Hey there. To anyone who hasn't first read the Prologue and Chapter one first, do so. This chapter's shorter than the last one because it's purpose is pretty straightforward. That's right- this is the turning point.
Chapter Two
It was a long, discomforting note- that incessant noise, ringing buzz. I stopped it with a slap. A dragging emptiness swallowed my soul. Stupid alarm clock, stupid 5 A.M., stupid life, stupid…
I turned my head about my room, a vestibule of neatness. Neatness, hmmm, not my doing- that’s what a maid is for.
I rolled out of bed and landed in a frontward break fall. I brushed my teeth and showered and listened to the morning metal-core playlist.
Rick barged in, “Got any-“
“- No.”
“Did you check the-“
“Yes, Rick. You’ve asked every morning.”
I see his bearded face through the rippled glass; I feel my own stubble, and note that shaving cream is a must in this house. I’m tempted to skip my morning workout and head to the drugstore. Then again, nothing’s worth that sense of accomplishment. I wish my mom would shop for stuff like she used to. Our maid, Sylvie, never runs to the store.
“Do you mind?” I said.
Rick left the bathroom in a flurry. With this guy in the house practically everyday, he’s become more like an annoying older brother than a family bodyguard.
Rick’s medium-sized, toned, with shaggy red hair. Everything about him says USMC, especially a black tattoo the size of my fist on his right shoulder (with those inscribed letters, of course).
In the downtime between operations, he learned several languages and much about security technology. My father’s company hired him as a weapons tester for several years, which acquainted him with my family.
When Rick became Navy SEAL material, my father snagged him up before the government could. He’s protected my father on business trips ever since. My father’s away now, but Rick stayed behind, which he doesn’t normally do.
I left the shower and dressed for a long workout- shorts and a T-shirt. On my way out the door, I saw my mother making breakfast for four. From the foyer, I peered into the kitchen. Her tassels of long black hair swayed gently while the food simmered and four gray plates sat on the counter. What’s she doing this early?
I walked in, cautious of what she might do. Her depression had been severe for a while. A step farther and a plastic clack resounded on the large, tiled floor. A container of pills- empty… Her eyes are red!
I panicked and bounded across the room. Her skin was cold under my touch. She whimpered lightly.
“Mom!”
“Fine… I- I’m fine. I’m fine. Jonah, I love you. Don’t worry about me- it’s ok. You’re a good boy, Jonah. I love you. Good boy, my son.”
“Stop that!” I shake her, “What did you do?”
She stares at the empty bottle. Tears fall from her eyes. I’m too panicked for tears, only shock.
“I didn’t… take them all! They’re in… the trash! I threw those little devils out; they were killing me… pulling me down!”
She sobbed; I pulled her in close, so relieved. Her eyes were red from tears, and now mine were as well. We cried together, over Simeon, over dad, over the years lost to her depression.
I held her there, my mom- the woman who raised me. She urged me to go, to work out, but I only wanted to comfort her and stop her tears. I wanted her to be free of pain, to cry over Simeon and for that emotion to be enough. Her depression was a prison cell. Letting it out was always enough for me. For her, though, there was a greater need.
She needed Simeon back. She needed dad to be dad again. My mom needed the family to be as it once was, with four plates at the table.
I turned off the stove and put the plates back. She sat in her usual seat, still wiping tears from her eyes. We talked for an hour.
Everything to her was a memory. Me. Dad. Simeon. To her, there was no here and now. It was ultimate confusion, nostalgia, and sadness. And yet, I loved her for it. She was always a strong woman. This moment of weakness was a surprise to me. At least she would no longer succumb to her depression, and instead rise to the tasks at hand.
Eventually, I left the house. Thirty minutes of jogging later I came to that usual place in the middle of nowhere, a field abandoned by someone who didn’t love the land as I do.
Pushup after pushup, crunch after crunch, I strengthened. The sun was yellow and white behind the clouds, barely shining. The earth was dewy and sheathed in grass. I stood there alone, feeling on top of the world.
A punching bag hanging from a tree marked my usual workout area. Plastic, cement-filled selector weights depressed the green ground. Grass was bent and parted where I’d laid every morning for the past year since I first saw Rick working out at five A.M.
Rick was my inspiration to work out so early. He maintained that no one needed more than six hours of sleep in a night. All that stuff about ten hours of sleep, he said, was wrong. Every morning he rose to the occasion in our home’s intricate workout room, benching three hundred pounds, running the treadmills. It was fun to work with him for the first few months, but then I decided to go solo. I reasoned that being out in the wild would do more for me.
Here, in the wilderness, I was safe from domestic worries. I was safe from the wiles of the world, from interacting with people, from offending people, from defending people, from making myself known, or unknown. I didn’t want to be choked or stifled by civilization, like “death by wallpaper1”… enough said.
And yet, even here, where I came to strengthen, on a tumultuous day such as this, I felt someone watching me. I couldn’t escape the eyes, so I stood up, and looked out. Sure enough, a man watched me from afar.
I blinked and looked up, at the bristled old tree and the punching bag. How does one fall asleep while crunching?
I then realized that I hadn’t been sleeping while crunching, that the man watching me was very real, and that a dart was lodged in my skull. Everything I knew left me- forever- as I slipped into black…
1~Drops Like Stars, by Rob Bell
