turmoil – Spirit of the Wolf

I was so angry.

I was also surprised at the thoughts that were going through my head. Every memory of Francis was now tainted and dulled in my head because of what he had done. The fact that he had talked to everyone but me saddened me; the fact that he wouldn’t let me talk to him at all, that he wouldn’t talk to me at all, infuriated me.

I had been sad for days, but gradually, the sadness passed into anger. The water that had surrounded me slowly evaporated as the anger took over. There was a storm in my mind filled with hot shadows made from my fears come to life. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see Francis and his form wavered as if I were seeing him through the film of heat from a fire.

As much as I loved him, I was so angry. I couldn’t bring myself to hate him, for who could hate their first true love? Lisa had told me it was okay to hate someone, but I took offense to that. My love for Francis still ran so deeply in me. I couldn’t stop the flow of my thoughts and emotions, even if there had been a dam put in place in front of the emotions. I had used my mind to place a barrier around my heart and the memories that I had of Francis. I made sure that the metal barrier in my mind was sharp and pointy so that it would hurt every time I tried to look at the time I had spent with him. It was easier for me to go keep my head up afterward and didn’t hurt so much to go on without Francis.

And yet, I would find myself taking out those memories and looking at them, even though I knew that I was hurting myself each time I plucked a memory from that metal box. I would try to look at the memories through a thin red haze. I knew that it was hurting me to keep looking in, but I wanted to see what I had done wrong. When did he stop loving me? I was so lost within myself that even though I kept going, I was stuck. I said this much to Lisa one night.

She’d brought home a rare treat. She pulled open her pack of cigarettes and presented me with a rolled joint. “You look like you really need to loosen up.”

“Why, I’m not uptight.”

“You are so fucking controlled, Jamieson. When was the last time you did something for fun? And you’ve been mired in the dark forest; I don’t mind telling you that. Francis isn’t everything, Jamieson. You need to stop beating yourself up and thinking of him that way. You’re everything.”

Lighting the joint, Lisa took a few puffs and passed it to me. I gladly took in a few puffs of smoke, hopeful that it would at least lessen the pain that I was in and soften the edges of the steel knives. I passed the joint back to her, and she took a few more puffs of her own. Soon, the joint half gone, we were both giggling like school children. My face hurt from laughing, having been kept in a frown for so long.

The moment made me realize how long I had been hurting myself. I shook my head and looked at Lisa, her eyes large with mirth. “He really was a dickhead.” I couldn’t bring myself to call him an asshole like Lisa did on a regular basis since he had broken up with me. Dickhead was as far as I was willing to go. I still loved him. It hurt to admit this to myself, but I knew that my love for him would take a while to fade.

Letting out a laugh, Lisa said “Well, he does like dick, so it’s an appropriate nickname! I’ll call him that next time I see him.”

I didn’t think anything of it until a few days later. My pager went off, and I saw Francis’ number flash on the screen. My whole world seemed to pause and go still. I couldn’t hear the sounds of Lisa in the next room, or the sounds of traffic from the freeway near by. I stared at the number and wondered if I wanted to talk to him or hear anything that he had to say.

I was still wondering this as I walked out the door, lit a cigarette, and found myself at the payphone across the street. I put a quarter in and dialed his number and when the phone clicked and he said hello, the sound returned to the world around me. His voice could make me believe in any kind of possibility and I wondered which one I would find here.

“Hello, Francis?” I said.

“Hello,” I was surprised to hear the coldness in his voice. “Don’t you mean dickhead?” he asked. “That’s what you’ve been calling me.”

The volume of the noise around me went even louder. Francis’ words seemed too loud and his words felt like a slap. “I mean, I could have called you worse things. You’re lucky that it was just dickhead.”

“That’s what I am to you? I loved you, Jamieson. You don’t talk about people you love like that.”

“You do when they are being mean. You hurt me, Francis.” Even saying his name hurt me and I felt the pain in my chest, the swords clanking together. “I have a right to be upset after you did what you did.”

“I set you free, Jamieson.” I heard the click of a lighter and Francis took in a breath of smoke. “You should be thanking me. I’m not a dickhead.”

Louder than any other sound was the loud beating of my heart. I could hear it in my ears and the noise of it seemed to fill my mind completely. I thought of every other man I had been with, and I didn’t use my voice. My heart wanted me to know that I had one. I closed my eyes and watched as I took hold of one of the swords that surrounded my heart. In my minds eye, I held it out towards Francis.

Letting my eyes slide open, I took in my own breath of smoke. “You’re right, Francis. You’re not a dickhead. I believe that asshole fits you a lot better. You don’t get to break my heart and then tell me how I feel. This is on you.”

I hung up the phone before he could start talking again because I realized that what he said no longer mattered. I could grieve now, finally seeing Francis for what he was. It seemed that he had given me a gift in the end, the clarity that can only come from pain.

I held on to the sword like a dowsing rod and let it lead me back home.

After the door had opened within Francis, I found myself looking at him more.

It wasn’t that I hadn’t noticed him before. What I think what I was doing was looking at him to see how he reacted to me. What I saw was worrying and I had to remind myself to not put walls or barriers between us.

Before, when he first looked at me, his face had lit up like the stars. Now when he looked at me, I could see him putting his features into a face of joy. There was a moment of worry that covered his face, one of fear and I could see him as he shoved the emotions down within him to greet me with the face he thought I wanted to see.

It pained me and I wondered when he would open up to me.

I noticed that our words, which had flowed freely before, were always spoken from somewhere else, as if Francis were speaking from a place inside of himself. I knew what he was wrestling with, and I tried to get him to talk every so often. I didn’t want to push it. Francis had to be the one to speak and I remembered what happened in the past when I pushed. I usually got hurt.

He kept saying that nothing was wrong, that he was alright, that he was okay. When I asked him if we were okay and that it was okay if he wanted to talk about it, he would kiss me. I wondered if this was to shut me up or to remind himself of the spark that was between us. I began to feel that he justified our relationship during the day or tried to find peace with it. He couldn’t hide from the voices and opinions of others when the sun shone.

During the evenings together, he would sew and stitch with deft fingers. Francis could create magic in mere minutes, conjuring something with style and flair that he would don, looking instantly wonderful. He was always making something sparkly to wear. He had even offered to make me a camo beret trimmed with gold sparkles, or we would work on our nails together while the television played in the background. Often, I would write poetry in one of my journals I always carried with me. During the night, we were most ourselves with each other, free from the expectations and opinions of others. I would read him a poem I had written, or he would show me how to properly take care of my cuticles and how to make sure to get the most even coverage when painting your nails.

During the evening, with the lights down low, we could pretend everything was okay. I didn’t have the words to get him to open up and speak about the emotions that he was carrying. In hindsight, I wasn’t old enough and didn’t know enough of the world to learn the words that I had to say. Not yet. I just tried to comfort him and enjoy the hours spent together feeling whole. The shadows kept us together, the day drove us apart.

Francis couldn’t hide from the truth.

I always picked him up from work. He worked down the street from Lisa’s at a call centre with Stacey. They worked in an older house that had been converted into an office, and they sold subscriptions. Francis and Stacey were always bringing home some kind of bonus or another for how well they had done. It had gotten to the point where a lot of the people knew me and knew that I was Francis’ other half. At first, I had eyes only for Francis when I was there and watched him working, laughing with one of his customers, Francis looking at me the entire time.

As time passed between us, our paths following the flow of water, I started to notice that he would look away from me while I waited and his coworkers would glance at me with apologetic looks.

After work, he would take my hand, and we would walk to the bus stop so that we could spend the night together. I had begun to carry the unspoken worry during the day, and it weighed on me. I would sit and read, write and worry. I would pour my worry out onto the page, filling the page with my emotions. I didn’t know why I was worried, why it hung so heavy on me, but when Francis took my hand and we headed back to his place, I was able to let all the worry go. Everything was going to be okay, night had come and the smoke from our cigarettes could mingle together as if dancing between us.

At night, I believed in the magic of possibility and the promise of love.

I wrote him poems about speaking and truth, about the words that we kept within us covered up with vines trying to break free, and he would tell me that it was beautiful, that the words just flowed across the page. When he was reading, I could see his eyes widen, but my words didn’t reach deep enough into the well of him so that he could bring up his words so that his tongue could shape them.

He would tell me that he loved me, but slowly, I could see him walking away from me and could feel him putting distance between us. Even though I kept swimming toward him, I was somehow further and further away in the sea that surrounded him.

At night, I believed in the magic of love, and I hoped that it was enough.

Tag: turmoil

Chapter Fifty-Three – 5 of Swords

Chapter Forty-Three – 8 of Cups