It felt like he had been running for a very long time. In truth, it had only been about five minutes, and Trent did not want to stop. He was, however, going too fast for his body to manage. Yet, the automation of his feet persisted, because the speed at which he was going made everything he encountered on the way a lack of colour. The hasty blurriness, the callousness of his vision, the recklessness of the sound that was made of him and his collision with the world, all of which ensured that he did not have to stop at any point to take in the full force of their vibrancy. Keep away from the vivid --- that was the purpose of his run, as if if he ran fast enough he could escape, and if he escaped he could thrust himself into a dimension of oblivion where he was sure would make him happy simply because of the ironic lack of happiness or the need to feel anything at all in that place. Let everything fly by, the good and the bad, let them all be fleeting. He didn't want to feel a thing.
When he stumbled, he knew that he was going to fall, and he embraced it, willing the hit to be so hard that oblivion would pale in comparison to the effects of what he would experience from that fall. Trent dragged himself down as hard as he could, as if he could even manipulate the collision. The hit came, and as inevitable as he wanted it to be, so did the searing pain. There was that moment of explosive budding which tipped into an even more explosive sense of exposure. He could be opened! All of it that welled up inside of him and that could not be released gushed out in that single moment, liberated from the cage of their body's owner. And there wasn't just one gash. Trent knew, from the sudden burn of sensation, that he had messed up his face. He had not wanted to stop running, but this level of vibrancy that flooded him at the stop overwhelmed him to the point of satisfaction. It hurt, but the vividness of this wounding freed him. From where he had landed after the tumble, Trent began to laugh. He was so silly, everything was so silly, and the fact that the pain was growing was so silly.
Still laughing to himself, Trent decided that he could laugh better if he shifted his freely sprawled body. He rubbed both his hands against the hard ground, grabbed some grass as he did so, before pushing to turn himself over. As soon as he faced the sky, the pain was magnified because he had his face scrunched up in an effort to keep from contorting into a much-needed sob. He didn't like where things were going now. Just a moment ago he was escaping. There was speed, and there was the crash, and it all moved so fast that he did not have to deal with the clarity of his emotions. The words, the hurt, the handwriting of his mother. the scribblings of his father. The words. The pressure in his chest swelled and gave him pain as it rebelled against the limits of his body. He couldn't believe the words. Yet, of course, he did. And they all brought injury to him.
Father's words: disillusioned, family not what he imagined, failed expectations, wants to start again, wants to redo his life, needs to leave this family, looking forward to a new one, met a new younger woman who wanted him, she can give him a family, his chance at reworking his life, perhaps this time it would be sweet, he needed to do this for his own happiness, it is an unavoidable human nature thing, his son could not make him happy, I don't deserve this, this affected his feelings for the woman who bore Trent to him, he wanted a new life, a new start, and that meant the need to leave this one, I am still young, I have a woman who wants me other than your mother, your mother could possibly find another man because I'm sure she can, she's still young too, let it be, que sera sera. There was not a word of apology.
Mother's words: pained, lost, afraid, falling, no one is there, no one to salvage what she thought was going to be a settled life of contentment that could not be broken, the loss of her husband, the loss of her family, the blame she had to put on her son, she blamed her son for her husband leaving, I don't deserve this, Trent could you please find a way to please your father to make him stay, I am so afraid, I am not young anymore, your father made a vow on our marriage, for better or for worse, but he's leaving, is it your fault, is it my fault, whose fault is it, can't we try to fix this, I thought our family was perfect, why is it falling apart. Frantic words of a woman forced to spiral out of sanity.
Trent could not help it. The pressure in his chest was too much, too hefty, too suffocating. With a sharp intake of a deep breath, he took in the fuel that could allow him to do the next --- yell/scream/shout out of his lungs. And just like the circumstances from those two letters fell on him like thousands of tetris blocks, the thunderous constant of the waterfall conquered his outburst. Why was he the scapegoat of it all? Was it really all his fault? I don't deserve this too, mum and dad. Trent could not grasp the words. What was it that he did that was so wrong? He had thought things were looking up. His father had begun to speak more to him, and mother was still mother. And then this. It was sudden, but it was not out of the blue. He knew that things were brewing, but he didn't expect it to come like this, or at least, he knew it would come but was still not prepared to face it when it did. Physical reality, or reality itself, still always managed to bite harder than his imagination. He could have done better with a warning, or maybe not. It was always going to be this hard anyway, and any attempt to cushion the impact of them was only his delusional endeavours.
The persistent slapping sound of the waterfall gave him only one avenue of freedom --- Trent began to cry. The hiding place in the louder sound of waters allowed him the space to let his own flow. It was funny how the only time he could feel like he could open up himself at a time and place was when he had been complicit in the event of wounding himself. The fall had hit his face hard. Trent could taste the blood that flowed from his bottom lip to the tip of his tongue. He let his tongue smear and spread the blood from his lip to the insides of his mouth, filling it all with the taste of iron. The burning cut on his right cheek felt like it was opening up to the sky. He did not venture to touch it, wanting to allow an uninterrupted interaction between that open part of his body and the unintrusive world. Trent released the grass that he was still grasping on tightly in both hands, allowing his palms at his sides to face the sky, too. His legs were spread wide, completing a posture of invitation of him to the world that was natural and uninhabited right where he was by another's presence, where he lay in a mess.
by Trenton Thomas Mon Mar 19, 2012 9:59 am
