He Didn't Say A Word [bxb]

2

What the hell am I going to do? I paced around my small apartment anxiously tapping my finger in intervals of 12 and 15 on my thigh.

Fifteen, fifteen, twelve, fifteen, fifteen.

I repeated the number sequence in my head as I tapped it. I knew I needed to find a way to get my anger to stop again. I made a promise to never let it take control. Yet, as I sat down on the gray couch in my apartment, I started to think about ways to get rid of it.

I could feel myself becoming more and more anxious, to the point were I threw myself off of the couch and in front of the single shelf bookshelf that sat underneath my desk. I tore the books off of the thin wooden shelves, organizing them to where their pages were facing me once put away. After my mind felt at ease, I selected the dark leather journal off of the shelf.

I dropped it onto my desk, and sank into my chair, rubbing my temples.

I sighed and ran my right hand over the pens held in a mason jar on the top left corner of my desk. I chose the pen placed in the very center. A black, felt tipped pen. In fact, all of my pens were an assortment of black felt tipped pens.

Carefully, I opened my journal to the foury-seventh page, flipping through each individual page to get there.

Before I made a mark, I looked around at the bare walls around me. I sighed, and in messy scrawl across the page, I wrote:

"Rejoice with those who rejoice; mourn with those who mourn" -Romans 12:15

This was all I ever wrote in the journal. The words of the verse burned into my mind like a branding on skin.

I was not a religious man, nor had I ever been. However, my mother was, and she forcefully spoon fed me the Bible.

Closing the journal, I glanced at the clock on the wall above my desk. It read 11:39 pm. I stared at it until it turned to 11:40, and headed off to my bedroom to get ready for bed. I changed into red, plaid pajama pants, and a plain grey t-shirt. I brushed my teeth, and settled into my twin sized bed.

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In my head, I could hear a slight ticking. I opened my eyes to look around me, and saw my mother sitting in the corner of the room in a small rocking chair. Her face slightly distorted as she rocked back and forth. I grew scared, realizing it was a dream. In an attempt to wake up, I struggled to move my limbs, my eyes, anything.

I was stuck. Fighting for several minutes, I was able to regain motion. However, I was so tired after fighting to move, that my eyes hardly stayed open.

Within seconds, my head filled with loud static noises and I got lost in them. I could not hear myself think, and I could not move again.

Forcing my eyes open, I sat up in my bed panting. Sweat drenched my forehead. I sat there confused for a several minutes, only to become nauseous.

The thought of seeing my mother gave me chills.
I ran to the bathroom and sat on my knees next to the toilet until I felt fine again. Once I did, I pulled my knees to my chest and sobbed.
I couldn't handle seeing my mother. For she had died six years ago.