Swing and Stillness

           It's like a pendulum. Once the ticking mechanism dies, it takes a while for the pendulum to settle into stillness. It still swings back and forth over and over until it finally looses all momentum. That's what it's like when you wake up one day realizing that you are trapped in a life you didn't create and don't want. All the joys and tiny successes of life gradually loose their meaning, and what are you left with? Just an emptiness-an erasure of the borders of life.
           Thoughts like that are dangerous when you're alone like this, I guess. I'm in my parent's bedroom. I like it in here. I like to wander in and stretch out on their huge bed whenever they aren't around. They're downstairs entertaining guests right now. I managed to slip through attempts to pull me into a drone of conversation and sneak upstairs. I hear occasional bursts of laughter from below-intrusive laughter seeping through the closed door. I wish I could cement that door shut. It would better preserve the silence in this room then a few sweatshirts angrily stuffed under the door. The quiet helps me think, and every sound from below is a stab into my solitude. It's dark. Only a small lamp in the corner is on.
           The pendulum is slowing. It's like getting lost in the woods. There is no forward. You don't know which path to take. So you just stand there, staring blankly. You stare and stare, and you start to think that what you see isn't reality at all. And somehow… hope leaves you.
           The walls in here are totally bare, and the bed is neatly made. The room is almost sterile. My room is always cluttered. I never see the point in cleaning it. But my parents are neat-freaks. They've kept it this way for years-probably since they bought the house. They've had it since before I was born. Now that I think about it, I was probably conceived on this bed. That's kind of a disquieting thought. Maybe the wheel will come full circle tonight.
           They weren't married at the time. My dad had rented this house for what he thought was a temporary job. He never wanted to live in the area-he wanted to live out in California where the weather was nicer and there was more opportunity. But one summer when he was in college, he got an internship here in Chicago and rented this crappy two-bedroom house for more than it was worth. He wound up hating the job, he told me, but he also met my mother here.
           Ugh, you shouldn't think too carefully about the night you were conceived. Once you get that image in your head, it's hard to get out.
           My mom told me this whole story once. Hmph. That's probably the wrong choice of words. She told the story like a textbook tells American history. It may give some factual events, but it leaves out the distasteful details like Native American oppression.
            "Were you and dad married by the time I was born?" I had asked.
            "Yes, but not long before. I had always pictured a wedding in a big chapel surrounded by my closest friends and family. But I guess the lord had other plans for me." She laughed here. It must be nice to be able to fall back on God when everything goes to hell.
            "So did you go to the courthouse or Vegas or something?"
            "No, no. I still wanted it to be in a respectable church, but it was a tiny place, and the only ones in attendance were the best man and the maid of honor. My mother had arranged a private ceremony on a Tuesday night when there were no church events. I didn't want anyone to see me in a maternity wedding dress."
           Biology. A pregnancy is only plainly visible in the last few months. "So, you didn't get married immediately after you found out about me," I asked. I wish I could remember my tone of voice when I said this. I suspect it was too pleading.
            "Well, you were a surprise, honey."
           What a lovely euphemism-to compare an unwanted child to a Christmas present. I knew what she meant: I was an accident. I know enough about the world to know how much trouble people go through when a bundle of misfortune arrives. I'm almost certain that I am the reason my dad never found his way to California, and why he still slaves away at a job he can't stand.
           I wonder about a conversation seventeen years ago, probably in this very room. I wonder if my parents ever considered having an abortion… aborting me. I shouldn't think about this while laying in a dark room by myself. I shouldn't think about whether they made the right decision-whether I am worth all the turmoil I have caused, not just to them but to everyone. I haven't led a great life. I'm not even all that happy to be here. They sacrificed so much for this piece of crap.
           The phone starts ringing. I don't want to answer it. Please, let it stop. Whatever it is, I can't deal with it.
           It stops. One of my parents must have got it. I lie back on the bed, but I hear footsteps coming up the stairs. Do not disturb-I will it and will it, but the door opens anyway. My mom bursts in-unknowingly pushing the sweatshirts aside-with a portable phone in hand. "Adam?" she says, apprehensive at the darkness.
           I suppose I should answer. I murmur "yeah?"
            "Oh hear you are. I thought you were in your room. What are you doing in here without light? It's not good for your eyes." Her speech is a little slurred. I think she's starting to get drunk. I shrug in response to her question, but she probably can't see me. She probably can't see what's in my right hand. "Blake is on the phone."
           I hold out my left hand. It is only a silhouette. It feels the phone and grips it. I'm not even looking. I'm staring at the ceiling. One corner is white, but that tiny lamp can't illuminate the whole ceiling. Most of it is shaded. I can't even see the far corner.
            "Hello?" I say weakly.
            "Adam?
            "Yeah, what's up?"
            "I hate my dad."
           Great. "What happened?"
            "He just barged into my room and started yelling at me at the top of his lungs. I didn't even do anything. He was just rambling about how hard he works and how ungrateful I am and the crap he has to put up with to feed my worthless ass. Bitch."
           I don't know what to say. I don't even know if I was listening. "What happened?"
            "He just stormed out of there after he was done. I didn't even say anything the whole time. I hate that guy. I hate living here. I hate this fucking life."
            "I'm sorry man," I say, knowing full well that it's not enough. There is a long silence. My best friend is in a traumatic situation that he doesn't know how to deal with, and I've managed to muster three words to try to help him. Go me. I keep staring at the ceiling. The silence remains. He's probably uncomfortable. I don't think either of us still remembers what the last thing said was.
            "Well, anyway, I guess I should get going. I'll see you later," he finally says.
           I'm quiet for a few seconds. "Later."
           I push the off button on the phone and let it fall next to me. I am in silence again. I can't help him, and now it's obvious that he can't help me. We're all lost, I guess. A poor man cannot give charity to his poor friends. It's a shame though. He's a worthwhile human being-one of few that I see. I look around the halls at school, and I see drones scurrying about to impress their classmates or their teachers or their parents, engulfed in materialism, covering themselves in image, image, image and locked into the path of least resistance. Sometimes it's hard for me not to stop someone in the halls and scream into their face "Wake up!" I see so few who are aware, and those usually submit to their own degradation. Someone like Blake is rare. He's fighting against it, and it's not easy for him. I wish I could be of some support, but the words don't come.
           The words never come. If I could put this all into words, then maybe I could fight it. But it doesn't ever take to words. It only comes in a heavy feeling in your chest, or a nihilistic apathy. Everything melts away… Why do anything?
           There is a knife in my hand. It's a Swiss army knife that my dad keeps in his dresser. It's sharp, sterile, compact and efficient-like the room I guess.
           Why do you want to kill yourself?
           Why not? What is there here that really matters? What is worth it? All I have is pain.
           It would be so easy. Just draw that perfect blade across my wrist, and it's all over. I could do it.
           I rest the blade against my wrist. It feels cold. I press a little and it draws a full bead of blood. I only have to draw it across my veins. I could do it. I can do it.
           I can end my life right now… Why is that thought so comforting?
           I can.
           This is freedom. At any point, I can abandon this life. With this knife, I have control. I have control of everything. No circumstance or emotion can rule me. I can always determine my own course, if I want to.
           Closed eyes. Controlled hands. I put the knife away and stand up.
           I'm returning to my cluttered room. I need to sleep. Tomorrow's another day. You always wake up the next day.