Minnesota Goodbyes

Entry #10

Lacy bought a bottle of rum and offered me whatever I wanted of it. It makes the words flow easier, like I can spill my guts or unspool my intestines across the page. Like they can be written in blood and ink and alcohol, and nothing will matter. I can pretend like I'm not cut up by them.

It's nice to pretend. To pretend that I exist, that Clair exists, that the past is the present. That a few drops of rum is a proper cure.

But then I start thinking about Jay and you and the past and sitting in my room, choking on the liquor. I've got a shot glass, but nothing to wash it down. Not the glass, the liquor. It stings, burning my entire throat my lungs, my heart. That's okay though.

Rum doesn't hurt the same way the past does. The words don't cut now, but tomorrow they will and my head will be split open. Probably not just from the alcohol though.

But it doesn't matter. While I can, I'll dig into the past and examine my wounds. Dissecting them won't hurt while I'm numb. Right? It's just another thing to pay for tomorrow, when my head aches along with my heart and soul and everything that is me. Me me me. Nothing can break if you don't care.

I am, I am, I am.

My heart beats in my chest. I'm here. Sometimes I say the words over again, a reminder of my existence. What happens if (when?) I forget? What happens when words can't satisfy? Is there something that doesn't disappoint?

Clair didn't. Life used to be full, and you know it. You know what it was like to let laughter bubble in your chest, to trade grins and jokes and to let the world spin round. Now though. Things are halted. They stutter to an end and crumble in your hands. But then? Then they didn't.

Like when Jay knocked on your open door, knuckles rapping to alert you to his presence.

"Hey, M."

You swivel in your chair to look at him as he slides into your futon and stretches out his legs. They're long, his legs, and they seem to take up most of your room. (Of course, they don't actually. But the room is small and his legs are long. So it's like they almost do.)

"Hey," you reply.

"What're you working on?" he asks, eyeing you sitting at your desk, nestled between your laptop, an open notebook and an (overpriced) textbook.

You groan. "This freshmen seminar about science and anthropology. I've got a paper due Monday." You blow a stream of air out of your nose and close your eyes. Papers and chapters to read before you sleep; they swim across your eyelids.

Jay grimaces. "Jaxon warned me about that one." After seeing your eyebrow raise and lips twitch, he adds, "My brother. He's a junior. Apparently there's a ton of homework for that one."

"You should've told me when I was signing up for classes."

"Sorry." Jay grins apologetically. "I'll make it up to you. Want to go for a walk?"

You quirk an eyebrow before nodding your assent. Anything would be better than sitting between mounds of textbooks, between reams of paper, between mountains of numbers and letters that cease to have meaning. Clear air sounds like heaven and relief. It sounds like deep breaths of crisp autumn and fiery leaves and no more dorm room. It sounds like your siren's call.

My head is spin-spin-spinning. The memory is fresh as new snow. As raindrops. As yesterday and a moment ago. I thought a drink (or more) would help, but now I'm not sure. Because Jay led you across the mall and to the Washington Bridge.

You know it, right? It spans across the Mississippi, connecting East and West Bank. But that's not really important, and it's not what you remember or will remember. After all, who cares? There's a bridge that connects two sides of a river. That's what bridges do.

And he didn't lead you across it, anyway.

"What are we doing?" you ask. The bridge is clogged with students, but none of them are moving. Your head swivels, eyes lingering on one group before flicking to the next. They're all bunched against the walls of the bridge, but you're unsure of the purpose. Groups and clumps and gangs. (Gangs: a silly idea.)

I'm having a hard time. I want to blame it on the rum. It's shitty and cheap and tastes bad. But the world swirls before me, and the colors aren't bleak anymore. If I pretend everything is all right, will it be? No more of Jay's hand gripping mine, pulling me down the length of the bridge. No more memories. No more, no more, no more.

But he's in your head, and he leads you down a hundred feet or a hundred yards and the memory is there and now. And it's not just the pair of you; Sam leans against the walls of the bridge (You must've crossed it, right? The covered one you can walk across?) and there is another boy you don't know.

"Hey, guys." Jay is on top of the conversation, nodding at Sam and Unknown Boy and Lacy.

And Clair.

... I tried. I did.

But there's only so much I can do in a night. I'm talking to myslef and my words slur and stick together. The words keep coming, licking my throat, and if I hadn't been drinking straight from the bottle maybe I could keep writing. But even I can see my words are sloppy and my handwriting is even worse than usual.

I cna't keep going.

It's killing me and the end is

I'm so tired. So tired. The bridge and Jay and everyone else

And I am so tired. Tomorrow I can face this, but tonight I am too tired and the rum is making me sick and the words blur and Jay and Sam and Clair and me swirl together with the bridge, and I can't touch the past.

The wrods are going to dry up and wither, and I am so tired.

So tired.