My name is Benjamin Reuald Faires. I am a failure, and a general coward. I also hold a degree in creative writing as of a few months ago. What a proud day that was, standing up on the outdoor podium, the humid midwestern air making my hair stick to my forehead. As my name was called, I had stepped up like I knew I was supposed to. I saw the President standing up there, and I couldn’t help but wonder what he was thinking. ‘Why do I have to sit through another graduation, god, this is wearing on my nerves. The line never ends.’
And that’s when he grabs my hand with a grin too tight to be sincere. He hands me my diploma as he shakes my hand. That, of all times, was when I realized what a failure I was. I just stood there, sweaty palms tightly grasping sweating palms, trying to recall anything useful I’d done in my four years at school. Or the years preceding. I’d never done anything worth being remembered for. Never really met anyone worth remembering.
A look of dread must have crossed my face as I surely stared into the unknown, because the President of the school leaned forward slightly, and through a grin as real as margerine hissed,
“Let the hell go of my hand or I’ll kick you in the balls.”
Graduated as of a minute ago and already a failure.
She wouldn’t have said that, of course. She thought a lot more of me than I thought of myself. Whoever was right, I don’t know.
None of this began in the midwest, however. It began back home on the western coast, three months later. Yes, directly after graduating I went home. Home to a mother who consistently thinks I could be doing more with my life, which is true. Home to a little sister who thinks I’m the world’s wimpiest brother, which could also be considered truth. Home to a slightly older sister who is pretty much sure I’m her newest subject for those psychology classes she took during her college days.
The other two are my dad and eldest sister, who are pretty much the same person anyhow, neither of which give me any flac for my current situation.
That morning was not particularly different from the ninety before. I sat at the 70s round kitchen table, eating cereal at 9:42 in the morning. The good sugary kind, not that bland adult cereal. My mom was over by the coffee pot, slowly stirring a cup of coffee with one of those long ice tea spoons. That clinking drove me crazy. She never put cream or sugar in the coffee, but she stirred it for what seemed hours. It was probably cold by the time she got around to drinking it.
Every morning she did this, like some ritual. Only she’d taken to watching me while she stirred. I would be hunched over my cereal, maybe trying to read, and she’d just stand in that corner, stirring away, eyes of pity, regret, and frustration fixed soley on me.
This morning she was doing that. I had tried to read the same sentence for about two and a half minutes, when she finally said something. A new tactic for her. And she stopped stirring.
“You should get out of the house, Benjamin.”
I looked up at her, one bent brow. “As in, you’re kicking me out, or–”
“Don’t be stupid,” she said, looking back at her coffee and stirring again. “But you just hole yourself up in here, and it can’t be healthy. Why don’t you go do something with your friends?”
My smiled what I hoped was a wry one. I wasn’t much for making friends. The few ones I had here had been more of acquaintances, and I hadn’t kept in touch. I brought the bowl up to my mouth to drink in that wonderful byproduct of brightly coloured cereals. The clinking stopped, Mom took a sip, then said,
“At least go out on a walk. You’re starting to depress me.”
She left.
I don’t think she ever knew what that suggestion had started.
I didn’t put my bowl in the sink, or wash it out. Maybe that was some sort of ill conceived sense of rebellion. Regardless, I took her suggestion. I stepped outside, a notebook folded in my back pocket. I immediately went back inside, due to the unseasonal chill. Honestly, it was only mid August. But I grabbed my coat and started walking.
We lived in the country. More or less. Town was only a couple of miles away, but we were the last house on our county road.
Down our drive, my dragging feet making tiny dust clouds rise and fall like candle flames short lived. My hands were shoved deep in my pockets as my feet met the road. I think it was cement or whatever they made roads out of besides asphault.
I took the road to the left. Away from the town. Away from the people. I didn’t really think about it. I just took it.
Rolling hills around me grew thicker with trees that dreamed of beings forests. The road became marred with more potholes, like some old woman’s pore-ridden face. I knew them. Didn’t have to watch my feet, be wary of where I stepped. I knew ever pock mark. I had walked this road too many times to count. And as things often are in the country, it never changed.
Even in the seven years it had been since I’d gone along here, it hadn’t changed.
That didn’t seem possible.
Seven years.
I was fifteen.
I don’t want to be mad. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to hate them so much.
But they’re always behind me whenever I just want to be alone. I asked God to give me a friend, someone who will follow me around.
I change my mind. I don’t want that. Maybe its better to be alone.
They’re behind me now. But they won’t follow me here. Nobody ever follows me here. I’ll just stay there untill I have to go home.
Its already getting dark. I can hear them behind me. I pull my jacket closer.
I’m here. It’s the same. It never changes. I sit at the door. Leaves crunch like dogs gnawing on chicken bones. It stops.
“Faires!”
I stare at my journal, I try to pretend like I’m writing. But my pen doesn’t move.
They’re afraid to get close. They’re afraid of what’s here. Inside this place. I have this moat of fear that an abandoned building can impart upon them. Its all that keeps me here.
“Faires! You fucking little coward!”
They never stop yelling.
I hate them.
It’s getting dark.
You can’t see things at dusk. It’s too dark to see, but too light for your eyes to adjust. I pull my knees close to my chest. My notebook falls.
The dogs are gnawing again. The sounds grow closer.
I’m fifteen. I feel like I’m five.
At dusk, things are bad. You can’t see things. They didn’t.
The road suddenly became dirt. The end of the county road, where partially maintained turns into never trodden on. Weeds pushed their way through packed dirt, ruts so deep that no car could safely go down this way any longer.
I drew a heavy breath, like a chain smoker who fell of the wagon. That air wasn’t late summer. It was that crisp smell you only can find in the fall. The kind of crisp that exists in an apple off the tree, a freshly baked pie crust, stepping on a dry leaf.
She may have been fed up with me, but I had to credit my mom for her motherly knowledge. Fresh air is always good for a lethargic writer.
As I continued along the steadily diminishing road, the trees began to successfully wind themselves together in a canopy over me. Rays of sun broke through in a ill defined dappled pattern. I raised my hand as I walked, watching the light run across it, rising and ralling over the seperated fingers, the grooves in my palm. Along my arm, up my chest, I almost felt it dance across my scalp. I won’t lie, it made me smile a little.
I’m generally very easily amused. Something of a childish element that always refused to leave. Maybe it had clung to my creative spirit, a barnacle on a ship. No, that’s a little too destructive. How about... those little birds on the rhino? Some sort of symbiosis.
Hmm... that’s a good word. I shouldn’t forget that I like it.
I pulled out my notebook, slipping the pen out from behind my ear. It clicked, like some magic to tell me it was working. Its tip touched the bare paper of my notebook.
s y m b i o
My foot caught on something. I fell forward, my notebook and pen flying from my hand in a faield attempt to catch myself.
One palm hit the ground, able to sort of turn me before the rest of me hit the hard ground. My hand burned a little as I lay there, a bit dazed. I began to realize that my shoulder was also objecting with a dull sort of pain. I must have landed on it.
Slowly, I got up. I cringed a little when I saw my hand. It was a little roughed up, a little dirty. I knew there was a creek near the end of the road. Maybe I could wash it out there.
With a cringe I plucked a few pieces of gravel from my hand. They weren’t really in the skin, just sort of pressed into it without piercing the skin. My hands must not be very elastic. They say skin is supposed be elastic. Maybe I’m getting old. I’m only 23. So why shouldn’t those rocks just have popped right out on their own.
I shook my head, telling myself how stupid it was to be thinking about that.
I was fifteen.
I don’t want to be mad. I don’t want to feel like this. I don’t want to hate them so much.
But they’re always behind me whenever I just want to be alone. I asked God to give me a friend, someone who will follow me around.
I change my mind. I don’t want that. Maybe its better to be alone.
They’re behind me now. But they won’t follow me here. Nobody ever follows me here. I’ll just stay there untill I have to go home.
Its already getting dark. I can hear them behind me. I pull my jacket closer.
I’m here. It’s the same. It never changes. I sit at the door. Leaves crunch like dogs gnawing on chicken bones. It stops.
“Faires!”
I stare at my journal, I try to pretend like I’m writing. But my pen doesn’t move.
They’re afraid to get close. They’re afraid of what’s here. Inside this place. I have this moat of fear that an abandoned building can impart upon them. Its all that keeps me here.
“Faires! You fucking little coward!”
They never stop yelling.
I hate them.
It’s getting dark.
You can’t see things at dusk. It’s too dark to see, but too light for your eyes to adjust. I pull my knees close to my chest. My notebook falls.
The dogs are gnawing again. The sounds grow closer.
I’m fifteen. I feel like I’m five.
At dusk, things are bad. You can’t see things. They didn’t.
The road suddenly became dirt. The end of the county road, where partially maintained turns into never trodden on. Weeds pushed their way through packed dirt, ruts so deep that no car could safely go down this way any longer.
I drew a heavy breath, like a chain smoker who fell of the wagon. That air wasn’t late summer. It was that crisp smell you only can find in the fall. The kind of crisp that exists in an apple off the tree, a freshly baked pie crust, stepping on a dry leaf.
She may have been fed up with me, but I had to credit my mom for her motherly knowledge. Fresh air is always good for a lethargic writer.
As I continued along the steadily diminishing road, the trees began to successfully wind themselves together in a canopy over me. Rays of sun broke through in a ill defined dappled pattern. I raised my hand as I walked, watching the light run across it, rising and ralling over the seperated fingers, the grooves in my palm. Along my arm, up my chest, I almost felt it dance across my scalp. I won’t lie, it made me smile a little.
I’m generally very easily amused. Something of a childish element that always refused to leave. Maybe it had clung to my creative spirit, a barnacle on a ship. No, that’s a little too destructive. How about... those little birds on the rhino? Some sort of symbiosis.
Hmm... that’s a good word. I shouldn’t forget that I like it.
I pulled out my notebook, slipping the pen out from behind my ear. It clicked, like some magic to tell me it was working. Its tip touched the bare paper of my notebook.
s y m b i o
My foot caught on something. I fell forward, my notebook and pen flying from my hand in a faield attempt to catch myself.
One palm hit the ground, able to sort of turn me before the rest of me hit the hard ground. My hand burned a little as I lay there, a bit dazed. I began to realize that my shoulder was also objecting with a dull sort of pain. I must have landed on it.
Slowly, I got up. I cringed a little when I saw my hand. It was a little roughed up, a little dirty. I knew there was a creek near the end of the road. Maybe I could wash it out there.
With a cringe I plucked a few pieces of gravel from my hand. They weren’t really in the skin, just sort of pressed into it without piercing the skin. My hands must not be very elastic. They say skin is supposed be elastic. Maybe I’m getting old. I’m only 23. So why shouldn’t those rocks just have popped right out on their own.
I shook my head, telling myself how stupid it was to be thinking about that.
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