jackshoegazer (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jackshoegazer) wrote2011-09-18 06:50 pm
jackshoegazer) wrote2011-09-18 06:50 pm
This is the first story I wrote for my new creative writing workshop.
Assignment: 500 word short-short story.
Time Again
It was like I could already hear his breathing before the phone touched my ear.
“Hi, beautiful,” he says.
“Hi, Dad.” I thank the gods for the distance the phone provides, for the tiles on the wall to distract me, which I notice need a good scrubbing. A grout cleaner with bleach.
“How are you doing?” He asks cheerfully, an underserved buoyancy in his voice. It multiplies the deception of this experience. The distance.
“Did you know that surreal actually means super-real? Like so real, so intense, it stretches beyond reality?” I don’t know why I say this.
“What?” I can hear his smile falter when he asks.
“Nothing. I’m fine. Busy. How are...you?” That’s the correct thing to ask. That’s the socially-prescribed response, correct? Correct? Who says ‘correct’? Fuck.
“I’m fine, darling. Really, I am. I just had a physical, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. My blood pressure is one-thirty over eighty. That’s practically normal.”
“That’s good.” Technically, it falls into pre-hypertension, but I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to engage.
“I’ve been keeping really fit. Lots of exercise. Probably the best shape of my life.”
I can’t tell if the scorn in my voice comes through when I say, “The irony.”
But he doesn’t seem to have heard me because he immediately says, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“How about you?” God, how do I answer in the shortest possible way, leaving no room for follow-up questions without appearing to be rude? Ask me how many cc’s of atropine are needed before restarting a heart. Ask me what the symptoms of macular degeneration are. But don’t ask me this.
“I said I’m good. Busy.” Before I can continue, he interjects, “Are you still in the ER?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how you can do that. All the trauma. The worst moments of other people’s lives are your nine-to-five.”
“I guess so.”
“How are you sleeping?”
“Fine.”
“Come on, beautiful. I know you better than that.” You don’t. You don’t. You do fucking not. Fuck. Fuck you. You son of a bitch.
I close my eyes. I press them tight and the lachrymal ducts close. A black hole between my eyebrows sucking in the rest of my face. I breathe so sharply I can feel it around my jaw, through the temporoparietalis muscle, and on into my neck.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What? Beautiful?”
“Yes, please. Just don’t.”
“Why?” I look up at him. The look of confusion on his face is so palpable, so immediate, so innocent, tears flood out.
“That’s what you called her!” I’m yelling despite myself. I am calm. I am in control. I am a wreck in a deluge.
“You look so much like her.”
A uniformed guard appears behind my father. Dad. “Time’s up,” he says as he places a hand on Dad’s shoulder.
Dad says, “You only come to see me–”
“–on her birthday, I know.” How I manage to say this between sobs, I don’t know. I want to tell him to go fuck himself but when I open my mouth “I love you, Dad.” is what comes out. I hang up the ugly back phone. I can’t hear his breathing, but I can read his lips as the guard helps him out of his chair.
“I love you too, beautiful.”
Time Again
It was like I could already hear his breathing before the phone touched my ear.
“Hi, beautiful,” he says.
“Hi, Dad.” I thank the gods for the distance the phone provides, for the tiles on the wall to distract me, which I notice need a good scrubbing. A grout cleaner with bleach.
“How are you doing?” He asks cheerfully, an underserved buoyancy in his voice. It multiplies the deception of this experience. The distance.
“Did you know that surreal actually means super-real? Like so real, so intense, it stretches beyond reality?” I don’t know why I say this.
“What?” I can hear his smile falter when he asks.
“Nothing. I’m fine. Busy. How are...you?” That’s the correct thing to ask. That’s the socially-prescribed response, correct? Correct? Who says ‘correct’? Fuck.
“I’m fine, darling. Really, I am. I just had a physical, actually.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. My blood pressure is one-thirty over eighty. That’s practically normal.”
“That’s good.” Technically, it falls into pre-hypertension, but I don’t want to argue. I don’t want to engage.
“I’ve been keeping really fit. Lots of exercise. Probably the best shape of my life.”
I can’t tell if the scorn in my voice comes through when I say, “The irony.”
But he doesn’t seem to have heard me because he immediately says, “What?”
“Nothing.”
“How about you?” God, how do I answer in the shortest possible way, leaving no room for follow-up questions without appearing to be rude? Ask me how many cc’s of atropine are needed before restarting a heart. Ask me what the symptoms of macular degeneration are. But don’t ask me this.
“I said I’m good. Busy.” Before I can continue, he interjects, “Are you still in the ER?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know how you can do that. All the trauma. The worst moments of other people’s lives are your nine-to-five.”
“I guess so.”
“How are you sleeping?”
“Fine.”
“Come on, beautiful. I know you better than that.” You don’t. You don’t. You do fucking not. Fuck. Fuck you. You son of a bitch.
I close my eyes. I press them tight and the lachrymal ducts close. A black hole between my eyebrows sucking in the rest of my face. I breathe so sharply I can feel it around my jaw, through the temporoparietalis muscle, and on into my neck.
“Don’t call me that.”
“What? Beautiful?”
“Yes, please. Just don’t.”
“Why?” I look up at him. The look of confusion on his face is so palpable, so immediate, so innocent, tears flood out.
“That’s what you called her!” I’m yelling despite myself. I am calm. I am in control. I am a wreck in a deluge.
“You look so much like her.”
A uniformed guard appears behind my father. Dad. “Time’s up,” he says as he places a hand on Dad’s shoulder.
Dad says, “You only come to see me–”
“–on her birthday, I know.” How I manage to say this between sobs, I don’t know. I want to tell him to go fuck himself but when I open my mouth “I love you, Dad.” is what comes out. I hang up the ugly back phone. I can’t hear his breathing, but I can read his lips as the guard helps him out of his chair.
“I love you too, beautiful.”