I was dead.
My dreams are Spanish soap operas. Minus the Spanish language and the mariachi band. Mark that, sometimes there is a mariachi band. The light is always soft focus, the characters are loud and hate each other. The sets are colored in shades of Easter pastels. The scenarios are always very literal, relating directly to my life. My dreams used to be about Christine, and how she’s crawled out of the grave and is just here now. But as of lately they’ve been about Anne, humiliating me. In a few I tried to blow up the school, but plans are always foiled by a bumbling Anne. I’m taken away by the police and I’m screaming “This world was not ready for me!” Everyone always laughs at me in these dreams. And then I die.
What do these mean and why are they so stupid?
I wished for death.
Eight grade was almost over. Four months and then graduation, I pined for relief, an end to this awful institution. It was February and in these final days I was a loner, a faggot, and an outcast more then ever. I could still hear the faint echo of “Fag and Whale!” creeping threw the packed halls of Teachers Memorial Junior High.
I couldn’t face Anne, she was an impeccable trigger for all my insecurities. I was giving Anne the silent treatment, I had no one. At school I spent most of my time in the bathroom stalls. I read books, ate lunch, did crossword puzzles and wrote poetry on those placid walls. Underneath Derek Casio is a cock sucker, and above Mary has a stinky pussy I found a free space for my feelings:
I am mute
a silent chamber of organs
moms still gone.
I loved that bathroom more then my bedroom. I indulged in the scents and sounds of my new abode. Swirls, flushes, farts, and plops created harmonies fronting the beat of clanking pipes. It illuminated the space. Some may find solace in the home good scent of a fire place, my comfort scents were urinal cakes, pine sol, and the odor of boys. Just as a sea of anxiety flushed from my face, fecal mater did the same in a neighboring stall. I wish home was the same.
Home was empty. Charlotte (mom) had disappeared I wish I could say I worried or that it made things different. It wasn’t different, Charlotte was just another chair in the living room. She was a smoking piece of furniture usually place in front of the TV. I didn’t worry, I was more afraid someone would notice she was gone. No one noticed except the electric company.
I lasted two week with out talking to anyone. Not even in class, thanks to the utterly oblivious public school system. And then I broke. I needed human interaction. I knew what I had to do. Call Anne. I was so mad at her I forgot that she was my only “friend”. I had no one. At first I loved it. It was everything I ever wanted. To be dead to the world. How nice no one to notice your imperfect life. No one to add to the fucked world you live in. You just sit, watch, and observe. And then I was lonely.