A Dark, Bleak, Dreary, Sad, Defeated Wednesday.

a death in the neighborhood

It is raining still, a dreary, spiteful little rain that refuses to stop. It is late and dark, the rain masks the light glowing from the parlor with a veil of sadness. The air is heavy and dank. Everything is wet and gives the impression that it will remain so for eternity. The man walks across the street, careful of the cars that cruise by like ghosts, headlights dim from the fog on this weary night. He trudges one step in front of the other, walking slowly, a man carrying a heavy load. As he walks up the stairs into the parlor each step draws him down into himself, he is being crushed by the circumstance of this visit like a diver that has gone too deep. The weight of the situation pushing in from all sides, he can’t seem to breath right, ever breath an effort every step an effort. The front door looms before him, it is red of all colors and seems strangely out of place. The door is a sentry holding in all the emotion of what lies inside. He sees the faces on the other side of the glass, sad, grim, shocked. The door has a brass handle, he knows as he turns the handle this is Pandora’s box, all the sadness, brutality and hopelessness lies on the other side of that door. Yet still he turns the handle, holding his breath, his last act before the truth is confirmed.

He slowly enters the parlor, it feels like he is forcing himself into the room, slowly he goes. The sadness and hopeless parts like a fog then envelopes him wholly, he is now in the room, one of them, truth confirmed. The room is crowded, however he seems to connect with each person singularly, as they share the same burden, the same way. I know their eyes tell, it hurts, it is sad, it is a horror. He looks down at the floor unable and unwilling to make contact with anyone. The burden is personal, a weight on the soul, all happiness flees and he moves forward towards the body, it is a small journey.

He kneels in front of the coffin, so close to death. The young man lies there, eyes closed, hands clasped, an angel without wings. He remembers this was once a boy who rode his bike and wore black framed glasses and had brown hair. He had a dog or two and was nice to the adults and they liked him. He remembers his own fondness for the boy, who would build towers and bridges out of the old bricks stored in the back yard behind the dog house. The boy told the man that he wanted to build things when he grew up, bridges, buildings, roads. He was a typical boy, rough and tumble, bikes and hero’s , mom and dad.

He prays for the boy, for his soul, for redemption. His prayer is weak and undetermined. He can’t force the words through his mind. Can’t find the thoughts that make the words. Can’t calm himself from the horror of what is in front of him. He hears the boys parents slightly off to the right whimpering, he gives up on the prayer and rises to meet them. They are dazed and worn, souls ripped apart, a lifetime of healing will not repair them. He drapes his arm around the shoulders of the man. Brutal is all he can say, that is all that will come out. A single word, uttered without thought, slipping out of his mouth like a cat through the door. He looks into the man’s eyes and they are red and full of tears, his face a mask of pain, failure, hopelessness. This is a pain he cannot attempt to heal. He moves on to the woman. She is broken, crushed, defeated. Her beauty is gone, what makes her a woman now challenged by the ugliness of what has happened. The man can not bear to be near her, her hopelessness, real and visceral sucking the very essence from his being. The boy’s sister grabs the man sinking her head into his chest, she wails in agony clutching his shirt with trembling hands, her tears stain his shirt, their wetness shocks him. He gently kisses the top of her head ,saying nothing, there is nothing to say. All has been said in that moment. He gently pushes her away and steps to the side, he sees that she is pregnant; he hopes it will be a boy. Next to her is her husband whom the man has never met. The greet each other awkwardly, each acknowledging the personal nature of what has occurred. The man steps back, turns and heads for the door. He looks up and around the room, people are talking in hushed tones, in little groups. An older couple sits away from the crowd, holding hands and crying softly. He sees a few young people, they look confused, unbelieving. There is no joy, no hope in that parlor, only despair, disbelief and hopelessness. He moves towards the exit quick and with purpose, acknowledging no one, he shuts the door behind him, firmly. Pandora’s box slammed shut, too late. He looks across the street and sees nothing. His mind is blank, moving forward, away from the nightmare he steps down the street, glad to be putting time and distance from what he has witnessed.

He starts to walk slowly, his mind begins to focus again, he feels like he is coming alive again, his soul coming back from that dark retreat. He tries to take meaning from what he has seen, there is none. The boy, lost and alone, haunted by mental illness, has taken his own life. He sees the boy’s younger, happier face in his mind. Black framed glasses with specks of dirt and leaves in the lenses, dirty little hands holding a brick as he builds his castles. A look of determination and purpose, of happiness and being. What horrors of the mind took this boy to that dark place, that place where all hope has vanished, all purpose erased. The boy a pathetic shell of what he was to become. The battle between life and death pitched back and forth both sides presenting their evidence. The boy to decide his own fate, feet on the ladder, noose around his neck. What final thought did he have was it one of peace or horror, death or new life.

The man mourns the boy, his life was just beginning, a sunrise ended by an early night. The darkness is deep, the dawn comes again grey and still raining spitefully. There is no reason for this, no deeper purpose, no meaning to be learned, no life to be celebrated, no thoughts to be cherished. It is a cold and brutal death. The boy’s life will be remembered as one lived in vain, extinguished by his own hand. The man will remember the boy from time to time holding that brick, glasses black framed, hands dirty, purpose in his eyes. He will wonder why and what may have been. Then he will feel a little older, a little wearier and a little sadder. The purpose and the meaning will never be found, all that remains is a a wall with that one brick missing, the wall can never be repaired, the missing brick irreplaceable. As time goes by the brick will be less and less noticeable to the man, however it will still be gone never to return, no days in the sun, no cool nights under the moon. The brick is gone and that is the end of it. The boy holding the brick he took with him, ripped from the wall and carried away into the darkness, his little dirty hand holding it tightly, his eyes peering from black framed glasses. His battle is over and everyone has lost.