Death

I remember very little of the funeral itself. There are moments when I distinctly recall sitting or standing in the pew, with my Dad at the end, mourning the loss the last of his own family. There was the burial, where he was reluctant to have her put in the ground, and cried to himself as the priest, whom we have all known for several years, reassured him that life does not end with death; life is a precursor to one with Christ.

The most poignant thing that stands out in my mind is at the end, before Matt and I parted from my family. I knew the time would come when I would have to say good bye, and when I would likely have the most contact with my father that I had had in years. It terrified me more than death itself, at that point, since my emotions were still so torn over how I could watch him lose a parent and feel nothing more than, “It is the natural order of things.”

But it happened, and when he gathered me into his arms, I couldn’t help but feel hot tears streaming down my face. My Dad was hugging me, holding me as if I was the only family he had left. Somehow, that rush of sympathy came forth not only for his relationship with his mother, but for his with me. There were so many years trapped behind that one hug, a way to hope to make up for all the years I felt neglected, pushed away, and left on my own. Somehow, I knew he still needed me.

And though I still find it hard to admit, sometimes… I think I need him, too.

“I love you, Steph.”

Don’t worry. I love you, too. Even if the words are hard to come by.

Neighbors

The doorknocker felt cold in my hand, and I could feel it vibrate under the sheer force of bass music that was thumping on the door. It took three separate and increasingly violent knocks to get someone at the door. A girl opened it up, and she stared at me with a coquette glare, challenging me to fuck around with someone as cute as her. “Yeah?”

“Hey, can I talk to someone who lives here?” I said, expecting either Santé or Andrés to be called to.

My right eyebrow has been getting a workout from the excuses I’ve heard from our neighbors throughout the month, but it just about flew off when she replied, hand on hip, “I live here.”

Excuse me, honey? No, you don’t. Unless one of the male residents here happened to transform into a slightly hot yet incredibly snotty little girl overnight, or unless you happen to be sleeping with one or both of these guys, transformed or not, I highly doubt that you live here.

“Um, no, you don’t.” I’m not one to hold back calling out idiots, not when the opportunity presenting itself right in front of my face is just too prime. “Two guys live here, and I want to talk to one of them.”

“Oh, well, I practically live here, so you can talk to me, too.” She pursed her lips a little and flipped her long black hair back, body language that imitates the fight me any more and die, bitch mentality.

I put my hand against the doorframe. “Well, if I can’t talk to one of them, I’ll just ask you if the music can be turned down.”

“Sure, no problem,” she flippantly replied, shutting the door in my face before I could manage a half-ass “Thanks.” Whatever.

O.C.D

It was as if everything was illuminated, everything I wanted to avoid, surrounding every step I wanted to take, planning to take over my feet then my legs then the rest of my body, and eventually my head. They were all mocking me: You can’t do this! You’re too weak! I shook my head in frustration, knowing that they were right, but unable to shake the feeling that something would go terribly, terribly wrong if I happened to do it.

“Come on, Steph, what are you doing?” Of course he was frustrated. Who wouldn’t be, when their significant other is standing at the threshold of the hallway, afraid to take a step out for fear of world collapse? I can’t make him see what was all around me – he already thought I was nuts, and now I’m talking to and even debating with invisible beings that strive to tear me limb from limb.

“I’m trying! It’s really hard! Give me a minute…” A minute. A minute. A minute. Dammit, there it goes again. Stop thinking, stop thinking, eventually you’ll get it out of your head. It’s just in your head. A minute… a minute… What about an hour? Or even a day, I’ll take a day over this constant A minute, a minute, a minute. I started wringing my hands in frustration.

Ryan came back down the hall and stood in front of me. His look was a cross between sheer annoyance and some compassion, but I could instantly tell it was forced. “What’s the matter, really? It can’t be that bad.”

“No, it is that bad,” I retorted, my nostrils flaring a bit from anger. “You wouldn’t understand. What if I step out here and… I don’t know, it’s dirty or infested? You know these college dorms, what could be in these damned carpets? What if I come out of here, and something terrible happens? The elevator could drop, I could be impaled by some clarinetist bent on revenge, or a car accident! What if I get hit by a car?”

He looked back at me, his eyes clearly saying, You’re batshit insane. “Um, okay. I’m going… downstairs. Let me know when you want to join us.” I caught him rolling his eyes as he walked away. I didn’t care much about him – no negative thoughts even cropped up. I could tell whether or not I cared about someone based on how gruesome the images were.

Of course I’m insane. I knew ever since this started, from the strange mental images to the eventual fear of germs, from the strange phobias to the cleaning frenzies I went on to control my mind. I was spotlessly clean, but irreparably crazy, I thought.