Insanity ☆ II

five.

"anybody can become angry,
that is easy.
but to be angry with the right person
and to the right degree
and at the right time
and for the right purpose,
and in the right way,
that is not within everybody's power
and is not easy."

☆.·:*¨five¨*:·. ☆

HE SAT AT HIS WINDOWSILL, unmoving except for the subtle rise and fall of his shoulders. He watched the wind fly by his window, catching the leaves of the trees and whisking them away. He watched the sun rise higher and higher, until it was no longer visible to him. He listened to the distant sounds of car horns, the subtle calls of the birds, and the low rumbling of the flatscreen in the other room.

George had visited his son's room several times a day for the past week to check up on him. Everyday, he hoped to see some improvements in his behaviour, but they were scarce. For the first two days, Noah didn't get up from his bed other than to go to the bathroom. He barely ate, just the thought of food made his stomach sick. He just sat there, on top of the covers in his sweats, throwing a baseball up and catching it, over and over.

For the next few days he would go to school, but sit alone and not talk to anyone except when called upon in class. When he got home he would do his homework in silence, and when finished he would get up and walk to the windowsill, sit there for a few hours, before going to bed. School had just started again, but oh, how Noah wished it were the school holidays.

Noah hadn't said a word of the breakup to his father, but George could easily tell it was along those lines. Partly because Marilyn hadn't visited in the past week and those two could barely go ten minutes without seeing each other. Maybe that was the problem, George thought. Maybe the breakup or whatever it was would be good for the two, and it would give them their much needed space.

A few days later, George walked into Noah's room to bring him lunch. He entered to see his son no longer moping at the windowsill, but instead doing crunches on the floor. He had broken quite a sweat, telling George that he had been going at it for a while.

"I brought you some lunch." he announced, placing the plate on Noah's bedside table. Noah immediately stopped doing his sets and sat up straight, grabbing his water bottle as he did so. When he finished skulling the liquid, he turned to his father and uttered the first words to leave his mouth in over a week.

"Thanks dad."

"Ah, so we're talking again, are we?" His father smirked, taking a seat on his son's bed.

"I guess we are." Noah grabbed the plate from his bedside table and began slowly eating the sandwich.

"That's good." It was obvious that George was lost for words. Noah didn't usually act this way after a break up, but then again, Noah had never been in love with anyone except for Marilyn, "I'm always here if you need to talk. I know we don't usually have a touchy-feely relationship, that was always..."

"... Mum's job." Noah slowly finished, knowing that his father still found it hard to speak of his wife's death.

"Yeah. She was always good like that." George smiled, "Did you want to talk about it?"

"It's just - I want to be angry, you know? I deserve to be angry. It's just, she made an excuse that I can't really get mad at, but still, I-"

"You still want to be mad. Now, why do you think that is? Why are you trying to hold on to your anger when you know it's misplaced?" His father leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees.

"I - I don't know."

"I have a guess," George's expression was one of experience, "When you're consumed with anger, there's no room for other emotions, such as sadness or regret. You wan't to be angry because it stops you from feeling the pain."

"Maybe," Noah began to shut himself off again, "Thanks for the talk dad, but I should be getting back to my sets."

"All good, son. I have to get ready for work, anyway." George wiped his hands on his thighs before standing up, taking one last glance at his son, and walking out, closing the door behind him.

🌹🌹🌹

The uneven pathway scratched against her heels as she weaved in between the tourists, locals, and perverts, gathering parts of their meaningless conversations as she did so. Jeremy won a scholarship to study at Harvard, Betty suspects that her husband Phil is cheating on her with the new receptionist, and Peter is going to break up with Susan tomorrow. All their oh-so-important conversations flew past her ears and over her head as she walked along Fifth Avenue, the smaller retail stores closing their doors, the grand department stores still filled to the door with customers. The smell of cheap hot dogs, expensive coffee and car fumes flew to her nose as she stuffed her hands further into her coat pockets.

The smell of New York City.

She ignored the cat calls of the sleazy, intoxicated men, still with left over food in their beards as she turned town one of the side streets before she saw it. It had not changed at all since 1924, except for the modern cars that loitered the street.

Her old home.

As she walked closer, she noticed that the house was for sale with no car parked in front of it. She walked past the lawn that held so many memories and looked into the dark, dirty windows, no sign of furniture in sight. With a sudden spur of courage, Marilyn looked around to see no one near, before climbing over the fence and into the back garden. Then, she picked the lock using a bobby pin in her hair, and eventually got inside her old home.

It had changed a lot in 81 years, that much was for sure. A new, modern perfume replaced the smell of old books and cigars, and the beautiful wallpaper had been replaced with a dull grey layer of paint. Despite the many changes, Marilyn still felt at home.

At that moment, Marilyn made her first concrete decision with her newfound freedom. She would no longer live in uncertainty - uncertainty of where she would hide in the day, where she would feed, and most importantly, where she would live. She still had her Cullen-issued credit card, as she liked to call it, and there was enough money in that family to afford another house.

The next day, she called the real estate agent and arranged a meeting for Thursday, which was scheduled to have a thunderstorm. And so, the next stage of Marilyn Cullen's life began, and many more changes were to take place, the first of which was her last name.

🌹🌹🌹

Noah sat at his desk, pen in hand and a blank sheet of lined paper in front of him. He stared out the window, hoping for something magical and extraordinary to happen as a source of inspiration, as if it would automatically write the words on the page for him. He knew that his father had been right, and Noah refused to bottle up his emotions like he had done when his mother had died. Unlike then, he didn't have to be strong for anyone. The school semester had finished, his father was not grieving along side him, and Marilyn was long gone. He could let all of his emotions run wild, but he was scared that once he broke down his walls, he would not be able to build them up again.

So, Noah decided to write. To write a poem each day, slowly letting out all of those pent-up emotions in private. He didn't want to keep a journal, no, for he knew there was method to his madness. He wanted to create something with the pain, to harness it into a source of emotions. What those emotions would be, Noah would have to wait to find out.

☆.·:*¨insanity¨*:·. ☆

I tried to paint a picture
of how I really feel.
But I could not find the colours
to make it all seem real.

Not one colour was hot enough
to show the burning pain.
Not one colour was bright enough
to make me wince again.

Not one was dark enough,
to show the isolation.
In the end I saw one thin line,
worn, frayed, and almost broke.

To my mind that one thin line,
is a single thread of hope.