Dreams of 18(44)

But I failed. I failed because I can take everything he wants to throw at me but I can’t take him destroying his life like this.

I can’t take it.

I expect him to be disgusted like he used to be when one of his players cried. Or even unmoved.

I never expected him to look like this.

This stricken.

This… affected. There’s a groove running down the center of his forehead and he has made himself so rigid that he’s almost vibrating with the effort.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think…

I’d think he can’t see me cry. That it’s painful for him, my crying.

That in itself makes me stop crying. That in itself makes me more worried about him and I can’t help but ask, “Mr. Edwards, are you okay?”

My question jolts him and he lets the bottle go. He almost jerks his hand off of it and steps back.

And then he practically runs out of the cabin, leaving me a mess of confusion.





Two years and ten months ago when I moved to Connecticut, someone stabbed me in the chest with a knife.

Or at least, it feels like it.

It feels like someone stabbed me in the chest, right where my heart is, and now I’m stuck with it. That knife for the rest of my life.

And sometimes, that knife twists.

It twists and it digs into the wound and everything is so fucking painful that I can’t see straight.

I can’t breathe. I can’t think.

All I can do is feel.

I feel and feel and feel until it becomes a living thing that presses into my very skin from the inside out.

It used to happen every time I saw her.

Every time she’d walk down the street, the knife would twist and I’d have to bite down on my teeth to stave off the pain. Or every time she climbed up to her roof to watch the moon, or when I saw her around the school, bobbing her head to the music or smiling at something she’d read. Every time I heard her voice, her laughter…

I hated it.

I hated the effect she had on me – something unprecedented, something that never happened before and something completely inappropriate – so much so that countless times I imagined going up to her parents and telling them to fucking lock her up in a room or something.

She’s a menace. A terrible thing.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that my pain reaches catastrophic levels when she cries. The knife twists and twists and doesn’t stop at her tears.

I’ve treated her badly, yes. I’ve tried to scare her but it messes with me when she cries.

I saw her one day, crying in her backyard, by the pool. I’d just gotten home from work and there she was. She isn’t a crier. So that sight was doubly shocking. I saw her through my windshield and even though I was too far away to tell, I knew she wasn’t making any noise. I knew her tears were thick and silent.

And I felt this pain in my chest, all of a sudden. The tremendous pain of that knife twisting.

I would’ve jumped out of my truck and gone to her. I would’ve talked to her that day, asked her who the fuck hurt her, who made her cry.

But then, I was saved.

I was saved from rushing over to the teenage girl next door whom I shouldn’t have been watching in the first place. I shouldn’t have been looking at or thinking about.

So when Brian walked out of our house, I remained stuck to my seat. I saw him crossing over to her and sitting beside her. He wiped her tears and made her stop crying.

He even made her laugh.

That eased some of the pressure. That laughter.

And then, I sped off in my truck. Because why the fuck did I care if she laughed or cried?

Why the fuck do I even care now?

Tears don’t mean anything to me. I’ve made students cry. I won’t deny it. I won’t even make excuses for it. If it gets results on the field, then I’m all for it.

Yes, my son, when he was little, used to cry and it would pain me. But he’s my son, I’m supposed to protect him.

I’m not supposed to think about her tears though. Her tears shouldn’t have this strange effect on me.

A few drops of them from her eyes and I haven’t touched my bottle all day. A few drops of them and I’m sitting here in my truck, staring down at the black screen of my phone, all ready to call my son.

I’m ready to call Brian when I haven’t talked to him in months.

But I need to call him. I need to ask him what the hell is he doing? What is he thinking punishing her like this?

I thought he was punishing me – for good reason – but I didn’t know that he was punishing her, as well. They’ve always been inseparable and I thought nothing, not even this, would come between them.

Apparently, I was wrong.

Apparently, I need to do what I haven’t done in months. I need to call my son and have a talk with him.

It’s making me antsy, however. It’s making me shake and sweat, as if my bones are running dry and they’re rattling against each other.

My throat’s on fire, begging for one drop of alcohol, just one.

I even tell myself that no one is going to know. I beg myself to take a sip and when I almost throw away my phone and my good intentions and reach for that secret bottle I keep in the glove box, I hit dial.

I’m not sure if he’ll pick up. In fact, I’m pretty sure he won’t, but tonight, I’m not going to stop until he does.