romance vs. firearms

doomed fiction

I will never, ever finish this. I know it. I have tried and failed to write this same damn story about 50 times over the course of the past year. I always get to a certain point and then I just can't continue. I know the characters, I know the plot, the conflict, the "symbolism", whatever, but I will never finish this. Arrgghhh.

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I couldn’t help but insist that Joel reschedule the birthday party for another day. I simply couldn’t be there. Naturally, he objected: “You’re going. You don’t understand the preparation I put into this. I spent a lot of money and I intend to make it the craziest, most awesome night of your life. It might be your last birthday, after all...”

He no longer skirted around the subject and I liked it better that way, even though I knew he only did it in emotionally trying moments as a poor attempt to shock or hurt me, as if I was just finding out for the first time. “Oh, that’s right, I’m dying! I had completely forgotten! Shoot!”

Now his eyes were glaring murderously, as though he would kill me if the illness didn’t get to me first.

“I’ll compensate you,” I said.

“Are you crazy? This is your birthday. Don’t think you can just shove bills in my face and expected me to forget about it. All I want is for you to just show up. Have a good time, forget all the shit. This means so much to me, you don’t even understand.”

His voice was pleading now—hurt—his baby blue eyes glazed over with a tearful sheen. I felt a little rupture in my abdomen, somewhere beneath my lower ribs, deep inside—the grinding gears of guilt. Of course it meant a lot to him. It had nothing to do with me.

“What is so fucking important that you have to miss this, anyway?” he demanded.

I shifted uneasily. Gulping was painful as my mouth was dry and there was a sore on the back left of my tongue. “I’m sorry, Joel. I just have other plans—a previous engagement, I guess you could say.”

“Well, you’re gonna have to cancel it,” Joel sputtered angrily, rising from the couch. He pulled his jacket from the coat hanger and violently shoved his arms in the holes, staggering awkwardly a bit before regaining his balance. His face was red and fuming, his platinum hair disheveled. He couldn’t intimidate me if he tried, looking like a whimpering, helpless little boy who didn’t get the BB gun he had asked Santa for. Diligently taking out the trash and doing his homework every afternoon had all been for naught—the world had turned on him and he no longer believed.

“Don’t expect me or anyone else to treat you like a frail little doll all the time,” he spat. He took a few steps towards the door, hesitated, and turned around. With a pointed finger, as though speaking to a misbehaving dog, he continued: “You need to stop using your condition to walk all over people. If you don’t come to this thing, I swear to God I’ll never speak to you again. You can be on your fucking deathbed, waiting, just waiting for someone to show up and hold your hand and tell you that everything’s gonna be okay, but no one will come, not even me, because no one cares whether or not an asshole like you lives or dies, you miserable piece of shit.”

With that, he stormed out and slammed the door, causing the house to shudder in his wake. I felt slightly nauseated. I had been foolish to expect any less of a reaction. At least it wasn’t the first time. The most painful part of this whole situation came not from the knowledge of my own pitiful mortality, but rather from having to witness the effects of it on those around me. Well, on Joel, anyway; he was all I had.

I hated to see him angry, depressed, cursing at the heavens. It was awkward, and not to mention, pathetically sad. If I cared about my own fate a fraction as much as Joel did, I wouldn’t have been able to get up in the morning. All I wanted to do was take advantage of the limited time I had and at least try to enjoy it, which was hard to do when I had a blubbering manboy sobbing at my feet every afternoon, or blowing up in frustration and existential desperation and abusing doors and jackets with his violent reactions.

Joel was, all in all, a great guy, and I suppose his sensitivity made up for my lack thereof. We had been friends since that autumn day in kindergarten when we shared a pudding cup behind the slide at recess. We cheated off each other, pulled pranks, and spread unfounded rumors about the kids we hated. Even when my parents sent me to private school in the vain hope that it would transform me into some overachieving, Harvard-bound douche bag, we still kept in contact.

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Not finished, oh noes!

posted by Jerry McClelland @ 6:03 PM