Not a Word Was Spoken

How mad I used to be! It seems so foolish now that all that nonsense is over. But how terrifying it all was at the time! What a wreck I was. Even a stroll through the park, a once beloved activity of mine, brought out the worst in me. The birds laughed at me incessantly, bees pestered me and only me. Even the trees loomed above like guardians of a world I had no business taking any pleasure in. The flowers smelled rotten and their bulbs hung low in disgust as I passed by. Surely, I thought, the world wants me dead. And it wasn't just the natural world that had it in for me. No, no. In fact, people were the worst. Everywhere I went there were pairs of eyes staring holes in me. A cold sweat forever clung to my face. If I so much as coughed or scraped my boot against the ground it caused an uproar. The thought of having to talk to anyone made my stomach turn inside out. Looking them in the eyes and having them stare back into mine, why, I felt as low and dirty as a sewer rat. They studied my secrets and laughed and made jokes when I looked away.

“Look at this guy over here, Wendy. What a pathetic excuse for a man he is! His coat is dusty and his hair is a mess.”

“I know, it’s like he doesn’t even care. Worthless.”

“Worthless.”

And when I turned back all that met me were those staring eyes, pretending to be so innocent. I couldn’t stand to talk to another soul for more than five minutes without wanting to run home and barricade myself. Everybody was waiting for the chance to cut my throat, I know they were. They wanted nothing more than to drive me to the edge of insanity and give me a final shove.

Even grabbing a coffee on the way to the office was no longer a viable option. A 20 ounce chai tea latte with a dash of soy milk runs me $3.65. It’s when I start to fumble about for my wallet that I begin to hear the whispers.

“Look how sloppy he is, he can’t even find his wallet.”

“Does he have to order something so convoluted? He’s holding up the entire line.”

“I wish this guy would hurry up. Some of us have important lives.”

“Sorry,” I would say, turning for a moment to face my accusers, “I don’t mean to burden anybody.” Their mouths are sealed, wordless. Faces blank, emotionless, but their eyes reveal their hatred. I finally find a twenty and swivel back to hand it to the cashier. He takes it and the register opens with a ring.

“Do you hear that? Sorry, he says. As if sorry meant anything. No, sorry isn’t good enough, not nearly good enough.” One voice, two voices, a hundred, I couldn’t tell. However many there were they danced around and dove into my ears from all angles.

“Keep the change!” I yell as I make a dash for the exit.

Home was the only sanctuary I had. Couples with clasped hands forced me to shut the blinds for good. Watching them walk down the sidewalk, mocking me with their gaiety, they disgusted me. Why should they torture me so by walking in front of my house, I would think to myself. They must know this is my house. What commitment! They know I can see them. They know how much they make me sick and yet they don't even bother to turn and take in the reward for their cruelty. How sick! How revolting! How horrible that they should get a smile from my anguish. I should like to get my hands around their necks and inflict a little pain of my own.  I would feel the smile creep across my face. Every muscle in my body tensed to the thought of violence. I longed to tear through the flesh of another, to feel the blood slip through my fingers. But these thoughts only occurred in the safety of my own home—though, how safe can a home really be when the outside world is so chaotic?

At first I thought it was something about my appearance that garnered all the attention. Maybe my shirt was on inside out, or perhaps I had a bit of gunk on the side of my mouth. But every morning I gave myself a thorough inspection in the bathroom mirror and I wouldn’t dare leave until I was sure I looked as normal, as inconspicuous, as could be. I soon realized that no matter my appearance I was destined to be harassed. It was during these morning intervals that I began to see a change occur. The mirror reflected a face that was at once recognizable as my own but in the next moment something was quite askew, though I knew not what. My face began to startle, even terrify, me. Surely my hair had grown noticeably longer and the sleeplessness had accumulated under my eyes, but that wasn’t the thing.

Then it struck me: my eyes. My eyes were different. The same, yet different. They were still a grainy hazel as always but they seemed cold, lifeless and they stared back at me with such intense judgment. Peering into those eyes that were mine but not mine I couldn’t help but feel inhuman from head to toe. They were the same eyes that stared at me wherever I went. They gazed back at me with the exactness of two cameras mounted in my sockets. How many mornings had they been spying on me? They betrayed the very head they belonged to. I could no longer bear to take in the sight any longer. I tore myself away from the gaze of those insidious eyes and escaped into the bedroom. I counted to ten, then twenty, then a hundred, but my heart wouldn’t let me forget the horror I had just seen. I rubbed the eyes and cursed the mirror for deceiving me, cursed myself for being so fanciful, cursed anything I could think of.  It was at this moment I heard a succession of knocks at the door. Knock, knock, knock. Loudly, evenly spaced and with authority. It was Tuesday, my mother had arrived.

I crawled back into the living room like a scolded dog, ashamed of my own foolishness. I swung the door open and there she stood. A tiny short-haired woman of only 5 feet but with her came a presence that commanded the entire room—for a tiny woman she had the habit of making a person shrink under her gaze. With a cold look she moved past me and into the living room.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

After surveying the area for a minute she began to march around the living room touching this and examining that.

“Daniel, Daniel, Daniel, look how unorganized you are.” She turned a picture of a young boy playing with his dog so that it was perfectly flush with the edge of the mantelpiece. The boy is laughing and looking straight at the camera with smiling eyes. The dog is licking the side of the boy’s face. It was a stock photo.

With a bony finger she swabbed the writing desk that stood off to the corner. She held the finger before me to show off all the dust. There wasn’t a trace.

         “I’m surprised you can live the way you do. Is this how I raised you? You know it’s not.”

She let out a sigh and continued her inspection. She shuffled the papers on the desk, stacked the coasters on the coffee table and looked for cobwebs in the corners of the ceiling.

“A man’s house is reflective of his character, you know? People know a slob when they see one. Do you want people to think of you as a slob? Do you want them to turn to one another and whisper ‘Look at that man over there. What a slob he is! So filthy, so dirty. He’s an animal’? No, I should hope not. But that is what they’ll say. That is what they say.”

Standing akimbo in the center of the room she started in on the questions. She asked them not in a pestering way and not in the curious way that mothers have a habit of doing. No, she asked them like a doctor gathering vital information on his patient.

“Are you feeling okay? Have you been taking your pills? Have you met anyone new? Have you had sex lately?”

Yes, yes, no, no. “How about you, mother? How have things—“

“You need to shave.” A cold chill ran through my by body as she smiled and walked over to let a finger drop on the blinds, creating a V to peer through.

My mother made dinner while I sat at the kitchen table and watched. I saw as she took the steak out of the fridge and dashed it with salt and pepper. She then brought out the cast-iron skillet, lightly brushed it with vegetable oil and put it on high heat. When wisps of smoke began to rise from the surface she went over and picked up the hunks of meat, walked back and threw them into the middle of the skillet. The meat let out a painful hiss as it hit the pan. I watched her watch the skillet with the patience and firmness of an austere general. She kept her eyes on the steak at all times. When one side was seared she flipped and watched until that side was seared, then another flip. Flip, sear, turn, sear. She manipulated the meat with precision and diligence and she made it quite clear that it was to cook the way she wanted it to. My stomach let out a gurgle and the saliva started to build up in my mouth. Satisfied with the results she came over to the table and placed a steak on the plate in front me and one for herself opposite me. It was a devilishly small table and our plates were nearly touching one another. She sat down and lowered her head as if to say grace but instead she let out a sigh, looked up at me, and told me to get my elbows off the table. Then we began to eat.

I picked up my fork and knife and poked the steak a few times. The knife glided easily in and out. Making a small incision in the meat I watched as a pool of blood collected under the pressure of the knife—medium rare. Cutting off a quarter size piece I held it up to my face. The striations in the tissue acted as pathways for the blood to flow down. The smell made me think of a caveman coming home and throwing a whole deer or buffalo onto a fire pit. As my teeth gradually sank into the crimson chunk a little blood made its way down the corner of my mouth. I wiped it away slowly with the side of my hand. A single drop of it landed with a splash on my plate as I took my bite. The meat was warm and full of juices and I couldn’t help but feel a prehistoric sense of joy as I chewed. The taste was divine. I chewed ferociously, trying to find a balance between savoring and devouring.

“And how is the steak?”

“Fine.”

“Of course it is fine.”

Dinner was quiet except for the occasional command from my mother.

“Pass the salt.” I passed the salt.

“Drink your water.” I drank my water.

“Use your napkin.” I used my napkin.

She kept her hazel eyes fixated on me the whole dinner. I tried to look anywhere but at her but even when I looked away I could feel her watching me. I clutched the fork and knife in my hand like a starved man and my stomach let out another gurgle.

“You need to get a grip on yourself. You need to start behaving like an adult. You mustn’t let your mind carry you away.” She waved a finger in front of my face.

Still clutching my fork and knife I fidgeted in my chair like a child. I began to feel small, inferior, starved, a rat, a child, a starving rat-child.

“What’s the matter with you? Look at me.”

I didn’t want to look at her.

“Look at me,” she repeated, her eyes getting wider.

I could feel her leaning forward, her head but a few inches from my own. I stared at my plate as the blood seeped out of the meat.

“Look at me.”

I wouldn’t look.

“Look at me!”

I looked up and what I saw was two digital eyes, like the lenses of cameras, staring at me, judging me. Without making a sound I thrust the knife deep into her chest. A tremendous popping sound was let out, like the bursting of a balloon or a paper bag. The knife scraped a bit as it passed by her sternum. Those eyes of hers opened so wide I thought they were going to burst. She didn’t say a word. I pulled the blade out and put it back in with blind force and precision. Except for that first pass the knife glided easily. In, out, in, out. With each retraction a little more blood seeped through her shirt and once in a while it spurted out onto my hands and ran between my fingers. I kept going until I saw her eyes roll back into her head. With that I slowly withdrew the knife, more blood trickling out with each passing inch, and set it on the table.

I quietly rose from my seat, gathered the plates in my hand, set them in the kitchen sink and headed for the living room. I walked over and opened the blinds. There was nothing to be scared of.