The Red Thread (21 page)

After our seventh, or possibly eighth shop (I’ve lost count), we stop, and I am thankfully able to catch my breath. Jill holds three bags in her hands—two boxes of new shoes, a bunch of clothes from some girly store I’ve never heard of, and underwear from Victoria’s Secret. She keeps asking for my opinion on everything, expecting some sassy gay answer from her gay friend. I’m as far from feisty as one can get. I can be sarcastic sometimes—a lot of times, apparently, or so I hear—but that’s about it. Every time she asks, I usually say the same thing:
Yeah, it looks good.
Like what exactly does she want me to say, give her a full analysis on how well a certain dress fits her shape and how the color suits her quite pale skin tone?

I’m pretty dumb when it comes to women’s clothes. I don’t know anything about them. I mean, I know what I like on me, but that is because it’s on me. When she dragged me into one store, she actually told me I was no help, with a pout on her lips. I feel that every girl is looking for a gay man as an accessory to help them shop and talk about boys or whatever. Like, geez, we’re people, not things you buy in the store.

“So anywhere you want to go?” she asks.

I shrug. I’m not much of a shopper.

“Come on, there has to be at least one store. You have nothing, and now I’m looking like some rich bitch.”

She bites her lip, and I can almost see the lightbulb above her head as she has this aha moment. She grabs my hand and drags me through the mall. Maybe I should tell her I’m not an accessory. I just hope she doesn’t take me home and hang me in her closet, which I’m sure is full of colorful clothes.

She pulls me into a random store that I don’t catch the name of. Looking around it seems to be a fashionable little store with colorful clothes, cardigans, ties, and nice pants and jeans.

“I’m going to find you clothes. I swear on my life.”

“Jill, it’s okay.”

“Nope. Maybe I’ll find you some sexy outfit you can wear for that boy of yours. By the way you have
fantastic
taste. He is one fine piece of man candy. I need to find myself a man half as hot as yours. Nice job.”

I can’t stop my smile because I have to admit I’m feeling a bit proud of myself. Someone is actually envious of my boyfriend.

“Jess Holbrooke has his charm,” I joke.

“That you do,” she flirts with a wink.

Just like the rest of the mall, she pulls me around and pulls out random clothes and throws them into my arms. After I have what feels to be about twenty pounds’ worth of fabric, she pushes me into a dressing room.

“Now you better model your hot self for me to check out, stud.”

I have to say, she is good for the self-esteem. Maybe I should be the one using her as an accessory. She’s chosen nice skinny jeans; some are kind of cool colors.

“Ow-ow,” she shouts, as I model the bright red skinny jeans. “I’d kill for that ass.”

I blush as the store associate looks over. I hide my face and walk right back into the dressing room. The rest of the try-on session goes the same. She’s picked out button-ups and T-shirts and sweaters and even some cardigans, all which seem to show off my lithe frame. It’s all a little too vibrant, but she won’t hear me out.

“Are you going to buy any of that?”

“I don’t know. It’s a lot.”

“But you look so hot in all of those clothes. Imagine what your man will think?”

I can see his smile right now in my mind as his arctic-blue eyes light up at the sight of my clothes. Jill really knows how to persuade me.

“Fine, yeah.”

“Sweet deal. When was the last time you bought something for yourself?”

“Ummm….” Actually I don’t remember. “I mean I bought myself a book recently?” That counts, right?

“That’s what I thought. Now let’s pay and get some food. I’m starved.”

I pay for
some
of it, as she rolls her eyes as I pull out a red zip-up hoodie. She tells me I don’t need to own another hoodie, but I disagree. I love my hoodies and cardigans. I politely refuse the bow ties. They look adorable on Adam, but they’re not for me. Even when I don’t pay for half of the clothes she forced me to try on, I can still say I’m not going to be shopping for a long time, that’s for sure. I end up buying the bright red skinny jeans as well. We walk to the food court as she links her arm with me. We sit down to lunch—cheap pizza, but it hits the spot. She offers to pay for me, but I hate when others pay for me. Then I feel like I have a debt to pay back.

The rest of the day seems to go in the same fashion, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t have fun. Jill makes me feel like a normal guy for a change. In Newton no one knows me, so no one stares at me. She makes me laugh, and we just have harmless fun. There are no deep conversations, and not once does she ask about my stay in the hospital, nor does she ask about my suicide attempt. It feels good to be normal.

SHE DROPS
me off at my house, and I tell her I had a good time. She wants to hang out again soon, so I tell her I’ll see her tomorrow at The Book Revue. I walk into the house to see that my father is home from work, reading a magazine about cars.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Hey, kiddo. How was your day?”

I hold up my bags. “Good.”

“Looks like you spent a lot of money.”

“Yeah, but it was my own. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried.”

A cold, awkward silence fills the air as we both look everywhere but at one another’s eyes. It’s becoming a bit of a game. It wasn’t always like this, though. I remember how he and I used to laugh over the cars he’d let me help him fix up. I miss those days. Why did he stop doing that?

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you fix up cars anymore, like you used to?”

He shrugs, and I see something in his eyes—longing. What does he long for? His passion of cars? His son?

Or possibly the past.

“Just lost my reason to.”

“And what was that reason?”

“You’re curious tonight.”

It’s my turn to shrug. That’s the kind of guy I am. I prefer a shrug to actually forming a phrase. My father stands up and sighs. He puts a hand on my shoulder and passes by me. He stops at the staircase and looks at me with his dark brown eyes.

“You were the reason, Jess.”

And just like that, he leaves and heads up the stairs. Me? I was the reason he stopped messing around with cars… it was my fault, then. How can I apologize to my father for messing up his big love? Hey, sorry for fucking up your passion in life. Here, let me bake you a cake? It’s not that simple. Although, my father does love cake.

I find myself in my bedroom thinking about all the wrong I’ve done. My mother is always thinking about me; my sister puts her life on hold for me; my father… he gave up his passion in life because of me. What have I given back to them? Anger. Aggression. Depression. Instead of being the son they deserve, I’ve only given them heartbreak and pain. What guy does that to their family?

I am a monster.

MONSTER; NOUN

Brute, fiend, beast, devil, demon, barbarian, savage, animal, rascal, imp, wretch, devil, horror, scamp, tyke, varmint, hellion.

That’s exactly what I am.

Monster.

The word continues to circulate through my head.

I ruin people’s lives.

Is that all I am? A monster? I stand in front of the mirror, and that is all I see now. I already am nothing more than just a pathetic, sad man. I have been my entire life.

I look over at my nightstand and open the top drawer. I dig underneath my underwear and pull out a small black bag. I dump it open onto my bed and pick up the straight razor I have kept hidden from the world. I hold it in my hand, and I imagine the sensation of it running over my wrist again. I almost lick my lips at the forbidden lust. The razor is the apple to my Eve. A part of me longs for that feeling of the razor, and a part of me is frightened of it. It has such a strong hold over me. I am pain’s slave. I throw the blade back into the bag and hide it in the back of the drawer. I hide it away from everyone, the world, and especially from me. I know I should get rid of it, let it disappear from my life forever… but it seems to keep me prisoner. I can never throw it away.

I dress, and it’s like I’m going through the motions as I am walking outside. I don’t actually feel myself moving, but it’s almost as if I’m just an outside viewer watching everything.

The star of my own fucked-up movie.

I WAKE
up to the sun shining through my bedroom window. After my walk last night, I went back home and passed out. The town is quiet this morning. Only two days after Christmas, and the hopeful feeling of the holiday is already starting to pass on by, like a visiting relative. Few people are outside, so my body is at least at peace… but inside my mind, it’s another story. It’s an ongoing war. More imaginary soldiers die in the battle of my internal peace than sperm in their lifelong battle to become people. Gross analogy, but it gets the point across.

After leaving my bed and getting dressed, I leave my house, only to find myself on the empty playground, the same one where Adam and I spent time together. I sit on the swing and just let my toes touch the ground. I slightly rock myself back and forth and allow the wind to bite at my face like a million little piranhas looking for their newest meal.

A little boy sits in the swing beside me and looks up at me. I try to look ahead, but his unnerving stare keeps stabbing at me.

“Shouldn’t you be in school, kid?” I ask.

“I’m still on Christmas vacation. I go back tomorrow,” he answers in a small, high-pitched voice, which would only be found cute on children.

“Ah.”

“So what are you doing here?” he asks in his squeaky chipmunk voice.

“Thinking.”

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“What’s everything?”

“You ask a lot of questions. Don’t you have a place to be?”

I really don’t want to answer this kid’s questions.

“Are you sad, mister?”

I stop swinging, kicking my feet into the snow and dirt. Am I so obvious that even this little kid can tell?

“Why do you ask?”

“Your face. It looks sad. You have the saddest blue eyes I have ever seen.”

What is it about children that makes them so honest? And they can get away with it too. If an adult spoke like that, they’d get punched right in the face.

“Oh.” I can’t find any other words to say. “Okay.”

“Why are you sad?” the little boy continues to pry, as he plays with the tassels at the end of his snow hat, which has flaps over both his ears. There is a knit picture of a puppy on there. It’s all very
cute
.

I shrug and scratch my head.

“I have a chemical deficiency in my brain that keeps me from having enough of certain chemicals that would allow me to be happier.” Or at least that is what one of the doctors in the mental hospital told me.

He tilts his head like the puppy he wears on his hat and looks at me with his big, confused brown eyes.

“What?”

“Exactly. That’s what I make of it too, little boy.”

“I’m Jacob.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Jess.”

He reaches his hand out, and I gently take it, careful of the dirt under his fingernails.

“Are you the crazy boy who got out of the hospital? I heard my brother talking about you. He says you’re a ‘loony tune.’ I like the cartoon. Are you really a ‘loony tune’?”

A loony tune. So that is what people say about me behind my back in the comfort of their own houses.

“Yep, that’s me.”

His smile brightens. “I’ve never met one before. What’s it like to be one?”

“It sucks.”

His smile fades. “Oh. Does it hurt?”

“Every moment of every day.”

“I have to go home now. Mommy needs me, but I hope you stop hurting soon.”

I watch him jump up and skip home.

“Me too.”

I look up at the clouds above me and sigh before jumping off the swing. I walk back home and go back to my bedroom, kicking off my Chuck Taylors and throwing my peacoat onto my bed. I close my eyes and think of the little boy. How is it he was able to see something most people never noticed? Or maybe it is just that no one really cares. From the moment he saw me, he knew how sad I was. But before my stay in the hospital, most people never said a word, and many acted shocked at my small stint with death. Locked away, I spent seven months trying to prove to people I was no longer waiting to just destroy myself. But I am starting to think that extended stay was more for others than myself. And I wonder why I went through that whole agonizing hospital experience with all those other mental patients there.

Does anyone actually care about anyone else in this world? Maybe it’s all just a ruse. We pretend so much to care about others that we actually are fooling ourselves into believing one of the best lies ever imagined.

A knock comes at my door. I sit up and stay quiet. Maybe if I don’t make a sound, they’ll make like a Tyrannosaurus rex and vanish.

“Jess, are you in there?”

Well, I guess I can safely assume my mom is not a dinosaur.

“Yes, Mom,” I answer in a monotone robotic voice.

I catch myself in my mirror, and I can’t move my eyes away from my reflection. I just continue to stare into my own eyes, glaring.

Unmoving.

“Jess, are you okay?” She knows my voice. She knows how I speak when I don’t want to be around anyone. I sound like a robot that doesn’t know how to show basic human emotions.

I am mechanical.

I am a machine.

“Yes.” I try to force a little bit more emotion, but it kind of just sounds angry. Shit. She asks to come in. What can I do? Refuse?

I walk to the door and unlock it. I open the door to see her worried, pretty face. I walk back over to my bed and sit at the edge. Mom follows me and sits beside me, maybe a bit too close for my comfort. Personal space, Mom, personal space. She doesn’t say anything at first, so neither do I. We just sit there in awkward silence.