Editor’s note: This following story is copied from its original draft, scribbled illegibly in a spiral notebook way back in September of 1989. Barring egregious errors in syntax, grammar, and style, it has been represented as faithful to that original, scribbled draft as possible. A kind of prosaic “time capsule” if you will….

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[« Cross, Part Four]

I walked downstairs, past her bags by the closet, and into the living room. There were two tall, bright lamps standing in the two corners right by the huge bay window. I walked past the love seat to the lamp in the far corner and clicked it off. From where I was standing, I could see the T. V. still on in the kitchen; I had never turned the volume up at all, I realized. I figured I’d just leave everything on in the kitchen, figuring I’d be the first one up in the morning and the first thing I would do be to head straight to the kitchen down the back stairs and fix myself a bagel. I walked alongside the large living room window towards the other lamp, but stopped halfway there. I looked outside across the wide lawn and tried to remember exactly where I was standing earlier that evening. My reflection in the window caught my attention; I seemed like I was outside watching myself. Just like I was watching Fortune several hours earlier, except I was now the one being watched.
          My reflection looked like I did, or at least how I felt, being locked outside, wanting to come in and save the person on the inside from hurting himself. I watched my reflection and wanted it to come inside, but without my help. I was mentally asking my reflection to find some way to come inside, but without my help. I wanted it to want to come to come in, so badly that it would find some way, some tangible way that had yet occurred to me, for it to come in. I started believing that if it wanted to come in badly enough, it would find its way in. And the longer I waited, the more discouraged I became. I slowly became very afraid that if I really needed it to come in, it wouldn’t. It couldn’t. And suddenly I felt very lonely. And without hope. Two feelings I rarely had, and never this strong. I walked to the one still-lit lamp and turned it off. I didn’t look back at the window for fear of seeing my reflection still there.
          I grabbed Bryanna’s bag and walked up the stairs. Both girls had gone to sleep; the door to the den was closed so I had dropped her bags right in front. The lights in Fortune’s bedroom were off, which meant that she didn’t even bother waiting for me. I tried to figure exactly how long I had been downstairs; I looked at my watch and, though difficult to read in the near dark, it was still showing the same time it had since early that morning. I stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind me. I turned on the shower even though I had no intention of taking one. I unbuttoned my shirt, slowly slipped it off—while staring at my stomach in the mirror over the sink—and draped it over the curtain rod.
          The medicine cabinet’s door stuck out about half a foot into the bathroom, with its mirror making my reflection appear to be standing in the bathroom with me. Two of me. And both os us being in the same frame of mind, shirtless in the same bathroom, was eerie. I opened the medicine cabinet door and grabbed one of Leslie’s stray razor blades. I closed the cabinet door and there was my reflection again, smiling at me in disbelief of what we were about to do. I hadn’t decided I was going to genuinely go through with it; I just wanted to go through the motions, to hopefully better understand what exactly was going through Fortune’s head earlier that evening. But my reflection was definitely playing for real, and I just had to do everything he did.
          And what we were about to do was obviously very important, so I made sure I paid close attention and followed his every move letter perfect. He wasted no time. He looked at my chest while raising his razor to his own. Holding the blade perpendicular to his skin, he made an incision right under the sternum and I did the same. I blinked but didn’t see if he did. The cut wasn’t deep at all, but we both started bleeding immediately. I was instantly reminded of Fortune; did she know what she was doing while doing what she did and I was now doing? I couldn’t make any sense of what I was doing, but my reflection convinced me that this was the right, sympathetic thing to do. I, eventually, started to doubt his rationale. Was I doing this for Fortune when I was in no way sure that she had done it for me? Did she do it for herself for reasons I didn’t have to do it to myself?
          And why a crucifix? Did she believe in God and never admit? Was she blaming God for her pain for pain she could never blame herself for. Did she kick her atheist philosophies in one last plea to God to save her? Or was she just being ironic or clever, just in a mood to draw a crucifix when another moment’s thought might have produce another symbol, like a smiley face? I started doubting my intentions. Was I stupidly trying to show her I understood her every feeling and thought? Was I trying to belittle her gesture by showing her that—hey—anyone can carve their skin for attention? Does this action actually prove that I do, truly, love her? “Love” her? Do I?
          My reflection was done and still staring at my stomach. The blood patterns from his gashes were in no way similar in appearance to Fortune’s; but the tears were, slow and long. I grabbed the nearest towel, held it under the still-running lukewarm water, wrung it out, and wrapped it around my chest and stomach, eventually cleaning the wound. The next ten minutes were spent cleaning up the bathroom and myself, throwing the stained clothing into the hamper, expecting, again, to be the first one up in the morning. I turned off the shower and opened the door; a wave of crisper, colder air crashed all over me, naked except a fresh gauze taped to my stomach. I turned off the shower, blowing a kiss to myself in the mirror, then turned off the bathroom lights. I stepped back into and down the near dark hallway, walking through the bedroom door and closing it behind me. I grabbed an oversized T-shirt and pulled it over my head. I looked at Fortune, tucked into an adorable fetal ball, naked under the covers. I slid under the covers and lie on my back with my arms folded across my stomach, and the last thought I remembered having before I slid off into a deep, cough syrup-induced sleep was of hoping that my stomach scar—my scab—would look as “good” as Fortune’s, but not better.
          I also remember not dreaming that night.

.kac.

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Editor’s note: This following story is copied from its original draft, scribbled illegibly in a spiral notebook way back in September of 1989. Barring egregious errors in syntax, grammar, and style, it has been represented as faithful to that original, scribbled draft as possible. A kind of prosaic “time capsule” if you will….

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[« Cross, Part Three]

          She had let the whole thing drop just as quickly as she had brought it up. Bryanna had followed Fortune to the window to give her a hug when the phone rang. Fortune paused, then excused herself to answer the phone. She walked by without looking at me but gave my arm a good squeeze as she walked into the hallway. The phone hung on the wall halfway down the hallway next to some baby pictures of her and her little sister, Pride. Yes, her parents had been hippies and had spent several years hiking, camping, and canoeing in Northern Maine until one year, her father, Leslie (which was changed to Leaf then back to Leslie) decided to open up two camping stores in Kent Hills, Augusta during the colder seasons.
          Within five years he had become a small chain along the Northeast and by now you probably receive their mail order catalogues in your mailbox. Believe it or not, both parents were at some clothing convention in Boulder. The convention only lasted three days but they were to vacation in Boulder for another week. Ski and cocaine. “The American Way” Fortune used to tease me our first few months together. She used to always try to convince me that she never did coke, but I’m almost positive she used to with her sister and possibly her parents, starting at a really young age. Fourteen, I had always thought.
          I wondered if it was actually her parents on the phone, but it wasn’t. It was Bryanna’s mother’s mother checking to see if Bryanna had showed up. She, Bryanna, was supposed to call once she arrived at Fortune’s place; Bry had supposedly sped recklessly out of the driveway and had her mom was a little worried. Fortune told Bry’s mom that everyone—everything—was okay and that Bryanna would call her in the morning. Bryanna and I had overheard the phone conversation and we both decided that none of us needed any more personal drama that evening.
          It was actually more Bryanna’s decision, which disappointed me since she had just showed up. I was the one who had just spent the four hours plus with Fortune who was crying, yelling, burning her clothes, locking me outside the house and making me watch her—through the living room window—cutting a cross in her belly with a razor blade,threatening me that if I tried to get her she’d slide it through her throat. I was the one who had to watch her do that to herself with a look of abject fear on her face that I had yet ever seen. We were all willing to “drop the drama” for the evening, but, in my opinion, Bryanna had nothing to drop and Fortune and I, routinely, would leave the “pieces” on the floor and ignore them.
          Fortune walked back into the room and yawned. She sat at her desk and pulled out a cigarette from her pack. I was in the mood for a cigarette myself, but I knew there was only one left in the pack, which made me decide that I didn’t need it. Bryanna was still sitting on the ledge of the window, which was still slightly open. She looked tired, like she actually didn’t want to deal with this. I could tell her mind was on something else; places she’d rather be or friends she’d rather she’d rather have. She was there only to do her part as a friend, and she was probably wondering what she would be doing in her life at that moment if she’d never met Fortune. I was sure that all alternatives seemed more appealing than her present situation.
          I became mad at her, then, for thinking that way. I couldn’t help feeling glad, or more like relieved, that I never did sleep with her, or I would have started feeling very disappointed in myself. I didn’t know exactly how long I would feel that way towards her, but realistically figured that I wouldn’t have been mad at her by morning. By morning, actually, I would probably be proud of her putting up the effort when she really didn’t have to,fully aware that she was only trying to do the right thing. My respect for Bryanna always, always fluctuated on depending on my mood, not hers.
          Many times I had convinced myself that, had I met Bryanna first, I’d be dating her. Yet, I would soon doubt that it would have lasted as long, since I was soon completely convinced that I secretly thrived on Fortune’s dependence on me. I was sure that if it hadn’t been for me, it would’ve been some other guy. But I was the one laying doctor in her life and I had no complaints about it. At least, very few. And so did Bryanna, really. She and I served the same purpose essentially in Fortune’s life, except the sexual ones. I was the only one in Fortune’s life who was offsetting her pain with that kind of pleasure. And I did so. Often. With pleasure.
          I was standing right by the desk, half sitting on it, contemplating whether or not I was going to ask Fortune for a drag of her smoke. She was staring at her calendar and without looking up, she grabbed ny hand and said, “You must be tired, Daddy….” I was always uncomfortable with her calling me that around Bryanna, who never reacted.
          “I think we could all sleep. Bry looks tired.” I let go off Fortune’s hand. “Bry, I’ll grab your stuff and put in the den.” There was a pullout futon of a sofa in the den.
          “Thank you, Paul.” Bryanna stood up,walked over to Fortune,and ran her fingers through her hair. I kissed Fortune on the back of her hand and she looked up at me and smiled. It was a smile that I liked very much. It said, thank you, I’m sorry, and everything’s going to be okay all in one. It convinced me that deep, deep down inside, she had plenty of hope. Plenty.

[» Cross, Final Part]

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Editor’s note: This following story is copied from its original draft, scribbled illegibly in a spiral notebook way back in September of 1989. Barring egregious errors in syntax, grammar, and style, it has been represented as faithful to that original, scribbled draft as possible. A kind of prosaic “time capsule” if you will….

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[« Cross, Part Two]

          Fortune was already up and about, brushing her hair and dancing to no audible music in the full length mirror by her bookcase. I wondered if she had actually been awake the entire time, and if so, what she thought about me leaving her alone for so long. I checked and it hadn’t been as long as I had thought. She didn’t look at either Bryanna or myself as we walked into the room.
          “Hey, hon!” Bryanna went to give her a hug, but didn’t at the last moment. “Look, you’re in better spirits already! Let’s see your boo-boo….”
          Fortune turned to her, not having yet saying anything, lifted her sweater up to her chest with her left arm and peeled off the tape and gauze with her right. She looked as if she was proud of the way the scar was coming out. A perfect crucifix on her flat, tan tummy. I got the feeling that, somehow, she had been staring at it the entire time I was downstairs, and that she’d watch it develop into a nice hard scab over the next week. It would scar her for life and she was proud of it. Bryanna leaned against the mirror.
          “Shit, Tuna, I mean, what the fuck?! How…how do you want us to react to this shit! I mean, I love you so, so, so much, and I hate, hate you doing this to yourself—and doing this to us! Do you think it’s fair?” Bryanna was still looking at Fortune’s scar, probably trying to figure out the significance of a crucifix, which prompted me to do the same. Fortune was a devout atheist and I couldn’t figure out if it was just to be symbolic or just an idea off the top of her head. Fortune was now looking at me as if she knew I knew the answer to Bryanna’s question, but I wasn’t going to say anything until she did. I was mad now, for some reason.
          “Bry, why would you take something like this personally? I did it to me, not you?” Fortune was now rubbing her fingers softly across her scar. Her tone of voice was flirtatious and daring. I felt strongly like she was daring us to do the same to our stomachs. Bryanna missed it completely and stood up to be better heard.
          “You’re wrong, Tuna. You hurt me by doing this. I may not…I may not have any scars to prove it. But I’m here now,aren’t I? This, my being here giving up everything else in my life right now, to be here with you, should prove how much I want to help you through your pain. Sure I’m can’t understand whatever fuckin’ hell you’re going through, But I’m here to make it all a little easier for you!” She grabbed Fortune’s head, which had been looking at me this entire time, towards hers, and she, Bryanna, was screaming now, spit occasionally jumping off her bottom lip. “Tell me, sweetheart, what is it exactly that I do for you?” Bryanna sat Fortune on the bed,then sat beside her.
          I, myself, had several times wanted to ask Fortune that same question, but was always afraid she would offer some, vague, superficial reply. That was a question, if asked, I would need an honest and exact answer for.
          “You deal with me,” she smiled. “Both of you.” She looked at her now. “I can’t deal with me. Can’t deal with being me. You guys deal with me and makes me feel loved. I don’t like it sometimes, it makes me feel guilty. I, honestly,don’t think I deserve it. And I hate feeling asking for it. “She was wrong, although I’m sure at the time she didn’t think so.
          “You’re lying and you don’t even know it!” I said not looking at her, and I knew she wasn’t looking at me. “You feel so much you deserved to be loved, but you’re frustrated that the world doesn’t love you the way you want it to. You couldn’t even begin to tell the world how to love you and you’re tired of waiting for everyone else to figure it out themselves. And the fact that they haven’t makes you feel like no one’s putting in enough effort, as if everyone’s decided you’re not worth the bother!” I lit a cigarette. She turned to me and probably wanted to be crying, I guessed.
          “Do you think I’m worth the bother?” She actually snapped at me.
          “Yes!”
          “Am I a bother?”
          “No! In a lot of ways you’re actually therapy for me!”
          “Do you love me?”, she asked, and though tempted not to answer the question seriously, I was actually in the mood to address our address our relationship and define some of it—even after three years. I wanted to have accomplished something for the both of us by the time we all went to sleep.
          “Of course he does!” Bryanna answered before I did, as if she were afraid I would not answer correctly. As if an honest answer would not have been a practical one. “And so do I, Tuna?” Bryanna must have started feeling a bit insignificant, worried, I guessed, that Fortune’s relationship with me was for more important than one with her.
          “Oh, and I love you guys, too! You know that!” She stood up and walked towards the window. But I knew that her saying “love” she meant before. The earlier “love” was one that had never been used before, at least with me. And I had never heard her use that “love” with anyone else or talking about anyone else. Looking back, there was no way I could have answered that question and felt that I was being 100% sincere.

[Cross, Part Four »]

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Editor’s note: This following story is copied from its original draft, scribbled illegibly in a spiral notebook way back in September of 1989. Barring egregious errors in syntax, grammar, and style, it has been represented as faithful to that original, scribbled draft as possible. A kind of prosaic “time capsule” if you will….

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[« Cross, Part One]

          I obviously lied. Once I paid attention to how I felt, I realized I was very tired. I found myself nodding with fatigue a little and decided that a cigarette was the last thing I needed. It all of a sudden felt much later. Bryanna should have shown up by now. I checked the desk clock instead of my watch and saw that it indeed was earlier than I thought. I looked over at Fortune who looked as though she were asleep, although I knew she wasn’t. She looked very pretty, with a smile under the skin of her lips that seemed to suggest that she was relieved to be out of danger and care not to know that it was only temporary.
          And the fact that she would not be in this more contented state if it hadn’t been for me went straight to my head. Like I had some special charm unique to me and me only. I looked at her and wanted to show her how much I appreciate how she shows me the supposedly wonderful things I do for her. I wanted to make love to her and regrettable that the idea was entirely unfathomable at that time, for more than one reason. Then, again, I thought of Bryanna, and it worried me. I picked up the stranded cigarette from the pencil holder, grabbed her lighter with the other hand, and lit the cigarette.
          I stood up and looked into the hallway. With my back to her, I couldn’t help feeling like she was staring at me, even though I knew her eyes were closed. She was in a light sleep; I could tell because her breathing had slowed and quieted. If I could have left a dummy of me in the room, I would have, then taken myself for a short drive. I stuck the lighter in my pocket, left the cigarettes on her desk, and walked to the top of the stairs at the end of the hallway. I thought about peeing when I passed the bathroom, but decided that I’d save the option for an escapist alternative later.
          At the top of the stairs, I tried to decided if I should watch TV in the den or eat in the kitchen. Or get food from the kitchen, then eat and TV in the den. I walked downstairs, past the front door—which was closed but unlocked and startled me—through the living room and into the kitchen. I wound up eating in the kitchen and watching TV on a little Sony black & white portable that was on the corner of the counter.
          I was watching some family-oriented sitcom and wondered what my children would look like in 10, 20 years. Realistically, I couldn’t see myself having anything to do with Fortune that far down the road. I doubted she’d be able to make that kind of turn around in one life. Not that she’s a fuck-up; Fortune was smart and everyone knew it. Rumored to be third in line for valedictorian in high school, head of the debate team for three years, and a published poet at 22. She felt her problem was that she always felt that she could be doing more with her smarts than she was doing, and she would never waste her talents on some project or endeavor she didn’t truly enjoy. She was never completely happy and probably would never be, I assumed that I was an amusing distraction from personal bullshit for her, as she was for me. And we had been amusing each other for almost three years now. And distracting each other.
          The doorbell rang. I turned towards the door but didn’t move. From my seat in the kitchen, I couldn’t actually see the front door, but thought it was neat that I knew exactly who it was.
          “It’s Bry…!”, she yelled through a cough .
I got up from my seat and walked towards the door. I wondered if Bryanna had awakened Fortune, who I was sure had been asleep by this time. As I reached for the doorknob, the buzzer rang again, which startled me and made me draw back.
          “It’s open!”, I said to the door. I heard her drop a suitcase which me realize that she would, of course, have some luggage since she was staying over. She cracked the door open and picked up something heavy. I played the gentlemen and opened the door for her; she walked in wearing a long, red, leather jacket, with a huge bag strapped over her shoulder. I closed the door and locked it behind her as she dropped her bag by the front closet. Before I had time to appreciate the gust of cold air, she turned around and have me a quick but tight hug.
          “How is she?”, she said, looking at the top of the stairs and not at me. I didn’t answer immediately because I had come up with about twenty different applicable replies and couldn’t decide which response would do best. “Is she in a lot of pain?”, she said grabbing my arm but still not looking at me.
          “Yes, but not really. I mean, she’s fine. She’s asleep.” I looked at her eyes to figure out what she would do or say next, but was also trying to convince her not to go up and disturb her immediately. Fortune was feeling no pain, at least not physical pain. Physical pain she could always deal with. “You want some coffee or something before you—we—go up and wake her?”
          “What…. Shit, Paul, how do we stop her from doing this?” She had hesitated at first, but now was making her way upstairs. I followed quickly; for some reason, it was important for me to reach the room first.

[Cross, Part Three »]

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Editor’s note: This following story is copied from its original draft, scribbled illegibly in a spiral notebook way back in September of 1989. Barring egregious errors in syntax, grammar, and style, it has been represented as faithful to that original, scribbled draft as possible. A kind of prosaic “time capsule” if you will….

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ortune, she was born with the name, had stopped bleeding by now and had almost cried herself to sleep when she suddenly sat up, opened her eyes and squinted at me for a few seconds. It seemed she had suddenly gotten extremely curious about some coveted secret of mine that I may have vaguely mentioned in passing to her a long time ago. Her curiosity had so consumed her that it rendered her fully awake within seconds. Wide-eyed now, she glanced at my hands, firmly fisted in my jeans pockets, then looked back at my face, my mouth. She grinned, very quickly, a grin I recognized as the grin of someone who had become suddenly proud of some newly acquired courage or will. She was about to do, say, or ask something she had never dared before, and by that point in the evening, I had become very vulnerable. She knew this. She opened her mouth and I was ready to expose my whole life to her. She blinked hard and whispered, “I really really really gotta pee!”
          I stood up from the desk chair for no reason and stepped unnecessarily out of her way as she wandered down the short, dim hall into the bathroom and did her business with the bathroom lights off and the bathroom door open. I walked to the bedroom window and cracked it open. Bending down towards the wind, I spoiled my face to some fresh, therapeutic November Scarsdale air. I had started to feel a little faint, mentally; you see, Fortune, for the first time since I met her two years ago at a Beta House party at Columbia, Fortune had completely thrown me off, had me off guard. She wanted something from me now, which was not like her. She wanted an answer, a reaction, a feeling, a thought from my life…. Maybe at that moment she got it without me knowing. Between the two of us, she was always the one who was less stable, although she comes off as being highly stable, as intelligent as she is. I had gotten used to being the sanity and order in her life, but now she was suddenly the one with both feet on the ground and I was the one who was free-falling.
          I heard her flush and hoped at that moment that Bryanna would show up. Bryanna was a good friend of hers from earlier high school days, but wasn’t anything like a best friend. Neither Fortune nor I had best friends; I couldn’t speak for Bryanna. I had called her about an hour earlier to tell her that Fortune was depressed and had cut herself with a razor. I asked her to come over to help Fortune “feel loved” and cared for; to not have her worry about herself since obviously Fortune was in no mood to take care of herself. But now I needed Bryanna. I needed her to preoccupy Fortune from having her mental way with me, and watching Fortune walk through the hall and back into the bedroom, I felt naked and defenseless, and hoped I’d have no need for defenses.
          “Are you tired?”, she slowly laid back on the bed.
          “No.” I looked at her feet. Perfect as usual.
          “Aren’t you tired of me?” She wriggled her toes at me. Was she starting?
          “If I were tired of you, would I bother at all? Wouldn’t I just sell you away or something? Trade you in for a better model?” I snickered to keep the conversation light-hearted. She reciprocated.
          “And you haven’t found a better model yet?, she rubbed the gauze pad on her stomach through her sweater.
          “Nope.” I watched her to see if she would show any pain while touching her wound. She didn’t; I did.
          “Not even shopping,looking around, or test driving? She could have been alluding to something in particular or not. I thought maybe not. But then then I thought of Bryanna, and I started to hope it was for no reason.
          “You’ve not let me down yet,” I assured her., “…Or stranded me in the middle of nowhere!” I sat down again and grabbed her cigarettes. I didn’t smoke much at all but the picture of her actually stranding me in the middle of nowhere at that moment became my biggest fear. I kept the cigarette unlit in my mouth for a few minutes.
          Fortune lay on her back now, her arms folded across her stomach. We didn’t say anything to each other at all for about three minutes and we both, finally, felt completely at ease for the first time all evening. She was wide awake but kept her eyes closed. I spent this quiet time trying to figure out if I was actually in love with her, or just happy to see her so peaceful and feeling I had something to do with that. I abandoned my earlier concerns, concluding they were all for nothing.

[Cross, Part Two »]

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