Come this way, don’t go towards the light. Sit next to me, I won’t bite.
Don’t waste your time on that Holy place. Open up this lid and fill in the space.
Lay yourself down next to me, And relax until I set you free.
Close your eyes and drift away. I’ll protect your body, I’m here to stay.
The lid is shut, the dark sets in. Now you’re dead and I win.
We burst out of the room at a slight jog, hand in hand as our family and friends continue to clap and cheer in a standing ovation. Flower petals dust our heads and shoulders. We sneak away to the room selected for us to steal a private moment before returning to the ballroom for a night of playing host as newly weds. We stop to catch our breath and face one another. We did it, we’re married. So much time and planning went into a wedding, that it was easy to miss the reality that you just legally bound yourself to your soulmate, your best friend, forever. Immediately we embrace, kissing deeper and more passionately than we dared to in front of everyone else. That’s when I felt it, that tickle on my lips. It was so brief, I questioned whether I’d felt it at all. How long has it been? Six years? The tickle was so faint that it must’ve only been but a peck. I shake off the thoughts and focus on my husband. “Let’s do this!” He says with a grin.
“Woo! This is the night best ever!” Holly, one of my bridesmaids was completely wasted, jumping up and down to the music while screaming this in my ear. The reception had been a success; the first dance, the toasts, the food. The only part that I still harped on were the dances with our parents. We both knew it would be awkward but at least they managed to paste on smiles for the rest of the guests.
I only have my dad and my husband only has his mom and unfortunately they both were and still are, not happy with our relationship. It started right from the beginning. My father was stoic when I first brought him home, I figured that’s how all dads were with their only daughter’s adult boyfriend. His mom was the same and over time we understood that they disliked our relationship immensely. We both tried to pry the reasons out of our respective parent but to no avail. We even, for a time, stopped talking to them completely. Six years ago actually, the last time I had felt my lips tingle. This odd, ability so to speak can only be felt when someone I love kisses someone else and within close proximity to me. I hadn’t been able to figure out who it was the last time it happened all those years ago and now tonight, earlier, I was sure I felt it again. Who is here tonight, that I was also around almost 6 years ago to the day?
I scan the dance floor and the tables looking for my father but can’t spot him. I find my husband and pull him aside. “Have you seen my dad?” I ask. “No I haven’t, funnily enough I can’t find my mom either.” Just at that moment I felt it again but stronger. The tickling sensation like my lips were being pricked with needles. I run my fingers across them, feeling concerned. My husband immediately notices and understands what’s happening. “Your lips? Really? It’s been so long.” “I know” I reply. We leave the ballroom and wander the halls of the venue. We pass a row of doors and pause. The distinct sounds of clothing brushing against clothing, the wet sounds of kissing and the soft noises of passion emanate from what seemed to be a storage closet. My lips were on fire, I winced as my husband flung open the door. To our shock and horror, our parents, my father and my husband’s mother, were engaging in some serious necking. They parted as fast as opposing magnets and all four of us stared at each other.
“What is going on here?” my husband asked in almost a whisper. I felt enlightened and sick. “Is this why you’ve hated our relationship, because you two were together? Are together…whatever!” My father spoke, “no hun that’s not the reason. Yes it’s true we were in a relationship but it was 30 years ago!””However, sometimes, we would get together and rekindle.””Thirty years ago, how is that even possible?” my husband asked. “I’m only just now 30-“. His eyes went wide and he stared wildly at his mother. She sighed, “yea hun, we tried to tell you guys but you wouldn’t…listen.””BECAUSE YOUR EXCUSES WERE BULLSHIT!” my husband roared.
I was numb. My lips throbbed. Siblings.
“This has all been one big misunderstanding!””Haha! Haha!”
“Hmpf, a misunderstanding eh?” He flipped through the channels, looking for anything and nothing. It was another fun filled evening of bland microwaved food and beer in front of the television. It seemed like this was all he did after work these days.
Misunderstandings. Was it a misunderstanding when he found his wife in bed with another man? Was it a misunderstanding that took his kids, his house, even his fuckin’ hair? The only misunderstanding, apparently, happened the first time he laid eyes on and spoke to Missy 20 years ago. She clearly mistook his flirting and affection for weakness. And he took her responses to mean they’d be together forever. Mistook his marriage proposal as a farce and he mistook her baring his children as a painful but beautiful sacrifice for their future.
Maybe she misunderstood that to have a house, cars, clothes and food, that one would have to work. That this was an industrial town they grew up and stayed in. That long hours and late nights are a staple of the American dream. He never misunderstood the work and time that went into being a stay-at-home parent. He never took her for granted and yet here he was, alone in a one bedroom apartment while she tucks into their bed at their home that she got to keep. A misunderstanding of course.
These thoughts are not new to him, in fact he replays them almost nightly. Night after night, beer after beer, he stews in his misfortune. Tonight, however, he fixates on that one word. Misunderstanding. Did he believe in misunderstandings? Did they really exist or were they just an excuse for true desire?
If he followed any and every action with “it was just a misunderstanding”, could he do whatever he wanted? Missy sure had done whatever and whoever she wanted. He stood up, draining his drink, unsure how many that made tonight. All he needed was his coat and with a pit stop to the back of his closet, he was out the door. He wandered the streets, mind whirling with alcohol and anger. He spots a woman walking in his direct. As she gets closer, he stumbles and reaches out to grab her for balance. His hand lands squarely on her breast, he squeezes. “Hey! What the fuck!” She exclaims, pushing against him, disgust painted across her face. “I’m sorry, it’s just a misunderstanding!” He grins, laughs and keeps on walking. “See” he thinks, “I can do anything.”
He pulls the bottle of whiskey he swiped from the kitchen, out of his inside coat pocket and takes a few swigs. The liquid burns his throat, his chest. Drinking and walking, he contemplates his goals for the evening. “Contemplate?””I’m too sober if I’m thinking words like contemplate!” He ducks into an alley and drains half of the bottle. Intoxication hits him like a wall, he’s light, he’s air, he’s water and in he back of his mind that word pulses…misunderstanding.
After walking and walking, he finally arrives at his final destination. He stands and sways while looking up at his home. Moving to the porch, he kicks the welcome mat to the side to grab the spare key he knew would be there. “I can’t believe she still leaves this shit here” he says out loud. He enters the home as quietly as he can and makes his way to the second floor. Walking down the hallway, he revels in now unchanged the house is. Wallpaper, rugs, decor the same. The only absence is him, his face in photos. He stops in front of the master bedroom and gulps down the remaining whiskey.
The room is dark and silent, Missy was always a quiet sleeper. To his relief, she seems to be alone. The last time he was in this bedroom, that hadn’t been the case. His mind is spinning as he approaches the bed. He pulls the contents of the back of his closet out of his front coat pocket opposite the whiskey bottle and points it at his sleeping wife. Not wife, ex wife. Not ex wife, Missy. Not Missy, nothing. His finger curls and pulls once, twice, a third time for good measure.
The room returns to silence, and as he turns the barrel to face himself, he smiles. “This has all been one big misunderstanding”. He pulls.
I’m always cold now, No matter how bundled. The warmth is in my heart, My memory, my family around me.
A pin prick and a cool rush, And now I sit, surrounded by my warmth, And wait.
I look to my love, our hands clasped, Ours eyes locked, wet with tears. I look to my son, pride warming my cold.
I hate to leave but know, I can no longer stay. My eyes close, life dancing behind the lids. I breathe in, I breathe out, Until, finally, the chill stopped.
Colour….Colour…C-o-l-o-u-r. I say the word over and over until it loses what little meaning it had to begin with. I heard the word while hanging out with the group. Violet, who’s name is quite ironic I will soon discover, was being her typical know-it-all self.
“You know the whole world used to be in colour right?” Violet looks around the group with her nose held high, knowing the other kids had no idea what she’s talking about. I’m certain even Violet didn’t really know.
“Yea, daddy’s daddy’s daddy or something remembers when there was colour. Said the world lost it somehow.” Some of the other kids rolled their eyes, some gazed at Violet in wonder. I didn’t know what to think or believe. Violet was not my favorite in this group, especially because she elected herself leader. Myself, Rowena and Ambrose usually kept to ourselves on the outskirts.
“Man, she loves to hear herself talk huh?” Rowena said, scoffing and taking a sip of her cola. The three of us have sequestered ourselves to the back of the group hangout, leaning up against the wall that makes up the side of Mimi’s Groceries and Sundries. The sad, almost empty strip mall, is the hangout for this group and pretty much any kid, teen and druggie in Mayfield.
“Yup, she loves an audience Miss Queen-of-the-world.””Are you believing this shit, T?” Ambrose asked, arms crossed, hood up and guard up as usual. I turn my head towards Ambrose’s question and make a face to imply he’s crazy for even asking. Inside, however, I am unsure how to feel. Violet is not a reliable source of information but I can’t help but cling to her words. Colour….colour, I feel a sense of familiarity, like the answer is on the tip of my tongue. Curiosity and embarrassment creep up inside me in equal measure. Even though Ambrose and Ro are my best friends, I keep my thoughts to myself.
“Of course I don’t believe it. Come on, let’s get out of here.”
The screen door slams behind me as I slip through the back porch, wincing at the noise, knowing I’ve alerted my parents to my late arrival. “Wow Thea, could you be louder?””Seriously you’re terrible at sneaking in!” My parents are standing at the kitchen island eating from take out containers and sipping on wine. I breathe a sigh of relief and smile as I walk to join them. “Sorry”, I reply. “I’ll try harder next time.” I know I’m fortunate to have actual cool parents but there’s still something about coming home late that fills me with panic. Maybe it’s because I’ve seen how Rowena’s father yells and screams when she’s even a minute late or how Ambrose’s mother stands outside on their porch, hands on her hips, belt in hand, cigarette hanging from her lips just waiting to teach him a lesson.
“What have you been getting yourself up to? Something at least a little troublesome I hope”, Dad asked with a smirk. I’ve pulled up a stool to the island and grab for the nearest container. Chicken something, my favorite. “Just the usual dad”, I reply between bites. A few minutes pass in silence, nothing but chewing, sipping and clanking of utensils. “Are you alright, hun?” Mom’s voice startles me, my mind lost, trying to envision colour. “Huh? Oh yea I’m alright, just thinking about….have you ever heard of colour?” Mom and dad momentarily freeze in place, glasses raised in the mid air, food tumbling off of forks.
“Where did you hear about that?” Mom asked, her voice oddly flat, like she was making an effort to seem un-phased. “Violet was telling the group that the whole world used to be in colour but that the colour was lost.”
Dad shot a quick glance at Mom before responding. “What do you think about that? Do you believe her?” That question again, that word, believe. “I guess it’s hard to know what to believe when I don’t know what colour is supposed to mean.”
My parents relax a bit as if, with that question, they were trying to discover just how much I might know about this mysterious topic. I return to my dinner more curious and suspicious than before. Maybe Violet is right. What is colour?
Must stay still so as not to disturb her, or him. How can one tell the difference between a male and a female? This feels like a her. Her legs lightly tickle my worn, thin, sickly grey skin. After all this time, I am surprised I can feel anything. Her wings, the color of the sky, the water, the eyes that once peered back at me from a mirror. The eyes were the last to change, leaving the semblance of humanity. Dressed head to toe as I am now, long coat, half covered face, umbrella, one could almost believe I were still alive. My metamorphosis started slowly at first. Day after day of isolation and loneliness, I started to petrify. First one leg until I walked with a limp, then a whole side of the body until I was dragging it along, dead weight. My hair left, fat melting from my face. One day, all at once, I was frozen, cocooned in dying flesh as organ after organ wasted away. I sat, conscious and confused. After what seemed like an eternity, my fingers twitched, then my toes and soon movement returned to me in full. My reflection should have taken my breath away but I no longer had breath. Looking back at me was a corpse, an animated corpse. It moved when I moved, it turned when I turned. The juxtaposition of my conscious mind and moving limbs with the absence of breath and pulse drove me to panic and near madness.
Now, here we are, the beautiful and the hideous. The irrational fear and the rational. The living and the dead. The metamorphosis and the metamorphosis.
