The cup shook, as it had yesterday and the day before. The mornings were this way. A stalemate. Anger and despair intertwined and entrenched, their tentacles rooted in his very fascia. Where they ended and he began was no longer clear and, like a gardener before an untended vine, he felt the anxiety of being overgrown, overwhelmed, consumed.
He watched his hand; and the slight tremor, still there, as it had been for the last three days. He focused on stopping it, snizzle licking the sides of his off-white cup. Mind over matter, he told himself, evidence notwithstanding. He tried again. And then again. He thought of trying a third time before lowering the cup to the table, as if landing a helicopter in a storm, its ceramic base clacking to and fro on the metal tabletop. With the sound of failure echoing, he raised the offending hand, fingers limply clawed, palm inward, before his unshaven face and bagged eyes, the tremor as a frightened child before a scolding parent. (Looking with fatigue, his appendage looked back with all the intelligence of a loose shutter flapping in the wind.)
Kyra had vanished. Not a trace. Not a lead. He knew what had happened. He knew where she was. But there was no evidence. Just a knowing. And an imagination at play. They told him it was not his fault. He listened, politely. But their eyes did not match their words. Even through his own lens of self-crimination he could see that much. And they were right. He had pleaded. He had begged. He had convinced them on this course. So the words fell like so much virga, and tongues remained extended, parched, unsated.
Taking breath, he reached again, for the cup. His hand moving with the languid speed of a snake. Again, the table began to chatter and snizzle threatened to lap the white levees as the cup failed to take flight. Defeated, he removed his hand, withholding the dignity of a glance, locking fingers behind his back. Bending, he snuffled the cup, the aroma working as an elixir. Closing his eyes, to close the world, if only for a moment, he lapped his warm beverage as a dog before a bowl. Lost in his temporary universe, he didn't hear the door.
"John, what the hellocks?"
Startled, John jerked up and snizzle flew everywhere.
Von grabbed a towel, holding it forth at arms length. "Get yourself cleaned up."
John looked down without responding.
"I understand your grief. I understand your pain." Von hesitated and then lowered his voice. "But there is something else I understand too."
John looked up.
"Nothing you can do will bring back Cait." Again, Von paused. "But there is still hope for Kyra."
Standing, John thought to speak, but instead took the towel and turned toward the shower, his words beaten back by Von's unyielding gaze.
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"Next time you might . . ."
"Might what?"
"You might want to try one of these." Von held out a straw. For the first time in three days John smiled.
17 comments:
Okay, that image up there....has me COMPLETELY frailing entranced.
It's like M.C. Escher on acid. Really great sci-fi acid with alien heads on the blotter.
Not that I would know anything about acid, cos I've never done it.
But, you know...I have a pretty great imagination.
=P
Secondly,
I'm REALLY starting to dig on John.
I think he's finding his pair.
It's like we all gotta go through some shit sometimes in order to get our balls back.
He's goin' through his shit right now.
And I just get this feelin' like he's gonna rock the Bravo-hizzouse really fucking soon.
I'd try to do what I could to make him feel better, but I don't think the Hood would let me.
Sssshhh...don't tell him I said that.
Hope you are well, Mr. Tree.
xo, :-D!
Got walnuts?
"moving with the languid speed of a snake." I loved this phrase.
This is a wonderful chapter. Perfectly executed. Touch of humor at the end.
Strumper, no reason to limit yourself. I'm sure John could use a little stress relief, deep tissue massage and breath therapy. The Hood will understand. Trust me. :-D
Thanks W. Hope you have are having a great weekend. Take care. :-)
So long, dear fellow writer. My weekend has just come to its end. Time to pack up the laptop and go back to my real life. *bares a little tummy for old time's sake*
W, tummy is good. Come a little closer and I'll rub it like a lamp and see what comes, out. :-D
Yay!
Tell the Hood thank you.
And tell John to be prepared, cos playing with Strumpet puts hair on your chest.
I can't identify with John in the frame of mind that he is in right now. I don't say that in a smug way, but in a nervous, and maybe thankful way. Aren't we all just a tragedy away from losing touch? Love makes us vulnerable. One tragedy involving those that I love, and I could make John look good.
You are very good at surfing the dark/weaker sides of human nature. Ready, as always, to see what happens next. Jen
This chapter illuminates what is enslaving about the story as a whole. Characters that
are raw and real, three-dimensional, where we see them as one might say during their depths and their highs, as their best and worst, but as would be more preferable and fitting in all their glory. In the showing of three such morning scenes to date, the only repetitiveness is that this is what they are, John’s mornings, but in doing so rather than just allowing a peek at one and letting it speak for the continuity of his condition, there is no evading for the reader as for John. As a writer, you are truly ingenious in how you go about telling a story, in this case, the story of John and what recent events have caused within him. As I know I have said before, you show rather than tell, hands-on rather than theory and with such insight and depth of feeling, you extract an element rather than attempt to touch upon each and every and by way thereof capture the soul, the quintessence. I have no words that could hope to reach the heights of what a superb piece of writing this is, watching John here is simultaneously distressing and magnetic, inescapable to us as he is to himself. The sense of entrapment, of being covered, consumed and captured is cemented in that first scene with the imagery of overgrown vines, the ensnaring and entrapment, the lack of freedom and movement, mind and thus body.
Interesting is the question of how clearly he sees what he believes to be judgement and reproach in the eyes of the others, though this may very well be the case, that they harbour unvoiced blame and reproach for the disappearance of Kyra, it could also be purely his own thoughts, his guilt, that he sees in the eyes of others. When do we care what others think of us, that others judge us, unless we ourselves are unhappy with what we see also. Guilt is so much a part of what has debilitated John, guilt over Cait, now guilt over Kyra. To refer back to your characters, the entrance of Von, a few words from him of understanding, devoid of reproach, devoid of judgement, devoid of pity in as much as he demands, demands that John clean himself up, insists there is something that can be done now, that he is needed, that the current situation can be turned around, that here is a second chance for John…all of this, Von’s demeanour as he enters and how he reacts, in the small we see the large, is where you shine so as a writer. I meant to write this earlier, have written finding two minutes here and there during the day, not that it would make much difference. With a chapter such as this one, one just wants to quote it all back to you, highlight the different parts that make this chapter what it is, utterly heart-wrenching at first and special at the end. Two men, today one needing and the other being there, that is what it is all about. Gloriously well-written!!
Jen, I suppose the great unanswered question for all of us is, where is the line between standing tall and falling to our knees?
As we have seen, some (Em) are stronger than they think, and others (perhaps Trev) are weaker than they project or try to project. John, I think, is in an interesting situation. He didn't just lose Cait, but the way that he lost her, coming around that corner, when she was still alive, and witnessing the coup, being unable to stop it, well, I just can't allow that event not to have some significant psychological impact on him. I think, if he had not witnessed the rape and the cutting of her throat, of her life, blood, spilling before his very eyes, of her being raped, while living and while dead, the debauchery, the disgusting horror of actions beyond comprehension. Those images haunt him in his sleeping and his waking and it is "the mornings" that hurt the most, the mornings that he has to regroup to face another day, to try and put the past behind him and move forward. Each morning is a mandate for him. Each morning a vote, an accounting. Each morning a judgment. Each morning a test of his strength, his sanity. And, as we have seen, each morning a struggle to hold onto himself. Without Ariel, I think he slips away, maybe.
Sweetest, I read your comment with great interest on two fronts. First, I'm trying to show more and tell less, yet, still feel I tell way too much, not to mention overwrite, another skill I'm consciously working to improve. This chapter, if rewritten would be tighter and perhaps a metaphor and simile or two lighter. Second, I am still frustrated that I cannot see the chapters and the writing as a reader. I feel I am failing "John" in describing exactly what it feels and smells and tastes and sounds like to be in his shoes and this is where the ice gets thin and where I tend to overreach.
As for Von, well, I think Zoe and the future grandchild has ignited something within him, a reason to burn bright even though his days may be few, he has reason, a child, to nurture, to lead, to teach.
I don't think that you are failing John. With every chapter and every comment that you make about him, it seems that I 'feel' him more. Why do I forget the hell he has been through? Maybe my mind will not ebrace those memories of his. Too awful. That friendly reminder of yours makes this chapter pop.
And thank goodness for Ariel.
Going to do the usual Sunday stuff, I'll check in again soon!!
Jen
Thanks Jen. So easy, I think, we discount the path another has walked when we tend to only see the path in front of us. :-)
Agree with Jen. I hate to disagree with you especially on a subject upon which you have proved me wrong countless times when you have insisted that there is more to give and it has been beyond my imagination to understand how such a thing could be possible. So in tune are you with what you want to convey that the right words seem hard to find, yet you honestly do have a very special talent of being able to touch the pulse and those vibrations are felt. There is tell here, but it is your choice of tell that becomes show. No need to put forward every aspect, to decipher and separate, to list every detail or to touch upon every corner of his mind and heart in the show/tell of his morning here, to put it in the most simple of terms the gist is understood and the rest follows. Loved this chapter with all my heart.
Sweetest, :-)
I'm just trying to get better. Reading William Trevor has been hard. His prose is simply on another level.
"He thought of trying a third time before lowering the cup to the table, as if landing a helicopter in a storm, its ceramic base clacking to and fro on the metal tabletop."
Very descriptive and enjoyable post!
Thank you Miladysa. :-)
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