He didn't know where to begin. The events of the last week had left him numb and his thoughts were jumbled and confusing, at best. When he slept, his dreams were vivid and surprising, especially with what he could recall the following morning. Words floating through his mind like cars lined up going through a toll booth. Each one waiting to get through the gate. Blood was spilled. His blood to be exact. How he got to that space in time was still a mystery. Every moment, each breath, each pain filled second of that time was still fresh in his mind.
It was Saturday, the day before Easter. The day began just like any other Saturday for the last two months. Wake up to feed the kittens and their mother. Make the necessary patrols around the house looking for kitten "poop." It was beginning to frustrate him, this routine that had become his life.
Oatmeal and orange juice;a shit, shower and shave. A run down into the basement because he didn't bring up the clean clothes last night. The kittens following him around like the Pied Piper of Hamelin. There was a certain level of pride he took from that--at least some-"thing" found him interesting, he thought.
Dressed and ready for the day, he left for a voice lesson. He had started his vocal training again--the desire for musical theatre was returning and he had found a teacher that he was comfortable with, and with whom he felt, could get him back in vocal shape. In the few short weeks that they had been working together he noticed that his level of confidence was returning--which made the choice he would later make even more bizarre.
The session went well--but there was an uneasiness he had been feeling, a dark cloud was beginning to take shape in his mind. When the lesson was over he smiled and said goodbye to his teacher. She reminded him to bring the german operatic piece they would begin working on, "An Der Musik." He smiled and said, "sure," and left the studio.
As he walked along the cobbled path he remembered the previous Saturday, when his eldest nephew had accompanied him to the lesson. He needed to go to a group therapy session for troubled teens. As they sat there, HE thought this is good. A place where his nephew could talk, openly and honestly, and be around people who were experiencing the same sort of things.
As HE waited for the bus, he looked down the street to the building he and his nephew were at the week before, "it couldn't hurt," he thought. But for whatever reason, HE decided to just get on the oncoming bus and head home. The thought of "sharing" wasn't what he was in the mood for--big mistake he would later find out.
The bus ride home was quick. Not to crowded and not one obnoxious person.
As he got off the bus and began walking the three blocks to his house, he took in the neighborhood. This was his home, but he felt so out of place. A recurring feeling, for how long, he couldn't remember.
As he turned the corner to his street, he looked to the house he had grown up in, across the street from where he now resided. The home of his late Grandmother. The home, where he had cared for his "Nana" for the last 15 years up through her death in November of 2009. The home, where he would eventually care for his dying and Alzheimer stricken Grand-Uncle. The home, where he would finally begin taking care of his 47 year old cousin, who's father had just passed and who had her own mental health issues to deal with--alot for one man, who he himself was living with a chronic ailment for the last 21 years. An ailment that when initially was discovered, was thought to be a terminal illness. An ailment that had been a thorn in his side, his cross to bear, his punishment for living a life that was by some considered, sinful.
No comments:
Post a Comment