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FistsofFury · 02-15-2012, 08:12 PM

The Secret Side by R.E. Bearlee

::4:38 AM::

Paul Jones opened his eyes and in an instant he was pulled back to full reality. The night was still the same night he left when he slipped into slumberland. The shadows were the same but his body position was not. As he sat up and looked at the clock he wondered if he dreamed anything. He was grateful that at least some time had passed. In the darkness he filled his lungs with air and sunk back under the covers. He held the lungful in as he drew the sheets over him. In the haze of the almost sleep he felt like he was layered in darkness. He felt like a mummy; an out of place creature. He lay perfectly still with his legs straight and together. His feet pointing toward the ceiling, they were two little hilltops side by side among the waves of fabric.

He did not get out of his bed; deciding that it would set him back on his march to restoration.

(((((((((

::11:21 AM::
Paul felt the tug in his mind, the gentle suggestion that whispered ‘you could get up now ya know.’ In his own voice but so much softer.

A dreamless sleep. One remembers brief moments of being awake, for Paul it was brief moments of re-adjusting in the dark with red numbers in the background. Paul sighed or gasped depended on what the red numbers said. The sound of a persistent fall breeze ruffling trees usually lured Paul back into sleep. The winter wind howling through the freezing, the rattling of windows it could causet; his too could lure him back. Now however there was no going back to the blissful nothing that was a dreamless sleep. Now he had all the somethings of the day to dance around and he felt he must wind himself up. As Paul slowly stirred and ran his hand through his hair he reminded himself that today was all his. Paul’s eyes slowly moved like great wooden gates as he scanned his room. The morning light cast a soft glow on the sack of dirty clothes in the corner and cast a kind light on the stack of quarter read through books on the dresser. Paul had responded to the tug, the mental cue but still he was not up yet. He let his head drop back on the pillow and closed his eyes, determined not to hold on to any thoughts flowing through his head for just a little while.

(((((((((

::11:31 AM::
Paul stumbled a few feet into the bathroom and the silence upstairs jarred him awake just a bit more. His sister must be gone and his father was either downstairs or gone too. The tan bathroom floor tiles were cold as Paul strode across them with bare feet. Paul stared at himself in the mirror and felt vain as Nero. If you asked him to describe himself he’d say:

“I’ve got that olive toned skin and a big nose. My eyes are green and my hair is black. I’m not fat and I’m not short. My grandmother always told me I looked like Clark Gable.”

Which would be pretty spot on. His face was slender and his nose very ethnic. Angular, sharp and beautiful. He had the languid slender frame that screamed I do not play sports. His hair was wavy. It was a black curtain that stopped at his eyebrows and where his ears ended. The cream curtain slid up to reveal two green irises surrounded by the redness of an uneven sleep

As Paul bent over the bathroom sink brushing his teeth he thought of maximizing his free day. He thought of squeezing enjoyment out of the day he wasn’t reporting to the place of employment. As Paul spat he looked up at himself in the relatively clean mirror and wished all his days were free. They were but why didn’t it feel like it?

(((((((((

::12:05 PM::
Paul slithered down the steps blinking and scratching as he smelled his mothers fresh coffee. He heard the distant chatter of a television. He took slow steps into the kitchen wondering what mood his maternal unit was in.

“Good morning.” The voice he heard was pleasant and alert. His mother was on the couch with her mug and robe that had cute cows all over it. Paul thought to get a glass of milk while he answered his mother.

“Good morning!” He tried to replicate her enthusiasm but his voice came out husky and still asleep.

Mrs. Edith Jones didn’t ask her son if he was hungry because she knew he never had an appetite in the early morning. She continued sipping coffee with her long straight hair tied behind her. The expression on her moon face was one of quiet anticipation as she watched her show. A few pictures of venerated relatives were the only ornaments on the white walls. No pictures of the saints because the Jones family was lazily Protestant. No silly sayings because Mrs. Jones thought of things like that as clutter. The kitchen floor had been swept and the dishes done the night before.

The television in the living room broadcasted a nonfiction murder drama; just the kind Mrs. Edith Jones liked to watch. The kind that were 30 minutes or an hour with mug shots and re-enactments. With chilling background synthesizers and that zoom in on a still picture documentary style shot. Paul sat down with his bowl of Captain Crunch. Mrs. Edith Jones sat on the couch while Paul sat at the kitchen table behind her munching away.

“Where did we go wrong?” Mrs. Jones said without looking behind her.

“With what?” Paul liked to drag out his own torture, handling it like a status quo diplomat in between bites of sweet nothing.

Paul swallowed with closed eyes as the television yammered on about how the police found the body.

“Paul a lot of your classmates have graduated and have good jobs now. They are successful. Don’t you want to be successful?”

Conversations like these used to end up in passive aggressive snark fests. As Paul chewed he was grateful he had grown up somewhat. As the camera held on the face of a retired officer describing the condition of the body Paul thought of the most appropriate response for his mother.

“I need to cultivate successful habits. Success is a result of having integrity, regular practice and finishing things you start. That’s why I haven’t graduated yet. I didn’t have successful habits before.”

Paul spoke with a blank face and his words were flat through his monotone. The moment he finished he gathered a heaping spoonful of crunchberries. He was also trying to hold back the wave of sadness washing over him.

“Well what you’re saying sounds really good but it is just talk. You’ve wasted our time and my money. Your cousin Susan is 3 years younger than you and she’s about to start medical school. How do you think that makes me feel?”

Paul cleared his throat as he watched the alleged killer squirm in the interrogation room. All the muscles in his body felt dormant and heavy. He thought about how silly he could be with the conversation he was having. He thought about how indignant and snotty he could have been at this moment; how he used to be at moments like these. He knew he had already decided to be nothing as he silently tipped his bowl back to drink the delicious remaining milk from his cereal.

“We should not measure ourselves by other people.” He stated with dull eyes as he set his bowl back down and smacked his lips.

“Then how should we measure ourselves son?”

Paul didn’t say anything as he got up with his empty bowl and spoon and walked over to the sink. He hoped his mother’s loaded question would wither away unanswered.

“We just wanted so much for you Paul. We had high hopes for your success.” Mrs. Jones voice was subdued and resigned. It carried the weight of words said so often one’s voice was lowered along with the speaker’s spirits. Paul stood at the sink trying to re-direct his train of thought. He didn’t know what feelings were appropriate when his mother spoke of him as if he were finished. The anger he felt was dull and cold above his stomach when his mother spoke to him as if he were washed up. He was past being angry with the hidden tone of death. He only felt a distanced sorrow for something vague he knew was missing in so many people.

“I’m not dead! It isn’t over!” He wanted to holler at her. As Paul stared at the white kitchen walls he missed the fruit basket wallpaper he grew up seeing. As the television rambled on about a pattern of prior convictions Paul wondered what Lucy was doing at the moment. He wondered how you could be washed up before you even really started.

“Don’t you want your father and I to be proud of you?”

Paul winced as he sat back down in time to see the grainy overhead camera footage of a stammering interrogation room confession. Paul felt like a criminal that could not recall his crimes. He was in the dimly lit room of his mind; with men in moustaches and ties pointing at pictures that he couldn’t make anything out of. Paul then felt foolish for relating himself to actual criminals.

“I think you could be proud of me for being a decent person. I’m not a saint but I try to do right by people.” The words came out like how he felt: drained. Soggy conversation leftovers. He wondered if no one saw his merits did they still exist? He knew they did but why did it feel like a lie?

”I’ll see you later mom. I’m going to spend time with my friend.” Paul hated all the things he left unsaid during these conversations. He had come to learn with certainty that silence hurt everyone the least.

“Are they doing something with their lives? Are they headed in positive directions?” She asked as Paul walked toward the garage.

“No one is positive all the time Ma.” The garage door groaned open and Paul stepped into the weak sunshine. He fumbled for his keys confused about the vague thing he felt missing inside. Can you miss something you never had? He attempted to think about something else and ended up thinking about the girl he liked as he opened his car door.

02-15-2012, 08:12 PM	#6
FistsofFury Join Date: Jan 2012 Location: Detroit, Michigan USA Posts: 102	The Secret Side by R.E. Bearlee ::4:38 AM:: Paul Jones opened his eyes and in an instant he was pulled back to full reality. The night was still the same night he left when he slipped into slumberland. The shadows were the same but his body position was not. As he sat up and looked at the clock he wondered if he dreamed anything. He was grateful that at least some time had passed. In the darkness he filled his lungs with air and sunk back under the covers. He held the lungful in as he drew the sheets over him. In the haze of the almost sleep he felt like he was layered in darkness. He felt like a mummy; an out of place creature. He lay perfectly still with his legs straight and together. His feet pointing toward the ceiling, they were two little hilltops side by side among the waves of fabric. He did not get out of his bed; deciding that it would set him back on his march to restoration. ((((((((( ::11:21 AM:: Paul felt the tug in his mind, the gentle suggestion that whispered ‘you could get up now ya know.’ In his own voice but so much softer. A dreamless sleep. One remembers brief moments of being awake, for Paul it was brief moments of re-adjusting in the dark with red numbers in the background. Paul sighed or gasped depended on what the red numbers said. The sound of a persistent fall breeze ruffling trees usually lured Paul back into sleep. The winter wind howling through the freezing, the rattling of windows it could causet; his too could lure him back. Now however there was no going back to the blissful nothing that was a dreamless sleep. Now he had all the somethings of the day to dance around and he felt he must wind himself up. As Paul slowly stirred and ran his hand through his hair he reminded himself that today was all his. Paul’s eyes slowly moved like great wooden gates as he scanned his room. The morning light cast a soft glow on the sack of dirty clothes in the corner and cast a kind light on the stack of quarter read through books on the dresser. Paul had responded to the tug, the mental cue but still he was not up yet. He let his head drop back on the pillow and closed his eyes, determined not to hold on to any thoughts flowing through his head for just a little while. ((((((((( ::11:31 AM:: Paul stumbled a few feet into the bathroom and the silence upstairs jarred him awake just a bit more. His sister must be gone and his father was either downstairs or gone too. The tan bathroom floor tiles were cold as Paul strode across them with bare feet. Paul stared at himself in the mirror and felt vain as Nero. If you asked him to describe himself he’d say: “I’ve got that olive toned skin and a big nose. My eyes are green and my hair is black. I’m not fat and I’m not short. My grandmother always told me I looked like Clark Gable.” Which would be pretty spot on. His face was slender and his nose very ethnic. Angular, sharp and beautiful. He had the languid slender frame that screamed I do not play sports. His hair was wavy. It was a black curtain that stopped at his eyebrows and where his ears ended. The cream curtain slid up to reveal two green irises surrounded by the redness of an uneven sleep As Paul bent over the bathroom sink brushing his teeth he thought of maximizing his free day. He thought of squeezing enjoyment out of the day he wasn’t reporting to the place of employment. As Paul spat he looked up at himself in the relatively clean mirror and wished all his days were free. They were but why didn’t it feel like it? ((((((((( ::12:05 PM:: Paul slithered down the steps blinking and scratching as he smelled his mothers fresh coffee. He heard the distant chatter of a television. He took slow steps into the kitchen wondering what mood his maternal unit was in. “Good morning.” The voice he heard was pleasant and alert. His mother was on the couch with her mug and robe that had cute cows all over it. Paul thought to get a glass of milk while he answered his mother. “Good morning!” He tried to replicate her enthusiasm but his voice came out husky and still asleep. Mrs. Edith Jones didn’t ask her son if he was hungry because she knew he never had an appetite in the early morning. She continued sipping coffee with her long straight hair tied behind her. The expression on her moon face was one of quiet anticipation as she watched her show. A few pictures of venerated relatives were the only ornaments on the white walls. No pictures of the saints because the Jones family was lazily Protestant. No silly sayings because Mrs. Jones thought of things like that as clutter. The kitchen floor had been swept and the dishes done the night before. The television in the living room broadcasted a nonfiction murder drama; just the kind Mrs. Edith Jones liked to watch. The kind that were 30 minutes or an hour with mug shots and re-enactments. With chilling background synthesizers and that zoom in on a still picture documentary style shot. Paul sat down with his bowl of Captain Crunch. Mrs. Edith Jones sat on the couch while Paul sat at the kitchen table behind her munching away. “Where did we go wrong?” Mrs. Jones said without looking behind her. “With what?” Paul liked to drag out his own torture, handling it like a status quo diplomat in between bites of sweet nothing. Paul swallowed with closed eyes as the television yammered on about how the police found the body. “Paul a lot of your classmates have graduated and have good jobs now. They are successful. Don’t you want to be successful?” Conversations like these used to end up in passive aggressive snark fests. As Paul chewed he was grateful he had grown up somewhat. As the camera held on the face of a retired officer describing the condition of the body Paul thought of the most appropriate response for his mother. “I need to cultivate successful habits. Success is a result of having integrity, regular practice and finishing things you start. That’s why I haven’t graduated yet. I didn’t have successful habits before.” Paul spoke with a blank face and his words were flat through his monotone. The moment he finished he gathered a heaping spoonful of crunchberries. He was also trying to hold back the wave of sadness washing over him. “Well what you’re saying sounds really good but it is just talk. You’ve wasted our time and my money. Your cousin Susan is 3 years younger than you and she’s about to start medical school. How do you think that makes me feel?” Paul cleared his throat as he watched the alleged killer squirm in the interrogation room. All the muscles in his body felt dormant and heavy. He thought about how silly he could be with the conversation he was having. He thought about how indignant and snotty he could have been at this moment; how he used to be at moments like these. He knew he had already decided to be nothing as he silently tipped his bowl back to drink the delicious remaining milk from his cereal. “We should not measure ourselves by other people.” He stated with dull eyes as he set his bowl back down and smacked his lips. “Then how should we measure ourselves son?” Paul didn’t say anything as he got up with his empty bowl and spoon and walked over to the sink. He hoped his mother’s loaded question would wither away unanswered. “We just wanted so much for you Paul. We had high hopes for your success.” Mrs. Jones voice was subdued and resigned. It carried the weight of words said so often one’s voice was lowered along with the speaker’s spirits. Paul stood at the sink trying to re-direct his train of thought. He didn’t know what feelings were appropriate when his mother spoke of him as if he were finished. The anger he felt was dull and cold above his stomach when his mother spoke to him as if he were washed up. He was past being angry with the hidden tone of death. He only felt a distanced sorrow for something vague he knew was missing in so many people. “I’m not dead! It isn’t over!” He wanted to holler at her. As Paul stared at the white kitchen walls he missed the fruit basket wallpaper he grew up seeing. As the television rambled on about a pattern of prior convictions Paul wondered what Lucy was doing at the moment. He wondered how you could be washed up before you even really started. “Don’t you want your father and I to be proud of you?” Paul winced as he sat back down in time to see the grainy overhead camera footage of a stammering interrogation room confession. Paul felt like a criminal that could not recall his crimes. He was in the dimly lit room of his mind; with men in moustaches and ties pointing at pictures that he couldn’t make anything out of. Paul then felt foolish for relating himself to actual criminals. “I think you could be proud of me for being a decent person. I’m not a saint but I try to do right by people.” The words came out like how he felt: drained. Soggy conversation leftovers. He wondered if no one saw his merits did they still exist? He knew they did but why did it feel like a lie? ”I’ll see you later mom. I’m going to spend time with my friend.” Paul hated all the things he left unsaid during these conversations. He had come to learn with certainty that silence hurt everyone the least. “Are they doing something with their lives? Are they headed in positive directions?” She asked as Paul walked toward the garage. “No one is positive all the time Ma.” The garage door groaned open and Paul stepped into the weak sunshine. He fumbled for his keys confused about the vague thing he felt missing inside. Can you miss something you never had? He attempted to think about something else and ended up thinking about the girl he liked as he opened his car door.