-toned, jet and taupe. I forgot about the broken rake handle resting in my grip. I forgot I’m here to work.
Eavesdropping is my favorite hobby. I do it subconsciously during that special gap of time when no one needs me. If I could, I would master the art of hiding from the world. Luckily, I don’t have to, because it already hides from me.
A crowd of teachers gathers. I daydream and create their dialogue in my mind. I’m inclined to dramatic storylines. One’s sleeping with the other. Married to such and such. This pastime carries me until the bells ring. Until it’s time for me to vacate the premises. Until I’m back in seclusion, where I can’t make up words from other people’s mouths.
The 7th-grade English teacher is a short woman with flowing red hair, freckles, and huge glasses. Her eyes are round and brown, and she transforms into a hellcat whenever she narrows them. I would never hide from her. She waves in my direction every afternoon. Then she sways her hips on the way to her sedan in a come-hither manner. I recognize the advance, and a part of me crushes my ego. Every time, I smirk back and trek to the bus stop, reminding myself that it’s ok to dream about her.
The following month feels like an hour. I’m back beneath the trees, raking its fallen counterparts into a pile that an overweight child will cannonball into. I wait for the teachers to meet outside. I count the umbrellas as gray skies swallow the blue.
Someone’s missing. Her sedan isn’t in the parking lot. I know she’s supposed to be in today because I remember everyone’s schedules, even the substitutes. I feel pain in my chest. It’s like there’s a hand inside squeezing my heart. I sit at the root of the tallest tree in the yard as light rain falls on the brim of my worn-out cap. I look upwards at the Red maple, and a sense of security blankets me like a weary infant on a mother’s lap. I place my hand on the tree. It speaks.
“Find the color red.”
On the bus again, except I get off thirteen stops late. When I exit, I feel the pulse of society. There’s a bright array of colors coming from the nearby Chinese restaurant. The sidewalks are spotless, and the streetlights curve artistically. This is an upscale area.
I stare at a black and white cat drinking milk from a saucer on the steps of an expensive brownstone house. The English teacher lives across the street. I know this because I’ve memorized the directory. I see the sedan parked in front. Now full of milk, the cat approaches me, rubbing its tail against my calves.
I try to hide the work stains on my shirt by zipping up my hoodie. My stench roams unhindered. Well-to-do Fifty-year-olds breeze past me, volleying cautious looks, sensing a stranger’s presence. I ignore them, and the cat whispers in my ear.
“The door is unlocked.”
My feline accomplice is correct. The knob is crystal blue on her door. My heart races as I turn it. Inside, beneath a blanket, lying on a couch, I see the top of someone’s head. Their hair is colored blonde. Stealthily, I manage to close the door inaudibly. The cat zips between my legs as I walk further on my tiptoes.
An area rug in the center of the living room has a psychedelic design. Her TV is on, and I see colors reflecting off the wall. The volume is on mute. I peek around a corner to find the kitchen. A creak erupts from below my foot as I step on the floorboard.
Suddenly, there’s movement on the couch. A mannequin head with a blonde wig falls off and rolls in my direction. The cat halts it with its paw. I gently pull back the blanket on the couch to see a row of pillows gathered. The cat hisses at me.
“Say hello.”
“Hello?” My voice squeaks.
“The place is empty.”
“Are you sure?”
I take in all the details of her apartment. I raid the refrigerator and note all the organic groceries. There are pictures of her and a gentleman on a kitchen island. A piece of black tape has blocked out his face. I find tarot cards in a drawer. Sex toys in the bathroom. Razor blades in the bathroom. Unexpectedly, a sound occurs. Footsteps approach the front door. A key goes into the lock. I hear a man make a questionable noise. Then, he makes a definite sound. A hammer is pulled from the back of a gun.
“I don’t want to fight,” the man says.
I ponder the best place to hide. I realize I can’t find the cat when I reach her bedroom door. I place my ear to it. I hear nothing. I turn the knob.
Behind the door, standing water covers the entire area. It’s undulating. I see a reflection of myself that multiplies into infinity. I take one step forward.
***
My days are convoluted, and not a moment goes by that someone doesn’t want something from me. Often, I feel like a shadow without a body projection. I wear long sleeves all year round to hide my scars.
I teach my worst student how to spell ‘science’ correctly for the fifteenth time. He smiles, showing me his braces, and gingerly exits my classroom. There are no students left. I turn and look at the chalkboard. I look at the style in which I’ve drawn my name; each letter is a different color. Below it reads: Welcome to 7th-grade English.
Ten minutes before the bell rings, I lie to all my coworkers, telling them I left something behind or that I need to use the bathroom—all in an effort to get them to go without me. It hasn’t happened yet, but in four hours, my phone will have 49 missed text messages and 12 missed calls—all from the same person—a person I will never see again. I review the plan as I press the horizontal bar handle on the back door.
The rain feels good. I purposely walk into it without an umbrella. Two miles down the road, I locate my destination. An inconspicuous white minivan is parked in front of a diner. A bunch of hands wave from the window. I can see half-eaten pancakes on syrup-drenched plates. I see big smiles, droll expressions, and apathetic faces—my tribe of unknown members. I hear a squish when I sit, as they make room for me in the booth.
“I’m number eight.” A skinny man extends his hand to me. He gives me a big smile to hide his pain.
“I’m number thirty-three,” I respond, shaking his hand, unable to make eye contact.
“We’re all here then, I suppose,” he says before counting the freckles on my face.
“Before we go, can I use the bathroom?”
“We can’t leave yet,” an older woman cuts in. “I’m not done eating, and you didn’t even order yet.” She turns her finger in a wide circle. “We ALL need to be full before we leave.”
“Only for a moment,” I say in the sweetest tone before my chair screeches across the floor as I stand up.
I throw my head under the dryer in the bathroom and keep pressing the button to release the heat. Afterward, I remove a blue pen from my shirt pocket and place it on the edge of the sink, letting it dangle on one side. I squat and put my face next to it.
“He was never going to let you go,” the pen says.
“Sleepwalking through the days didn’t work,” I reply.
“Be free.”
I return to the booth and see a young waiter with a small notepad.
“Everything okay, ma’am?” The waiter asks before clutching a pencil under his hair and above his ear.
“It’s okay not to be okay,” I respond.
The waiter pauses. “Customer’s always right.”
I order a large orange juice, waffles, and bacon. My drink comes first, and right as I sip it, the older woman starts talking.
“You’d think at my age…you know, what’s the point? But it never stops,” she dabs the corners of her mouth with a napkin. “There’s no slowing down. The same nonsense surrounds you. Drama. Fights. Pain. Time won’t spare you from the world. Time is the devil’s work.”
I find myself nodding, not understanding what she truly means—number eight, the man with the big smile, chimes in.
“All I’ve ever known was the feeling of disappointment. My parents were decorated. Master’s in this, a doctorate in that. With all that knowledge, the only thing they ever taught me was how to make a mask. How to create a face. They weren’t human. I was, but I pretended to be a robot to have harmony with them.”
“Groomed, not taught,” a younger man with acne scars says after lifting his face from his cell phone.
“For as long as I can remember, I only wanted two things,” I say as my plate of food hits the table. “I wanted to be free. And I wanted to make my own choices. That’s vague, but it’s the best way to explain it without recapping my entire life. I feel as though I’m a bird in a cage. Which is the saddest of all because all a bird can do is fly. Except my wings are scarred.”
“What we’re doing right now is making that choice,” the older woman said.
“There is no such thing as choices,” a woman around my age joins the conversation—a woman with an apathetic face in the far-left corner of the booth. “No one has that much control. This is fate. The meal we’re eating, our plans, this banter—it was all predestined to happen. We’re doomed. We have to be. To balance everything out.”
“That’s bullshit,” number eight responds—the man with the big smile. “My parents chose to ignore me. They voluntarily shut me out.”
“It’s easy to think that. Makes you feel better. The human mind has to bring logic to everything. Even emotions. Truthfully, your parents, my parents, every human has no idea what the fuck they’re doing. They don’t see the strings from above that are moving them through life. I do,” the apathetic woman takes a sip of water. “I realize I’m not in control. I play my part. And I’m okay with that…even if it’s sad. It’s my fate. I’m number two, by the way,” she extends her hand to me. I shake it.
“It’s best to get it out now,” the younger man says while staring into his cell phone. “There is no confession without pain. Unless you want to take the pain with you.”
“I agree,” number eight says. “We’ll never have this conversation again.”
The young man with the cell phone clears his throat. “I stopped taking my pills about six days ago, just like my heroes. They’re all out there. I want to be there with them. I’m not 27 yet, but I will be by the time they find me so that I can join the club.”
“You’ve come to the right place,” number eight says as he places his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “I don’t know the word for a pre-birthday greeting. So, I’ll say Happy Birthday Eve. Anyone else care to share?”
“I thought success would save me,” I blurt out, feeling tears form. “But success is constant stress. Pressure. It’s a black hole. The more you get, the more you maintain. The more you enable. The more people you have to support. The leeches…they find you. They smell the success in you. And now I can’t fail. I always have to be on because who will love me if I fail?”
I feel the older woman’s hand caressing my own. “Finish up,” she points to my half-eaten plate of food. “It’s almost time to go.”
We all pile into the van. The drive is quiet. I hear the parking lot machine print out a parking ticket. I hear the echo of cars driving over speed bumps as we ascend higher and higher. I watch the numbers climb from Lot 3 to Lot 12 A.
We reach the top. I’m met by a massive gray sky looking down upon me. The roof is empty. As we move towards the edge, I hear a muffled cry. Number eight takes my hand. I take the hand of the young woman with the apathetic face, and we all link together. I stare at her instead of facing forward. There’s a wind chill, and when I look forward, I see we’re twenty stories up.
Number eight lifts his foot and steps on the ledge. We all follow. I finally look down. There is no bottom. There’s only a never-ending surface of water. It’s undulating. I see my reflection stretch into infinity.
“On three,” I hear number eight say. “One…two…three.”
They all jump. I let go of their hands. I watch the apathetic woman stare at me on her way down. She looks elated on her way into the water. I attempt to step back—my foot slips. My hands miss the ledge. The massive gray sky begins to look smaller and smaller.
***
I am over two hundred years old and unsure of my origin. Life found me, and then other life thrived within me. In my first memory, I saw elderly women circle me. They were dressed in black-and-white clerical garb. Lovers of earth, they carefully placed their withered hands inside, knowing soon they’d be below the dirt. My family was born. I oversaw them when I was three feet tall. Now, I stand over one hundred feet.
It took me time to realize that I am blessed. I learned this in multiple ways, from Man’s confessions as they rest below me, hiding from the sun, to the great rumbling that occurs from the destroyers—the machinery that’s uprooted the rest of us. I am grateful.
Presently, a person in a tattered uniform places his hand on me. His concern resonates. It is tangible among all living things. I can tell he exists in silence. Silence is the language I speak. He caresses me, searching for a sign. I am as I am. He receives validation from his desperation. I watch him walk away. There are secrets I wish to express. But I am not allowed.
The sky nourishes me when it cries. I bathe in it as I always have. As darkness seeps in, another man approaches. His movement is strange. Clutched below his arm is a small box, and he is dragging a long object. He sits below me and unearths a bottle. I watch him consume it entirely. I observe him mimicking the sky. I feel a shovel dig into my flesh.
There’s a hole beneath me. He opens a box. Inside are an array of pictures. His hand trembles as he scrolls through them. It is of a family. A wife and two children. Another bottle appears in his hand. It is consumed. He drops the box inside my wound, then piles my dead skin atop it. He mutters names as he leaves.
Time passes. Two teenagers wander close, covering themselves from the storm that rages on. They slip and land on my foundation. Engaged in an expression of love, I notice a particular rhythm begins and ceases. The girl reveals a knife. She stabs it into me and curves. The boy smiles. Words permanently carved on my body are words I cannot decipher. She hands him the knife. He continues in the barbaric ritual. Unbeknownst to them, I, too, feel pain.
Lightning startles the couple. Words are exchanged. The boy grabs the girl’s hand as they flee into the storm. I am alone again. This is my peace. I am allowed another day on earth until the following night. The sky is gray, as always. Nothing has fallen from the clouds.
A lone shadow arrives. He is my only visitor today. The shine of gunmetal gleams at his hand when he sits at my feet. His body feels lifeless amongst my own. But also heavy and sinful.
“I had to do it,” he murmurs repeatedly. “She was supposed to be there. Maybe she tried to run? Where would she go? I’ll find her. I own her. She won’t get away from me.” He pauses. I see his head moving as he continues the conversation with himself. “He was in on it. I recognized him. He didn’t count on that. From the school. I remembered his weird face.”
The man stands up and paces in a circle, tapping the gun on his knee.
“I need to hide. If she’d been there…I would’ve taken care of both of us. That was the plan.”
He raises the gun to his head. The sky is but a drizzle.
“Or maybe I’m wrong? They’re going to find me eventually. Maybe I can find her first and end it all?”
He lowers the gun.
“I’m in control. I’m in control,” he repeats. Each time he says it, I hear the confidence in his voice dwindle.
He looks up at the sky and points his weapon.
“You told me everything would work. I’m going to kill her. If you want to stop me, strike me down!”
And he does. A lightning bolt stretches into three parts, hitting the man, my feet, and the surrounding grass. His body is now completely lifeless, but I feel his hate lives on. Flames erupt below, crawling upon me and spreading to the others. As fire engulfs the field, I see flames spreading like undulating water. I am allowed to see myself in its reflection. I stretch to infinity. I embrace it.
The End
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