- Joined
- Dec 12, 2007
- Location
- California
This is a continuation of my last story, "Necessity", which can be found on this page of the Fan Works board if you haven't read it yet. No significant information is revealed in that story that requires you to read it before this one, as this one seems to recap all necessary information for comprehension. However, you would better understand Mark if you read "Necessity" first.
This one is significantly less dark than the last one, but I like it just as much. I hope you do too. =]
Be warned that it's also a bit graphic in nature.
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Here I am again. Another late night. That’s all I really ever know these days, are the late nights. Late nights full of mindless web browsing, endless searching for snacks that I shouldn’t be eating, and the same playlist looping on iTunes. Late nights and I are familiar acquaintances.
It’s been a week since my mom found me sprawled out on the floor. That made for a bit of an awkward first meeting the next day between us, but in the end, we moved beyond it. She understands. At least, I think she does. Does she? Can she really understand? She lost her husband, but she was born without her husband. I lost my father, someone who I was born with.
This song is on my favorite soundtrack, which is the soundtrack to one of my favorite movies. I could listen to this on repeat all day for a year and never really mind it. As odd as this may seem, the top played song on my iTunes has over 2,600 plays. I don’t think that makes me weird, but some of my friends do. Screw them.
My desk is still such a ****ing mess, I should clean it up, but every time I start to move something, I realize how precarious the whole thing is and I just leave it. Plus, where the hell else would it go? My room is constantly shrinking it seems, because I don’t recall putting this much stuff into it, yet the piles of detritus seem to accumulate at a pace that makes my head spin. Did I have this much **** in here before dad died? I can’t remember for the life of me.
I suppose it’s time for my 12 AM web surfing. I suppose I’m an expert at hanging ten over these waves of cyber information.
I swear, I have an inner ear problem. The world constantly seems to be shaking. I know there are thousands of earthquakes a day, but most are imperceptible. When I get off elevators, I often still feel like I’m on it for over a minute later. At night, when my bed is still, I can feel it shaking sometimes. Maybe my room is possessed or I’m possessed. Hopefully not, cause that would ****ing suck.
This page about earthquakes doesn’t tell me how many there are in a day, so forget it; I’m busy reading about the Richter Scale, which I guess is obsolete. They all use the word “magnitude” so I don’t see the difference. In the end it’s just a number that means it was a big or small quake. You tell me it was a 6.0 and I know it was pretty big. You tell me it was a 3.5 and I know that if people complain about it, they’re either lying or they’re like me and have a sixth sense. Maybe I should become a seismologist, since I can feel every earthquake ever. Sometimes, I can even swear that I see things shaking.
My mom just came in and told me to go to bed, and I just nodded at her and said yes. I do that almost every night, and I know she can hear me up doing something or another, because I know when she falls asleep. The sound of her snoring is one of the few comforts in my life, because it tells me that the only person I really have left in this world is, somehow, sleeping soundly.
Sometimes I really hate iTunes. It just turned to 12:00 AM and so my “Recently Added” list changed, removing my soundtrack. It won’t be hard to find, but still, it’s a pain in the ***.
Now I’ve got it playing again, so that’s all I really need for now. My eyes are heavy, and time is going slowly again. I don’t intend to have another episode like last week, but if I stay up this late again, I might end up going the whole day tomorrow without sleeping and repeat the sick cycle. I really should go to bed.
I get up and go to the kitchen, and I look in the medicine cabinet for my allergy medicine. That small, white pill is my only vanguard against the intense torture that is a seasonal allergy attack. Snot that is as viscous as water and a nose that itches like a damn sunburn when it peels is not something I would wish even on my worst enemy. It is a torture beyond what I can bear. One time at school, about two months ago, I had to have my mom come and take me home, because I had forgotten my allergy medicine the night before, and I had an attack in the middle of fifth period. That was such an embarrassing mess, I was so glad it was a Friday. She used to be shorter with me back then, but since Dad’s dead now she’s gotten…nicer. Either his death changed her, or she realized that I’m all she really has left.
I can felt he pill go down my throat with the water pushing it along, but I don’t mind. I feel a sense of protection from it, and I slink back to my room slowly down the hall, my lithe feet caressing the floor as I move along. Quietly, I turn the knob of my door and close it fully, and release the knob. I pull the door, and with a soft “click”, I know that I am in full privacy now. I turn to my computer, my new playlist still going, with my favorite soundtrack right where it should be. I missed a song, but it wasn’t my favorite, so I won’t go back to hear it again.
It’s 12:20, and I lay down in my bed. Within minutes, I am asleep.
I wake up and I see that it’s only 12:44, and I look around, disappointed. I cry for a moment at the frustration of the situation, a lone sob penetrating the air, since I forgot to put my soundtrack on loop. I got up and turned off the iTunes Vizualizer, and restart the list with the “Repeat All” button pushed this time. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadow. I freeze, because it is in the shape of a tall man.
I hit the space bar, and stare at the shadow, not a breath coming out of my body. A soft breath escapes from that side of the room. I feel pressure building up inside of me.
“Who are you?” I breathlessly ask, staring fixedly at the shadow. It moves forward, and I step back cautiously, almost tripping over something on the floor. I reach frantically for the light switch. I feel the area around my crotch become wet as I lose control of my bladder, and soil myself.
Standing before me, tall, proud, and most of all, alive, is my father.
“Mark…I never should have left…I should have told you the truth, and I should be here for you, and I’m sorry I can’t be.”
I slowly move forward to give him a hug, and to my amazement, I can actually touch him. I squeeze him hard, and I begin to cry. Hot tears roll down my face as it scrunches up in grief, and I squeeze even harder. I lean forward onto him, and he holds my weight. Suddenly he feels very soft, and falls backward, taking me with him. We hit the floor.
I sit up, gasping, still clutching my secondary pillow in a tight embrace. It is wet with tear stains. I slowly release it, and look at it incredulously, and look for a sign that maybe it is my father. My crotch feels very cold, and I realize that it is soaking wet; I really did piss my pants. Awesome.
I get up, and gently put my pillow aside. I notice that I’m trembling; yet I go over to my dresser. I pull down my pants and my underwear, leaving my ***** and testicles to dangle, and my bare *** pointing toward my closed bedroom door. I find the feeling to be quite liberating, but nonetheless, I search for a new pair of underwear, I find a pair of boxer briefs. I pull them up, and my genitals are pushed snugly up, and I find them to be quite comfortable. I continue searching for a new pair of pants, but all I can manage to locate is an old pair of middle school gym shorts. I put them on, and go back to my bed. The sheet is wet, also. I don’t want to change it tonight.
I turn off my music, and I quietly open my door. Again, I gracefully cross the floor to my mother’s room, and on my way I look down at my feet in order to ensure their quietness, and I can see my muscular legs hard at work. I reach her door, and I place my hand on the doorknob, and I turn it. It is such an old doorknob, I cannot open the door without feeling like I’m crashing some cymbals down the entire hallway.
When the door is all the way open, I can hear her snoring. I quietly make my way over the carpet to her side of the bed, and look down at her for a moment, and I sniffle. I’m still kind of crying from my dream…or nightmare, I can’t decide which.
I gently place my hand on her shoulder, and slowly push a little, and say, “Mom.” She awakes with a start, and looks at me with wide eyes.
“What?” she says, rubbing her right eye with her left hand, which had been underneath her body before I woke her, as her right arm searched for the clock in order to turn it for better viewing.
“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” I said it almost exactly as I had as a child, without even realizing it. Perhaps, above all else that has happened, losing my father has reverted me to childish needs and wishes. That would account for my recent anger, as well as volatility and sensitivity. Do all reasonable and happy people go through this phase of reversion to childhood when they lose a parent? The need to be loved by my only living parent is so strong, and I want to feel that kind of unfettered love that forgives everything because I’m innocent. I’m not innocent.
She looks at me a moment, and then says, “Sure. Everything ok?”
I just go around to the other side of the bed and crawl in, and get under the covers. I place my hand on her shoulder, and say, “No. I had a dream…about…daddy, and it felt so real.” I started to cry again.
She turned over, and looked at me. I could see her eyes glistening, yet she remained stolid. She reached her hand out, putting it around the back of my head. She pulled my head toward hers, and she reached her own head out to kiss the top of mine. She then pulled my whole body in for a tight hug, and squeezed me, like I had squeezed daddy. She whispered into my ear, “Don’t cry baby. I’m here.”
I rolled over, and with her arm draped over my body, we both fell asleep.
© Nick Dineen, 2009
This one is significantly less dark than the last one, but I like it just as much. I hope you do too. =]
Be warned that it's also a bit graphic in nature.
================================================
Sweet Dreams
By: Nick Dineen
By: Nick Dineen
Here I am again. Another late night. That’s all I really ever know these days, are the late nights. Late nights full of mindless web browsing, endless searching for snacks that I shouldn’t be eating, and the same playlist looping on iTunes. Late nights and I are familiar acquaintances.
It’s been a week since my mom found me sprawled out on the floor. That made for a bit of an awkward first meeting the next day between us, but in the end, we moved beyond it. She understands. At least, I think she does. Does she? Can she really understand? She lost her husband, but she was born without her husband. I lost my father, someone who I was born with.
This song is on my favorite soundtrack, which is the soundtrack to one of my favorite movies. I could listen to this on repeat all day for a year and never really mind it. As odd as this may seem, the top played song on my iTunes has over 2,600 plays. I don’t think that makes me weird, but some of my friends do. Screw them.
My desk is still such a ****ing mess, I should clean it up, but every time I start to move something, I realize how precarious the whole thing is and I just leave it. Plus, where the hell else would it go? My room is constantly shrinking it seems, because I don’t recall putting this much stuff into it, yet the piles of detritus seem to accumulate at a pace that makes my head spin. Did I have this much **** in here before dad died? I can’t remember for the life of me.
I suppose it’s time for my 12 AM web surfing. I suppose I’m an expert at hanging ten over these waves of cyber information.
I swear, I have an inner ear problem. The world constantly seems to be shaking. I know there are thousands of earthquakes a day, but most are imperceptible. When I get off elevators, I often still feel like I’m on it for over a minute later. At night, when my bed is still, I can feel it shaking sometimes. Maybe my room is possessed or I’m possessed. Hopefully not, cause that would ****ing suck.
This page about earthquakes doesn’t tell me how many there are in a day, so forget it; I’m busy reading about the Richter Scale, which I guess is obsolete. They all use the word “magnitude” so I don’t see the difference. In the end it’s just a number that means it was a big or small quake. You tell me it was a 6.0 and I know it was pretty big. You tell me it was a 3.5 and I know that if people complain about it, they’re either lying or they’re like me and have a sixth sense. Maybe I should become a seismologist, since I can feel every earthquake ever. Sometimes, I can even swear that I see things shaking.
My mom just came in and told me to go to bed, and I just nodded at her and said yes. I do that almost every night, and I know she can hear me up doing something or another, because I know when she falls asleep. The sound of her snoring is one of the few comforts in my life, because it tells me that the only person I really have left in this world is, somehow, sleeping soundly.
Sometimes I really hate iTunes. It just turned to 12:00 AM and so my “Recently Added” list changed, removing my soundtrack. It won’t be hard to find, but still, it’s a pain in the ***.
Now I’ve got it playing again, so that’s all I really need for now. My eyes are heavy, and time is going slowly again. I don’t intend to have another episode like last week, but if I stay up this late again, I might end up going the whole day tomorrow without sleeping and repeat the sick cycle. I really should go to bed.
I get up and go to the kitchen, and I look in the medicine cabinet for my allergy medicine. That small, white pill is my only vanguard against the intense torture that is a seasonal allergy attack. Snot that is as viscous as water and a nose that itches like a damn sunburn when it peels is not something I would wish even on my worst enemy. It is a torture beyond what I can bear. One time at school, about two months ago, I had to have my mom come and take me home, because I had forgotten my allergy medicine the night before, and I had an attack in the middle of fifth period. That was such an embarrassing mess, I was so glad it was a Friday. She used to be shorter with me back then, but since Dad’s dead now she’s gotten…nicer. Either his death changed her, or she realized that I’m all she really has left.
I can felt he pill go down my throat with the water pushing it along, but I don’t mind. I feel a sense of protection from it, and I slink back to my room slowly down the hall, my lithe feet caressing the floor as I move along. Quietly, I turn the knob of my door and close it fully, and release the knob. I pull the door, and with a soft “click”, I know that I am in full privacy now. I turn to my computer, my new playlist still going, with my favorite soundtrack right where it should be. I missed a song, but it wasn’t my favorite, so I won’t go back to hear it again.
It’s 12:20, and I lay down in my bed. Within minutes, I am asleep.
I wake up and I see that it’s only 12:44, and I look around, disappointed. I cry for a moment at the frustration of the situation, a lone sob penetrating the air, since I forgot to put my soundtrack on loop. I got up and turned off the iTunes Vizualizer, and restart the list with the “Repeat All” button pushed this time. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shadow. I freeze, because it is in the shape of a tall man.
I hit the space bar, and stare at the shadow, not a breath coming out of my body. A soft breath escapes from that side of the room. I feel pressure building up inside of me.
“Who are you?” I breathlessly ask, staring fixedly at the shadow. It moves forward, and I step back cautiously, almost tripping over something on the floor. I reach frantically for the light switch. I feel the area around my crotch become wet as I lose control of my bladder, and soil myself.
Standing before me, tall, proud, and most of all, alive, is my father.
“Mark…I never should have left…I should have told you the truth, and I should be here for you, and I’m sorry I can’t be.”
I slowly move forward to give him a hug, and to my amazement, I can actually touch him. I squeeze him hard, and I begin to cry. Hot tears roll down my face as it scrunches up in grief, and I squeeze even harder. I lean forward onto him, and he holds my weight. Suddenly he feels very soft, and falls backward, taking me with him. We hit the floor.
I sit up, gasping, still clutching my secondary pillow in a tight embrace. It is wet with tear stains. I slowly release it, and look at it incredulously, and look for a sign that maybe it is my father. My crotch feels very cold, and I realize that it is soaking wet; I really did piss my pants. Awesome.
I get up, and gently put my pillow aside. I notice that I’m trembling; yet I go over to my dresser. I pull down my pants and my underwear, leaving my ***** and testicles to dangle, and my bare *** pointing toward my closed bedroom door. I find the feeling to be quite liberating, but nonetheless, I search for a new pair of underwear, I find a pair of boxer briefs. I pull them up, and my genitals are pushed snugly up, and I find them to be quite comfortable. I continue searching for a new pair of pants, but all I can manage to locate is an old pair of middle school gym shorts. I put them on, and go back to my bed. The sheet is wet, also. I don’t want to change it tonight.
I turn off my music, and I quietly open my door. Again, I gracefully cross the floor to my mother’s room, and on my way I look down at my feet in order to ensure their quietness, and I can see my muscular legs hard at work. I reach her door, and I place my hand on the doorknob, and I turn it. It is such an old doorknob, I cannot open the door without feeling like I’m crashing some cymbals down the entire hallway.
When the door is all the way open, I can hear her snoring. I quietly make my way over the carpet to her side of the bed, and look down at her for a moment, and I sniffle. I’m still kind of crying from my dream…or nightmare, I can’t decide which.
I gently place my hand on her shoulder, and slowly push a little, and say, “Mom.” She awakes with a start, and looks at me with wide eyes.
“What?” she says, rubbing her right eye with her left hand, which had been underneath her body before I woke her, as her right arm searched for the clock in order to turn it for better viewing.
“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” I said it almost exactly as I had as a child, without even realizing it. Perhaps, above all else that has happened, losing my father has reverted me to childish needs and wishes. That would account for my recent anger, as well as volatility and sensitivity. Do all reasonable and happy people go through this phase of reversion to childhood when they lose a parent? The need to be loved by my only living parent is so strong, and I want to feel that kind of unfettered love that forgives everything because I’m innocent. I’m not innocent.
She looks at me a moment, and then says, “Sure. Everything ok?”
I just go around to the other side of the bed and crawl in, and get under the covers. I place my hand on her shoulder, and say, “No. I had a dream…about…daddy, and it felt so real.” I started to cry again.
She turned over, and looked at me. I could see her eyes glistening, yet she remained stolid. She reached her hand out, putting it around the back of my head. She pulled my head toward hers, and she reached her own head out to kiss the top of mine. She then pulled my whole body in for a tight hug, and squeezed me, like I had squeezed daddy. She whispered into my ear, “Don’t cry baby. I’m here.”
I rolled over, and with her arm draped over my body, we both fell asleep.
© Nick Dineen, 2009
