Grayson's Body

Time

Chapter 36: Time

Time

[tahym]

noun:
the system of those sequential relations that any event has to any other, as past, present, or future
adjective:

of, relating to, or showing the passage of time.

Time works weird here, I believe.

Five months have felt like no time at all.

They have felt like all of it, too.

They have felt like all in the world: dragging, building itself into a type of sublime trepidation. It has built itself into abhorrence, I think, at least in the anger that I feel in my body.

I think I am taking the pill, for a moment, and I picture that it works effectively, quickly. I imagine I am the woman in the book standing at the edge of the raging river, looking down.

I am stretching out my arms. In the distance, there is the sound of a mob with pitchforks and hot guns, and hatred in their mindless voices.

It's distant at first, then louder and louder and louder.

The woman in the painting is moving slightly to the right, her hands as pale as freshly fallen snow, the wetness of her hair stringy like week old pasta.

I wonder what that painting meant to the artist when he painted it all of those years ago.

I imagine myself calm, passive.

She's turning around, and our eyes met.

She has Mom's eyes.

I imagine being in the pool again, stretching my arms out to the air, the blood on Grayson's mouth being a startling existence.

She's mouthing:

Wake up.

-

I lie awake to the sound of rain: hard, rough, and quick.

I think of Chip whispering in my ear, her stroking my arm. Her breath is as sweet as honey, but I find no solace in it.

"It's okay, Ethan."

She's not here, though. I turn my head and her green eyes are bearing into mine, if not for a moment. I love her so much.

But she's gone.

Like a ghost, she fades quickly even when I reach my fingers out to touch her.

I close my eyes tight, and then the white sheets on the bed.

I allow myself to cry.

-

Somewhere there's the distinct scent of Magnolias. They're like the ones that lined the downtown streets of Kettle in the spring. I lean against the plastic head board of my bed and for a moment, if not a second, I think I feel a touch on my hand. I look down in the dark at my knuckles. I fist them and the tendons rise up, up, up.

I let it go.

I imagine it flowing hot and angry.

Just like I am.

In my head, I gash my teeth.

-

I picture her lying with me.

I promised her, hadn't I?

You are going to win, Ethan.

I get up, and my feet hit the cold of the tile floor. I turn, and bend, grasping the white bed sheets, and tear them off the mattress. They slit under my hands: the material rips and this is all I want. My heart is pounding in my chest, endless in my ears. I snarl, biting the inside of my cheek until the blood blooms hot and thick and coppery in my mouth.