Chapter 13. A Quiet Mind
“Some battles never end—even if you can’t win, what’s important is that you never quit fighting.”
– Glenn’s Chronicles
Bloomfield Hills, Michigan
Glenn lay out on the grass near the fountain in the courtyard, keeping the stars as his ceiling. No longer bound by hospital walls, he was free to do as he pleased. As he pleased. What did he please? Hands, his own hands, his exclusive arch-nemeses, rose up before him. They had been the emissaries of his demise. They had drawn the blade that so many times broke his skin. His rotted skin.
He looked down. There was flesh, healthy and strong. Why had he thought it rotted? Oh, right…the mind. T’was his mind that rotted. Was that right? He shook his head. He tried to remember what he was doing here.
He’d traveled with friends to find a comrade long lost, but not forgotten. They, the friends, had promised to help him, and make him whole. He came closer, though not close, and lost himself along the way. How foolish, placing hope in misguided teenagers focused too much on succulent pieces of ass. A mistake he himself made. On one who turned against him. Such folly. How many empires have fallen to the selfsame nonsensical treachery, that of the heart?
And so he imbibed. Drowned out the poison of his thoughts with a finely aged Scotch, adding a strong dose of narcotics for flavor. How sweet the surrender that came with the promise of death. Liberation from a wealth of neglected responsibility. The end of his unattainable journey. At least, that’s how he imagined it—how it was supposed to end. Trying to recall anything about his death left him with little but an active imagination.
The hospital staff had told him his stomach had been pumped and his heart restarted. Shouldn’t that have brought him a second chance? Wouldn’t that clean out his system and purge all of his failures? He had remained idle within the isolated safety of the bland walls as the world continued on. Until his father came.
Removed by a stalwart man ripe with ambition, it was impossible to say he was his father’s son. But the credentials were good enough for the man, Bernard, to take him home after the long months of hospitalizations. So home they went. Like church and state they remained, constantly antagonizing each other yet bound by lineage. His father’s convictions a perpetual slight. The elder Radcliffe never understood infirmity. Nor did the younger.
To the tunnels of blood under his hands’ flesh he stared. He followed them down to the wrists, one particularly unbearable, marred by clean skin. It was a lie. The other, the scar-stained tissue, openly told the secrets he couldn’t keep. It’s how the not-Roberts girl knew.
Too much noise breeds too much noise—the price of a quiet mind is inflated. Around and around he looked, remembering his knife’s delight at the taste of his wicked flesh. But that blade was since abandoned. He rose to his feet, his bare feet, and wandered into the house. Dark as always, but his eyes needed no guide—he was raised here. He found his way into the kitchen and drew the sharpest blade from the drawer. Dull blades are no one’s friend.
He slammed it on the counter, staring at it. It wasn’t his blade, it wasn’t the same. Was this really something he wanted to do? Why would want matter? Since when did desire play into the mix? What did he desire? He took the knife in both hands, grasping its handle tightly. He examined his wrists, the guiding lines he’d left himself in case he ever forgot. It was time to take the knife to its purpose.
He took a deep breath, arching his arms back and stabbing the blade into the wall. Slowly, he let the handle go, the knife remaining in place. His fingers grew taut clutching at his wrist. He ran each finger over the scars, remembering the catharsis that bleeding brings, and with it, the chaos of letting go. He clutched his wrist until it cracked.
“Gah! D-damnit!”
He shouted at the knife, clearly at fault for tempting him without a clear resolution. He grasped the handle and pulled it out, slamming it on the counter. He hovered over it with his head in his hands.
“F-fucking fuck…”
The strawberry blonde forced her way into his mind, reminding him of her siren’s song. The lone piece of salvation in a damned world, no matter how transient or ultimately disastrous. But she was gone, and here he remained—unwanted, damaged goods.
A light flicked on in the kitchen. Glenn rose to see his father standing in the doorway. The two locked eyes, possessing no adequate words.
Bernard stood for a moment before walking over to the counter, seeing the knife laid out before them. He looked over to his son, who refused to meet his father’s eyes. Glenn left his gaze focused on the knife, perfect for the awkward tension rising between the two.
Glenn jumped, feeling the strong pat of his father’s hand on his back as the man stood next to him. Catching the scent of orange juice, he heard his father leave a glass in the sink. The unfamiliar feel of his father’s lips against his forehead caught Glenn completely off guard. He kept his eyes on the counter, examining a small part of Bernard’s arm. Scar-stained. After a moment, his father walked back to the hallway and turned off the kitchen light. The two exchanged glances once more, Glenn staring into his father’s eyes, before the man disappeared beyond the frame.
He remained, staring at the blade. It lay bare, next to his mottled arm, once again resting on the counter. His muscles knew their art by memory, and yet, stood fast. A distraction had broken his chain of thoughts. Gleaning a new chain, he caught a fractured memory, a simple fleeting image. It wasn’t of violent intimacy, or furtive seduction, but only an honest moment. His head resting in her lap, her soothing his thoughts and giving him a quiet mind. Her fingers so gently drawn through his hair.
She had vowed to help him. Inebriated as he might’ve been, he had sworn his love to her. His closest act to nobility, short of saving her life. She had brought beauty to his grief, and reflected the possibility of calmness in his dark. If he proceeded any further, he’d lose that gift. More importantly, if he proceeded any further, he’d break her heart. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly through his mouth. He placed the knife back into the drawer.
Keeping his fists clenched tight, he headed back out on to the veranda. He made his way to the moonlit fountain, taking a seat on the ledge. A cool evening breeze blew by. He dug his hand into his pocket, pulling out a small pill bottle and swallowing one of its contents. He leaned back, looking up the midnight sky. Always he’d been waiting, trying to find the one who’d save him. A search that never produced. Maybe there was a reason it had always failed.
Drips and drops splashed into the fountain as a light rain began to come down. Cold beads trickled onto his face, gliding down the sides of his cheeks like the tears that never fell. He chuckled, thinking of his missing Cinderella.
Mumbling a quiet litany to himself, he hummed Modest Mouse’s melancholy “Bankrupt on Selling” as he awaited his body’s verdict between insomnia and medicinal intervention. He might’ve won the battle for the evening, but there was still a long war ahead. He chuckled to himself as he watched the stars become blurry.
“Heh…I’m so f-fucked.”