measured_words (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
measured_words) wrote2006-05-22 02:33 am
measured_words) wrote2006-05-22 02:33 am
Entry tags:
Pieces Part Twenty-Three
Well, I wasn't sure I'd make it there for a bit! In any case, here you are! This sort of took off on me, but it will lead to interesting places, I think. Comments welcome, as always. Please let me know if it works, and makes any kind of sense, and if it is confusing if it is *too* confusing... Part of the problem of a purely first person narrative is getting thiem to explain thngs, especially when they don't always know. Anyway. I'm tired :V
Other Pieces
The phone rings at 19h37. I've been expecting Anna to call. Speaking with her, and the thought of it, often makes me anxious. Tonight is different. Usually I am worried about my ability to carry a conversation or socialize at all, that I will do or say something (or more likely, fail to say something) and she will give up on me. That she will have independently decided that she is better off without me. That I will lose her. This is different. What I found out yesterday from Oyama has me questioning her in new ways. How do I deal with this?
I pick up on the fourth ring.
"Hello."
"Daniel?"
"Yes. Hello Anna." I always answer the same way. She always asks if it is me. It's just habit now. I know when she is calling, and recognize her voice. Surely she recognizes mine as well. Tonight she sounds uncertain, but perhaps it is unrelated.
"Hey. Are you busy?"
"No. I was expecting your call." I know what this is.
"Oh… You usually pick up sooner, I was just worried I might have been interrupting something." It's true. I didn't know that she'd noticed, but I suppose it can't be too difficult to discern my habits.
"No. I was just distracted."
"Is everything alright?" Of course it isn't. Nothing is, and hasn't been for a very ling time. I find her question frustrating. Is this just a natural extension of my anxiety? Why is it so easy to be negative, and so hard to see any hope for this or any other situation? If I tell her that everything is fine and she believes me, I can gloss over everything. If she doesn't believe me, it will push her further away. But no. Either way, I'll be pushing; it would just be more effective if she were conscious of it. Easy, but wrong.
"Anna, who is Alan Tanaka?" It sounds blunt, and overly direct. I know she knows him, but I should have lead up to this. Told her that yes, there was something bothering me.
"What?" Confusion. Surprise. I caught her off guard, but I'm not sure it is what I wanted.
"I'm sorry. I…" I don't know how to explain, either. "I know he work's at the Japanese gardens, and that you know each other, and –" and it sounds like I'm jealous. "–that's all." I don't *know* anything else. I just suspect. It is a weak ending, but I don't want to assume, or accuse. I know he was there that day, but she might not have known before hand. I just want to know if it means anything, or if it is just coincidence. I can sense her uneasiness. It is not reassuring.
"Have you been back there? Did he do something to you?" She sounds worried. I don't think she is trying to dodge the question purposefully.
"No. Nothing."
"Okay…" She pauses. She wants to ask why. I'm still not sure how to explain. "He's a friend of Grant's. I don't really know him that well. Um. I guess you want to know if he's Garou?"
"That's part of it." Even though training tells me this is the most important thing to know, it isn't. This isn't a tactical situation. It's more personal. She sounds so comfortable using their name for themselves.
"What is it, then?" She's still confused, maybe even concerned, but she is now on guard as well. Is she not going to tell me? What should I do? Let it go? Is it important? It is. If I can't trust Anna, what do I have?
"Did you know he was there." It was meant as a question. This is slipping away again. I should apologize. Try again. I should.
"That he was where? What are you talking about? At the gardens?" Bafflement. She doesn't understand.
"That day. When we met at the gardens. Did you know." I am trying to calm myself down, but it isn't working. It's backfired. I sound too calculated. Like an accusation. I'm sorry Anna, this isn't working right. Let me try again. Let me say this and not just think it. My throat is dry. I'm too tense.
"How do you know about that?" Fear. I've sacred her, now. I've ruined this. It was a bad idea. Bad plan. What do I do now? "Tell me what's going on, Daniel."
"Nothing." I know nothing. But she won't answer me. Why? She won't say. Is this my fault? What *is* going on? I can feel my teeth pressing against each other, feel the give in the plastic handle of the phone. The knuckles of my left hand are white. I can see this, but it all seems distant. Anna is sitting at a wooden table with a cup of tea – a white mug with a running black horse, constant comfort tea with honey – a window behind her looking out into a wooded yard. Cedars. This is distant too. Her face is lined with frowning. The phone is an older model, a light blue cordless. She looks around but there is nothing to see. She is wearing an old grey t-shirt, and her hair is down.¬
"Daniel?" What can I say? Nothing. "You're not lying to me, are you?"
No. I wouldn't. I want to tell you everything, everything you need. But I can't. I can't talk. I can't explain. I want to stand behind you, rub your shoulders and tell you it will all be okay. I'm sorry, for everything. I just want to reach out (so easy) and touch your hair-
Vertigo overpowers everything else. The phone falls from my hand, clattering, ringing in my ears. The frequency of her voice rakes my ears. There is only indistinct sound, not words. Like pins, nails stabbing into me. I can't see straight. Am I in the living room? The bedroom? It all blurs together.
Standing up. No. Ignore the burning at the back of my throat, the taste of bile. What's happening? The phone screams to be placed back on its cradle. How did I get here? Tile and porcelain, so white and blinding. It smells, and tastes like vomit. I can hear the phone still blaring, and the echo of her voice in my head. So dizzy, and weak. Blackness returns. Where am I going?
--------------------------------------------------------------
I wake up later, and everything still reeks of vomit. Most of it is in the sink. It's mostly coffee. I don't remember what I ate earlier – apparently not much. I run the tap, and half-heartedly clean up excess splatter with a soiled towel. I strip off my shirt. My head feels numb. I can still hear the phone in the living room. I don't remember passing through to the bathroom. I just remember that everything is ruined.
I drop towel and shirt into the waste basket. It doesn't matter. I rinse my mouth. Water, then mouthwash. Everything still tastes like bile. My throat burns. I feel empty, and uncoordinated. Everything seems dark, and fuzzy around the edges. Am I awake? I stumble out to the living room. The phone is still of the hook, but its buzzing tone seems muted. The picture of Danny has been knocked over, face down on the carpet. I pick it up, and set it on the coffee table. I can't look at it. He's lost too. I turn it away from me, and then turn it over again. I hang up the phone but unplug it from the wall.
I turn off the lights, and turn over the other pictures. It's over. The bedroom clock reads 8:46. It feels like forever. I turn it away too – my mood and mind blend better with the room's empty blackness.
Other Pieces
The phone rings at 19h37. I've been expecting Anna to call. Speaking with her, and the thought of it, often makes me anxious. Tonight is different. Usually I am worried about my ability to carry a conversation or socialize at all, that I will do or say something (or more likely, fail to say something) and she will give up on me. That she will have independently decided that she is better off without me. That I will lose her. This is different. What I found out yesterday from Oyama has me questioning her in new ways. How do I deal with this?
I pick up on the fourth ring.
"Hello."
"Daniel?"
"Yes. Hello Anna." I always answer the same way. She always asks if it is me. It's just habit now. I know when she is calling, and recognize her voice. Surely she recognizes mine as well. Tonight she sounds uncertain, but perhaps it is unrelated.
"Hey. Are you busy?"
"No. I was expecting your call." I know what this is.
"Oh… You usually pick up sooner, I was just worried I might have been interrupting something." It's true. I didn't know that she'd noticed, but I suppose it can't be too difficult to discern my habits.
"No. I was just distracted."
"Is everything alright?" Of course it isn't. Nothing is, and hasn't been for a very ling time. I find her question frustrating. Is this just a natural extension of my anxiety? Why is it so easy to be negative, and so hard to see any hope for this or any other situation? If I tell her that everything is fine and she believes me, I can gloss over everything. If she doesn't believe me, it will push her further away. But no. Either way, I'll be pushing; it would just be more effective if she were conscious of it. Easy, but wrong.
"Anna, who is Alan Tanaka?" It sounds blunt, and overly direct. I know she knows him, but I should have lead up to this. Told her that yes, there was something bothering me.
"What?" Confusion. Surprise. I caught her off guard, but I'm not sure it is what I wanted.
"I'm sorry. I…" I don't know how to explain, either. "I know he work's at the Japanese gardens, and that you know each other, and –" and it sounds like I'm jealous. "–that's all." I don't *know* anything else. I just suspect. It is a weak ending, but I don't want to assume, or accuse. I know he was there that day, but she might not have known before hand. I just want to know if it means anything, or if it is just coincidence. I can sense her uneasiness. It is not reassuring.
"Have you been back there? Did he do something to you?" She sounds worried. I don't think she is trying to dodge the question purposefully.
"No. Nothing."
"Okay…" She pauses. She wants to ask why. I'm still not sure how to explain. "He's a friend of Grant's. I don't really know him that well. Um. I guess you want to know if he's Garou?"
"That's part of it." Even though training tells me this is the most important thing to know, it isn't. This isn't a tactical situation. It's more personal. She sounds so comfortable using their name for themselves.
"What is it, then?" She's still confused, maybe even concerned, but she is now on guard as well. Is she not going to tell me? What should I do? Let it go? Is it important? It is. If I can't trust Anna, what do I have?
"Did you know he was there." It was meant as a question. This is slipping away again. I should apologize. Try again. I should.
"That he was where? What are you talking about? At the gardens?" Bafflement. She doesn't understand.
"That day. When we met at the gardens. Did you know." I am trying to calm myself down, but it isn't working. It's backfired. I sound too calculated. Like an accusation. I'm sorry Anna, this isn't working right. Let me try again. Let me say this and not just think it. My throat is dry. I'm too tense.
"How do you know about that?" Fear. I've sacred her, now. I've ruined this. It was a bad idea. Bad plan. What do I do now? "Tell me what's going on, Daniel."
"Nothing." I know nothing. But she won't answer me. Why? She won't say. Is this my fault? What *is* going on? I can feel my teeth pressing against each other, feel the give in the plastic handle of the phone. The knuckles of my left hand are white. I can see this, but it all seems distant. Anna is sitting at a wooden table with a cup of tea – a white mug with a running black horse, constant comfort tea with honey – a window behind her looking out into a wooded yard. Cedars. This is distant too. Her face is lined with frowning. The phone is an older model, a light blue cordless. She looks around but there is nothing to see. She is wearing an old grey t-shirt, and her hair is down.¬
"Daniel?" What can I say? Nothing. "You're not lying to me, are you?"
No. I wouldn't. I want to tell you everything, everything you need. But I can't. I can't talk. I can't explain. I want to stand behind you, rub your shoulders and tell you it will all be okay. I'm sorry, for everything. I just want to reach out (so easy) and touch your hair-
Vertigo overpowers everything else. The phone falls from my hand, clattering, ringing in my ears. The frequency of her voice rakes my ears. There is only indistinct sound, not words. Like pins, nails stabbing into me. I can't see straight. Am I in the living room? The bedroom? It all blurs together.
Standing up. No. Ignore the burning at the back of my throat, the taste of bile. What's happening? The phone screams to be placed back on its cradle. How did I get here? Tile and porcelain, so white and blinding. It smells, and tastes like vomit. I can hear the phone still blaring, and the echo of her voice in my head. So dizzy, and weak. Blackness returns. Where am I going?
--------------------------------------------------------------
I wake up later, and everything still reeks of vomit. Most of it is in the sink. It's mostly coffee. I don't remember what I ate earlier – apparently not much. I run the tap, and half-heartedly clean up excess splatter with a soiled towel. I strip off my shirt. My head feels numb. I can still hear the phone in the living room. I don't remember passing through to the bathroom. I just remember that everything is ruined.
I drop towel and shirt into the waste basket. It doesn't matter. I rinse my mouth. Water, then mouthwash. Everything still tastes like bile. My throat burns. I feel empty, and uncoordinated. Everything seems dark, and fuzzy around the edges. Am I awake? I stumble out to the living room. The phone is still of the hook, but its buzzing tone seems muted. The picture of Danny has been knocked over, face down on the carpet. I pick it up, and set it on the coffee table. I can't look at it. He's lost too. I turn it away from me, and then turn it over again. I hang up the phone but unplug it from the wall.
I turn off the lights, and turn over the other pictures. It's over. The bedroom clock reads 8:46. It feels like forever. I turn it away too – my mood and mind blend better with the room's empty blackness.
no subject
no subject