Being Honest With Fiction

I know who you are and I know where you used to hide.
But even more, I know the reasons why you hid yourself, even from me.
I know why you used to hate the saying, “No matter where you go, there you are!” because no matter how you ran or how you hid, you could never get away from yourself.
I get it.

You grabbed on to a few things that helped you move from one extreme to the next.
I can see it now.
I can see the old hallways that used to give you nightmares. I remember the teachers who used to put you down and drive you crazy.
It’s okay though.
They’re all gone now.

I remember how small you were how big school used to seem to you, which is funny to me now because  the old hallways and the old schools look so small now.
We have grown quite a bit since then.
And we know this from an intellectual perspective.
Emotionally, however, that scared little kid is still carrying a switchblade in his back pocket, to be like “Jonny Cade”
(to act touch and keep himself safe)

Then again, the intimidation has gone away. I have grown and so have you. However, there is something about you that is still preserved in your younger self, which means the little child within is far bigger than most of us realize.

It was long ago.
Another lifetime it mut have been, and yes, you and I still remember the names and the places. We remember playgrounds and the vacant lots and empty parking lots, which were a staple in our suburban youth.

I remember the time you cried.
No one else was there.
You walked away to be alone.
You had to get away. You were too young and too drunk. You had your way about you and yet, You just had to.
You had nothing else because you were never you because least of all; you were never comfortable being you in front of anyone.
(except for maybe her)

I remember the stolen car that was left in the field near your house.
You passed out inside the driver’s seat for a while. There was garbage inside the car. There was the last of your small bottle of Southern Comfort, which tasted awful to you.
But ah, the name said it all.
And no one ever talks about this.
No one ever talks about the branding and how names sound cool, like how Jack Daniel’s or how the words Tennessee Whiskey have a feeling to them, all on their own.
Jack Daniel’s, Johnnie Walker, Jim Beam, or even the subliminal calls that we had to the cheap stuff, like Boone’s Farm or Mad Dog 20/20.
And you . . . .
You wore this like it was a part of your image the same as you wore your outfits, or the same as you used your special lighter, or how you carried your package of cigarettes, Marlboro Red because to you, this was fitting for a man of your so-called character.

I remember when your friends came and found you in the stolen care, which was accidental or unintentional because they were elsewhere and you hid so that you could drown in your own sorrow and be alone.
You couldn’t let them see this.
But this was life back then.
This was you and I in our old rebellious youth, scars and all.

Your friends walked over.
You had to put your mask back on to act like you didn’t care and hide that you were weak.
You had to pretend that you were never afraid.
You could never tell anyone that you knew you were failing and that you knew this was not the place for you.
You knew that you didn’t belong.
But no one could know this.

You were bleeding from your arm, just above your wrists, just to see . . .
You were testing the waters, just to know that if you had to cut lower, you could pierce through your artery and make it all happen.
just in case . . .

No one could see this.
No one could know.
No one could see your weak side
Or know that you were actually tender (or sweet)

And ah, to be young and to be that tortured soul.
To hold the secrets you held back then with no one to tell, no one to understand, and no one to defend you.
There was no one to care, no one to try with and no one to let you know that no matter what happens, “you and I,” will find a way to figure things out.

You had to put on your mask again
And hide . . .
But you couldn’t show this to anyone

So, what did you do?
You heard your friends emerge from the other side of the vacant lot. You heard their drunken howls. You saw how they were so you had to match their intensity.

You entertained them by telling them a few lies about where you went and why.
Then, you took out your flip top lighter and struck the flint to spark the flame.

You lit the tip of your cigarette –
and then you tossed the flaming lighter in the front seat of the stolen car, which quickly went into flames.
Everyone ran off before the cops were called and the fire department came.
They laughed and screams like the rebellious and youthful lunatics they were.

And you?
What did you do?
You walked off like a stone-cold killer, like nothing hurt and nothing bothered you.
But –
As much as you torched that care to burn your secrets away
the flames never turned your secrets to ash.

Everything hurt back then.
Everything was so gaddammed heavy.

Am I wrong?

I saw proof of this yesterday.
I saw the old school
I remember where you used to hide for hours behind the stage while high on purples for eight-hours at a time. And the Chill Pills too.

All that was before is gone.
The bullies are gone as well.
All that’s left of you is me.
All that remains are my memories and the old man who stares back at me when I look in the mirror.

It’s okay.
You can come out now.
I think the last of the bullies are gone.
Besides, no one can hurt you anymore.

And I . . .
I think you and I missed way too much as it is

You know?