As the days passed by, he realized something,--he was beginning to procrastinate.
One week ago he was in a place that he wouldn't have wished upon his worst enemy.
Holy Saturday. The Day before Easter.
His relationship with GOD was almost estranged in a way. He wasn't necessarily angry with GOD, but there were times when he felt left out. Alone. Abandoned.
As he walked in the door to his home, he was met with the usual greeting from his kittens. But one or all of them did a "number" on the rug, so he immediately began the clean up process. He wasn't mad at them per say, but he was frustrated that they were only using the litter box every now and then; most times he'd be home, hear the kittens "whining" and know one of them had to go to the bathroom. And if he didn't get up to find which one, there would be a stinky pile of kitten "poo" on the rug that his grandmother was incredibly fierce in it's uptake.
He missed her.
From 2000, up through her death in November of 2009, their Worlds were entwined. They took care of each other until she could no longer care for herself around 2007.
As he looked around the house, he thought, "what the fuck?" Save for a mother Cat and her four Kittens, the house was empty. No sounds. No laughter. Just him and five pussies. Three girls and two boys. Not including his-self.
He sat on the living room sofa and began to stare around the house. The family pictures that once adorned the 35+ year old piano were no longer there--replaced with books and magazines that were to be read.
He looked for the remote to the T.V. Nothing was on, save for some really bad B movies that never should've seen the light of day.
He surfed the television stations. Once. Twice. Then he kept flipping them back and forth. As if waiting for the T.V. to produce some really good shows that would raise his spirits.
"Beer," he thought. He needed a Beer--or some 420. At least he could vegetate for awhile; get the munchies.
He began going through the stations again. And again. And again.
Nothing.
He looked towards the front windows.
By this time, two of the four kittens were on the radiator, on their hind legs trying to get a "claw grip" on one of the blinds covering the windows. He looked for the water spray bottle. That seemed like a good way to teach them "NO."
He cussed some inaudible sound to them and said, "you're pushing it."
He was beginning to feel some hunger pains. But the desire to cook was not in him--just no strength or will to get up and go into the kitchen. That probably would've brought him out of this funk as well. But no, sitting and stewing seemed to be the best solution.
There he sat, and the hours seemed to pass and elongate at the same time. Nothing was happening from his point of view. No one was there--and he didn't know what to do.
Sunset began--he was still on the couch. Sitting up and forward with his hand on his chin watching something on the television, he was no longer there in the house. In his mind, he had gone someplace else and left this shell-of-a-man behind.
He turned on one of the lamps. Sometime later, how long he would never know, he looked over towards the doorbell ringer. His eyes began focusing on something. Then all of a sudden he started seeing colors. A light blue house dress with polka dots. The very one he saw his Grandmother in so many times before when she was alive.
He shook his head to clear his mind and eyes. He was just tired he told himself, and since he hadn't smoked or drank anything, he tried to let it go.
Then something else happened, this time the figure returned. Leaned over and placed it's elbow on the piano. The next thing, he saw another figure emerging from the same area. This one was moving slower and in a straight path across the living room, in front of the television and passed through the love seat and lounge chair. He felt the goosebumps on his ice cold skin rising.
He just kept shaking his head in disbelief. "This is NOT happening ," he said aloud, but there was no denying what he saw and felt. He turned the sound to the television down and looked over at the area where this initiated. He told himself to relax, just relax and breathe.
He decided to just go to bed.
As he walked up the stairs, his mind began racing. Upstairs was dark and he was beginning to feel the anomynity of it all. To not be seen...and that's how it started. The questions, the fears. What if....just, what if he didn't open his eyes in the morning?
The tears began to flow down his cheeks. He went into his bedroom, the bedroom that was once occupied by his grandmother and closed the door tightly. One thing that he didn't need right now was any one of those kittens coming up and thinking it was playtime. They had a habit of jumping up on the bed and chasing ANYTHING that moved. If he moved from one side of the bed to another, they began their "hunt and gather" routine. Any other day he would've welcomed the playfulness.
He walked around the bed to get to the dresser on the other side of the room. He sat down on the edge of the bed, turned on the night-stands' light saw his medications and vitamins. His crying became heavier, his breath was static, he was drowning. He picked up a bottle, Benedryl, prescriptive, not OTC. Taking one or two would give him a more restful sleep...but what if....what if he took more? Half the bottle had spilled into the palm of his hand. A plastic cup of water from the night before sat in front of him--waiting for him to pick it up. He looked from one hand to the other....swallowed the pills and drank the water. Not all of them had gone down the first time. He sipped some more water. Now he began to hyper-ventilate. He laid down on his side in the fetal position. He wrapped one arm on top of the other. His crying had become stronger, deeper, fuller; he turned his head into his pillow and waited.
Some time later, he sat up, his eyes were swollen and puffy. His pillow wet. He looked into the dresser mirror and didn't recognize who he saw--he looked at the Benedryl again, something stronger he thought. His prescription of Ibuprofen was there--why not? They were 800 milligrams. Taking one was usually good for whatever was ailing him--half a bottle--well, maybe that's the push he needed. He got the water, opened the bottle, spilled the white, horse sized pills into his palm and swallowed.
There was a pain in his chest. He threw his head back onto the bed and curled up.
He stared at the ceiling for what seemed hours. He could vaguely hear the sounds of cars coming and going up and down the street. He knew that his eyes would soon begin playing tricks on him--the car headlights, peering through, creating shapes and figures along the bedroom walls. Oh, great---here come the hallucinations for sure. And just as he finished his thought, a figure began to emerge along the window curtains. As if they were being lowered down from the ceiling. He closed his eyes. Was this HELL coming to greet him?
It wouldn't be until days later that his mother said, "you know it's a sin." And as much as he wanted to--he didn't reply, but if he did, he would've told her, "So...being Gay, HIV+, a fornicater in the eyes of GOD,--his ticket was written a long time ago and instilled in him by his Catholic faith.
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