-


this is why events unnerve me –
they find it all a different story

(joy division)


-


Your brother used to try and tell you Edgar Allan Poe stories, remember? He’d try to tell the stories, picked up fuck knows where, by the glow of a flashlight, bright chin there, only he’d jumble the words a bit – the tell-tale heart beating inside the wall of a wine cellar with a name he couldn’t pronounce; the dead were really alive, quoth the raven, and then the house came tumbling down.

After sixth grade and your textbook closes with a thump, bright red ‘A’ at the top of your paper, you get that all Dean ever had to say were lies.

This doesn’t really change with time.


-


Going off to college isn’t supposed to be the door shutting in your face, but, instead, all those doors of possibility opening one-by-one before you.

Well, you know. At least that’s what your guidance counselor had to say.

Or maybe it was just the poster behind her head.

No, not the one with the kittens. The other one.


-


‘This demon shit is just a bad joke,’ you say when you’re fourteen and kind of insolent, kicking the back tire with the front of your shoe.

Both father and brother glare at you, implicit challenge there, come on, say it, Sam; adrenaline rush still rising and falling and all three of you are itching quietly for a fight.

You cut the palm of your hand at some point. It stings as you make a fist; the blood is sticky as it dries.

You never said it was a particularly funny joke.


-


In the fall you start your big senior lit project on Edgar Allan fucking Poe with graduation and law degree and The Masque of Red Death ringing in your ears.

It’s a kind of ugly melody –

You think death and taxes. And you sigh.


-


Mom’s dead, you always say, gritted teeth, when the fight gets dirty and Dean’s jaw will always clench or your father’s face will pale, fingers curling in close for a fist.

You realize this might be a problem when, mid-fight with Jess (‘I just want you to talk to me – is that too much to ask?) – you yell Mom’s dead! at the top of your lungs and the conversation, the argument, falls still.

She’s disappointed but silent when you tell her no, you really don’t want to talk about it.


-


Freshman year it’s all about the keggers.

Freshman year and it’s you with the hair in your eyes, hands jammed in your pockets, swallowing down warm beer, receiving lame pick-up lines instead of sending them out.

You meet girl after girl, all with the same kind of names (there’s a Kimberly and a Megan, a Jackie and too many Katies).

Tonight, it’s kool-aid instead of beer, handles of vodka poured in, frat boys with slackening smiles.

You lean against the counter, the girl leans with you (you won’t remember her name – don’t bother).

She smiles kind of ghoulish, her teeth bared and red, and when she hiccups you watch her ribcage expand, her already too-tight top pulling just a little more (you think lycra like a work-out video, Suzanne Somers, side-to-side, and breathe).

Later:

This is the kind of shit Dean would pull, you know? Lips against a stranger’s ear but it’s old rap music you hear (throw your hands in the air – like you just don’t care). It’s sticky fingers traveling up a damp spine, tight, clingy fabric spread across your knuckles.


-


You meet Jess in the dining hall, in the spring. She jokes about the jello – it’s not particularly funny. You laugh, you smile, and you might have spilled your milk.

You go out on a Thursday because she goes home on a Friday and you never do know if she catches the quick darting of your eyes at the passing of that simple word.


-


At the end of the semester you sell your books back and get a quarter of the price you paid.

The clerk mentions something about dog-eared pages; you roll your eyes and pocket the change.


-


They like to watch sitcom reruns on the television in the common room of your dorm. The fake laughter echoes up the stairwell and as the door swings shut behind you, you can’t help but shiver.

The theme song is playing.

Your phone doesn’t ring.


-


‘ – Stanford has a wonderful career services department if that’s what you’re interested in, but, Sam,’ your professor says, ‘where is it you want to go from here?’

You bite down that one syllable (home) and shrug your shoulders instead.

There are posters on his walls. The doors aren’t open here.


-


You get an A on your senior lit project.


-


fin.