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[Part I] Cold Hands
I have yet to do the second part. Depending on how the reaction is, I may do it.
[Part I] "Cold Hands" (11/05)
If you still wonder about me, and care about your eldest son, you might bring yourself to read this letter. For a long time, Mother, I have been reluctant to talk. These past many years that have held me for so long, are full of sickness and deluded thought. My eyes are fixed on walls that dare me to breathe the air they keep out; if I let them close, I get closer to a state of unconsciousness that I may not rouse from. I'm sorry, that is not how I wanted to begin. Let me start over.
I want you to know everything. All of it. I have not done enough for you. I'm sure that you must be disgusted with me, and maybe you ought to be. But, I want to be a good son to you; one who doesn't write you every ten years.
When you saw me that morning, after I had gotten out of bed, do you remember when I left with David's bag? This is going to be hard. I had just put some jeans on, and I remember it being freezing outside my room. When you saw me coming into the living room, you looked at me the way you would when you wanted an answer for something. I was hungover, and as if advocating your anger, the sun's light was overwhelming my sight.
Regardless of their impairment, my eyes were taken by a silhouette representing the refridgerator; I made my way to it, executing each step with attempted dexterity.
I wanted orange juice, and it was in my hands when you drew breath and that sharp tone formed my practiced name then came of your tongue.
Nearly dropping the carton of orange juice, I looked at you; hoping you'd notice the sullen composition of my face. "Why do you always do that!" I had been louder than I wanted to be.
"Look, quit the bullshit, Edmund." That was always your warning phrase.
Behind the kitchen counter, you were glaring at me; your eyes followed me as I closed the refridgerator door. There was a smile that had snuck on my face.
That made you angry. "I'm getting sick of this attitude of yours!" Something in that sentence seemed to beckon your pointer finger to jab at me, which for some reason reminded me of a bulldog on a chain.
Poison then flew between your teeth. "You and I both know you're going to freeze up and cry." That did something to my face.
My fingers had been playing with the cap on the orange juice. Meeting your eyes was not easy, and it never was. Instead, feeling helpless, I looked where I felt the least discomfort.
"Get this shit picked up, Edmund!" You turned your attention to the sink, and I started to feel numb. Looking at me again, you seemed like you were going to talk, and I waited for your words to take the feeling from my legs. But no word was uttered.
As it was, I couldn't face anyone; and as it is, I am constantly nervous. I am a coward, and I have always been that way. This is difficult to confess, but within this cell, I am better off than I was there; if you could tolerate such a bitter notion.
You eventually found my eyes upon yours. I was paralyzed, and everything became terribly familiar. I was losing my grip on the carton of orange juice, and I soon felt myself transform into the child I once was, who was never really gone to begin with.
My hand released the carton, sending it to the ground. I do not know if it spilled, without having thought about it, I turned from you; tears had surfaced from my eyes, and I soon found myself moving across the living room before blinking them away.
You spoke again, only something sad had crept into your voice. "Edmund!" I was in my room then; my body was trembling, and I was trying to stand on my own.
"Edmund. You're eighteen years old!" I wanted to hate you for saying that. "You need to overcome this shit!" I was sick. Maybe I realized it then.
I didn't want to be around you anymore.
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