Red Alder

One of the odd things about people, and meeting them, is just how opaque they can be. You so frequently hear how essential first impressions are, how without them, we would be nothing but faceless nameless beings. The first impression is stressed from the earliest of ages, we have to be normal, we have to be collected and appear content. Sometimes we must appear witty, humorous, and some of us are just “good with people”. You have about three minutes to allow someone to look at you in any way you choose, but sometimes you don’t choose. There’s so much goddamn stress. And you know what? First impressions are not lasting impressions. They can be changed and altered and tailored throughout time, to the point that someone may not even remember them, most of the time they don’t. The brain alters memories each second of each minute of each hour of each day. It condenses conversations and extracts the importance, with a peculiar way of saving some of the oddest things. You can’t remember your exact meal plan and times of what you ate three months ago, even three days ago, unless of course you wrote it down. And yet, you are absolutely certain that you ate. Or that you had those exchange of words with that person and maybe it was raining but you just can’t put your tongue on the exact words. Like these stored memories never quite remain consistent, conclusions can be made that first impressions have no real significance, as long as you don’t say or do anything too dramatic, it’s usually okay.

Right now, I’m on a bridge. And it’s raining, and I’m about to jump.

For me, I could take the reflective surface that so many goddamn people put out, I could see right through it, ever since it hit me. And when I said hit me, I literally meant it. Huge fucking bolts of terribly hot lightning hit me, or struck, I supposed. And now, I was simply able to see through people, through their febreeze masked bull shit, and into the real terrors of them. I was able to detect it, like a sixth sense, and unable to stop. This was my curse disguised as a blessing, something that I initially interpreted as a superpower.

It all began on the first thursday of July, when driving home from our monthly family supper, my little sister in the passenger seat, hands shaking and lips trembling from the events of the night. The evening began normally, with my parents asking me and Emily endless questions, most of them tainted with hidden disappointment and nagging, “when will you..?”s and “have you done this yet?” code for, “you’ve won’t ever get around to that, or actually do something that makes us proud, right?”. It ended with tears and rage and a cloud of discontent hanging over the four of us. You see, I had dropped out of business school to focus on building my portfolio for photography and Emily, still in high school, was achieving less than average grades. In our family, status was less of a side point and more of a front on who we were. My father was a chemical engineer, my mother an accountant, both working very hard and making a very big deal over their effort with the hope that it would rub off on my siblings and I. My older brother, Luke, had become the shining image and product of their persistent contingencies. He got his master’s in marine biology and was working on the coast, too busy to attend any family get togethers besides christmas and the occasional thanksgiving. He had a family of his own, two little children with red hair, white skin and freckles identical to his wife. The saddest part of my brother’s seemingly flawless life was that one time, about a year and a half ago, he flew in on business for a week, ended up staying with me for a night due to his hotel overbooking, and managed to pour his deepest regrets and mistakes into a bottle of wine and a 40 of vodka, with me hesitantly comforting him and attempting to assure him that everything would be okay.

It turned out that a lot of his decisions were based off of the pressure to succeed, as many have done, that he was miserable with his work, and not because of its demands and exhausting hours, but simply because he was never interested in researching species or even marine biology in general, he felt he had to act as if this distinct passion was one that had come easily. When in reality, it drove him into the deepest of waters, figuratively of course. Of course, this came as no surprise to me, just sad. My 33 year old brother was the spitting image of what we all promised ourselves we’d never become, of settling for less and pursuing something for the sole reason that you are able to do it, not because you have even a sliver of talent, or ambition, or interest. In most of shakespeare's plays, ambition is what ends up in some way shape or form being the death of the protagonist, in Luke’s case, it was lack there of.

And his personal life, he spilled to me on that rainy Sunday night, was even worse. He had a mediocre marriage that began as two people feeling indifferent towards each other somehow agreeing to spend the rest of their lives together. He mentioned that most days, when he clocked off of his research and shut the lights of his office doors, he’d end up in bars, just for the noise. He wanted to feel the vibrations of laughter, drunken stoops, and the occasional fight, for the sole reason of feeling something.

Myself, I was a 23 year old college drop-out, one of the biggest disappointments of all. Fresh out of high school, I had decided to go against my parents wishes and travel for a year, using every cent of my savings from working part time and venturing through Europe with my best friend, Ainsley. We were inseparable, and felt as though the earth was built for us to explore, conquer, and devour. Of course, university felt miles away, and I could find no hobbies or desires that would make any career of use, so I decided to be impulsive and travel. Honestly, it was one of the best decisions I had made, and opened up my mind to so many new ideas, I felt like the roots of a tree, soaking up as much knowledge and nutrients to stay grounded. Ainsley was, of course, Ainsley. Always trying to get us into exclusive clubs and using her extroverted skills to ensure we were constantly moving, staying in one country just long enough to enjoy the view . Yet, things got heavy and we fell into the wrong type of crowd, because although Ainsley could make one feel as though they had known her for years and would actually crave her presence, she also trusted too easily, believing that all people were inherently good and could therefore be justified in their sinful actions due to how society shaped and indoctrinated us. This allowed Ainsley to only see the positive, and brought us to a situation with firearms and hard drugs. The whole scene ended up breaking our so called, forever friendship, sending both of us back home. A wild adventure ending in fear and loss. That fall I enrolled in Business, with the agreement that I could live at home rent free as long as I was working part time and going to school, paying for most of my education. It just seemed like the obvious, choice, people in business learned how to make money, and have a lot of open doors in their future that mostly led to monday to friday 9-5 office hours and taking trains downtown. Rinse and repeat. I would soon become a slave to capitalism, consumerism, corporate pigs, it was all the same. In my third year, at 22, I took a leap, got an internship at a newspaper and started photographing , mostly sports games or charity events. I wasn’t required to write any columns or articles, as I was on call and only needed if one of the writers was unable to show up. I did, however,get the opportunity to interview many people of the city of Heinsway, and felt very important when I delivered my recordings and notes to the newspaper staff. My mother allowed me to live with her for three full months until she could no longer bare to stare at the face of a quitter and decided, without my father’s input, to give me three weeks notice. Finding a place wasn’t too hard, but it still was a terrible stress. I lived with countless roommates and was constantly moving houses or apartments until I found a stable family willing to rent their room out. The internship ended,thank god it was paid, and I began to primarily photograph scenery, mountain ranges and cold lakes, taking small jobs for newly developing companies and shooting the occasional wedding. I had always taken interest in capturing images, finding just the right exposure and angle and lense. When I was working, I was actually in my element, but I always dreamt of something more. I knew that my freelance ways could not be permanent, that I’d have to find someone and settle down, although it seemed like I couldn’t make any actual connections with human beings, not in the way I connected with my camera when I was building an atmosphere, being just the right amount of dangerous and dramatic, except with Emily, she understood me. And that was more or less what I was doing with my life the night I was struck, not really happy and not really sad.

So there we were, my sister and I, driving through a summer drizzle turned thunderstorm, both feeling full from the broccoli chicken lasagna and blush wine, yet empty from how repetitive and predictable the whole thing had been. Of course, most of the dispute when our mother had begun to brag about Luke, explaining that in their last conversation he mentioned a small raise and that his research had just been renewed for another two years of funding. I knew that none of this brought the same velocity of excitement or joy that it had to my mother, the sly grin on her face poisoned with superficial pride. My mother counted her happiness in big visible accomplishments, anything she could hang on her walls or stick in her purse to show others, she did not care for what really mattered, for those small moments where it felt like life was an infinite fluid movement, as if all the laughter and heartbreak and elation could be poured into a small glass of water, something so universal and easily consumed. She couldn’t comprehend that it was possible to live without prioritizing money, social status, and quantities.

I was driving Emily to her friend’s house, as they needed to finish a social studies project that sounded painfully boring, and we were talking about how hideously fake people were.

“I just can’t begin to understand why mom and dad always nag at us,” I said, turning up the pace of the windshield wipers. The wine was churning in my stomach, not drunkenly, just enough to feel a hot rush.

“I know, right? They don’t understand anything. At least you don’t have to live with them anymore, it’s practically prison. And I swear that they are never actually telling the truth, they lie about everything.” She remarked, pulling out a cigarette.

“Hey, no smoking in my car, Emily, wait till I drop you off or at least put down the window, you know that stuffs bad for you”

“Alright, alright, but it’s pouring rain. Hey, maybe if you just keep driving towards the storm, the rain will never stop, and we can just keep going and going, with nothing and no one to lie to us,and we can just share this, in this car. Maybe this was meant to be.” Emily said, going off on a tangent. She would always do that, say these impossible crazy things, not really expecting a realistic answer. It was like she was on another planet completely, but at least she was truthful. I swear, my little sister would never lie, not about anything. She was brutally honest, and it hurt her most of the times, but at least there were no secrets.

That’s when it went wrong. With the mixture of thick cigarette smoke and terrible driving conditions, my second hand Honda Civic soon was acquainted with an old brown streetlamp, the kind that is placed in just the right corner of just the right road that it was practically planned to have fatal meetings with other cars.

In the rush of flustered emotions of the night and trying to understand Emily’s tumblr{}infused words, I found myself flying, and then, a streak of light from the swarm of clouds, suddenly reaching my veins. I tried to look at my hands, because it always calmed me in the midst of a panic attack, but was at a loss to sensory reception. The flying did something that everything always does; it ended. And the shocks had stopped pulsating through my body, ending with no formality, a quick burst, no real closure. I had tried to swerve away, I’d swear to any form of higher power that I fucking tried. It was too late, the damage had been done. Emily, still in the passenger seat, was covered in thick syrup like liquid, unresponsive.

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When someone would speak to me after the accident, it was as if I could dissect their words with a small blade, slicing through them until I reached the pit of it, the essence. I was able to not only detect their blatant lies, but feel them, their roots, their origins. My sister, Emily, was in a coma. Her long dirty blonde hair tucked away beneath her sheets. I couldn’t visit, it was as if no one could. Too gruesome to endure, the way her fingernails grew, making her slender fingers look even more spiderish. After a few months, I decided to move away. It felt like the only option, as the accident had changed so much. My father started travelling even more, on many “business trips”. We all knew what he was actually doing, who he was actually seeing. It was one of the dishonesties that I didn’t need to use my fucked up mind to know, everyone just knew.

I moved west, to a small town close enough to Luke’s that I felt obligated to visit every month or so, but far enough that talking on the phone would mostly be enough. At first, I was able to cope with the fact that I could see through people's deception, it was actually kind of interesting.Nobody believed me, and I wasn’t going to be sent to an institute, so I didn’t attempt to force the truth upon anyone. Emily had always mentioned that she knew when someone was distorting their words, and I began to wonder whether her ability had somehow been passed on to me. Having this sort of, “power” almost made me feel smarter, more knowledgeable, if that made any sense.

It wasn’t until autumn when I could no longer endure seeing such magnitudes of clarity, of realness. I was strolling through a park, messing around with the exposure on my Nikon and listening to parents go on about their children and children go on about their brand new toys and old men go on about their new chess strategies, all cliches in one, rain spattered scene. Where I had moved, it was always raining, and as ironic as it sounded, it calmed me. As if the gray had never actually left. I was suddenly stopped by a tall man with dark brown hair, who appeared around my age, possibly a few years older. He looked at me in the eyes, his were painfully blue, the kind that makes a big deal out of itself without even trying. He wore a long, black overcoat and dark washed jeans. Everything about him set off alarms and red flags, yet I allowed him to approach.

“Are you lost, miss?” He asked. I felt a strange attraction to him, now with a clear view of his face. It was long, narrow, and very sharp. His slender figure made his clothing look like they were hanging off of him, as though he wasn’t actually wearing them, they just happened to be placed upon him. Of course, my lightning struck brain began to process his words. True. He sincerely wanted to know whether or not I was lost. This was something I could take advantage of, the fact that I knew exactly who I could trust.

“No, why would I be lost, do I look lost? I’m just out for a walk, the weather is lovely.” I explained, feeling glad that I made the last minute decision to apply a coat of my reddest lipstick.

“Well, this is quite the beautiful park. I suppose you just have that expression, that’s a very nice camera. I haven’t seen you here before, do you live in the area?”

“Yes, actually, I do. I think I’ll be going now.” I said, becoming aware of just how close we were. He smelled like musky cologne and fresh mint. A dangerously pleasant smell, something that almost made me consider staying, almost.

At that point, relationships weren’t even beginning to blossom in my mind, with everything that had happened in my life. I didn’t want to die alone, it was just that the other option didn’t even attempt to linger through my thoughts. I smiled politely and turned around, my paisley pattern skirt taking advantage of the breeze with a twirl. This man, whom I had never met, didn’t let up, very stubborn and persistent.

“Wait, you forgot something!”

“What?”

He picked a leaf from the ground, it was yellow orange and tear shaped, with little pointed blades, “Here,” he began, “take this. It reminds me of you, you are so beautiful, so vibrant and different.”

“You don’t even know me,” I tried, almost in disbelief at his sheer honesty. Does he really think I’m beautiful? I thought, reflecting upon my features. I was too tall, my proportions were all wrong. I had light brown hair and an awkward face with cheek bones that were high, everything else was just bland.

“Yes, this is true. And if you were any good at flirting then you’d be aware of the fact that I’m desperately trying to do it with you. I’m Ryder, and you are breathtaking. I’d like to get to know you, lost girl. Maybe over tea, or coffee, if tea just isn’t your cup of tea.” He said.

“Sylvia.” I smiled, taking the leaf.

And that was it, I was hooked.

The next two months were the best and the worst. I rarely went out in public, but Ryder was very outgoing, and social, and had many friends. He was very forward, he knew what he wanted, and how to get it. I was shy, keeping a lot of my life from him, cautiously advancing in what we had, not wanting to mess anything up. It wasn’t a typical romance, I didn’t fall passionately and gracefully in love with him, things were messy, fights were frequent. But I did fall in love.

My sister wasn’t getting any better, and although I could feel her presence with every conversation that I had, I knew that she was in some subpar hospital being fed through a tube and wandering off through whatever kind of dreamless slumber she found herself in. I loved her so goddamn much. It was in early December that I felt I could no longer handle what we had. In the beginning, I rarely caught his lies, and when I did, I brushed them off as the necessary white lies that we all tell. I just couldn’t get over how fucking superficial everyone was. I felt that the only way I could truly be happy was if I found someone who couldn’t physically lie. Someone like Emily. I thought about her more than usual. Eventually, he was lying constantly. He told me I was beautiful and wonderful, and I was able to find the pit of his words. Everything was partially true.

And so here I am, standing on this gusty bridge, about to fall into traffic, to end it all. His first impression was lovely, no fibs or fabrication, and yet, he wasn’t able to stay honest. And it’s not his fault, it wasn’t. It’s me, and my electrically hardwired piece of shit brain. I can’t live like this. I can’t endure the pain of knowing the truth of the world, of how horrible human beings are. Ainsley was wrong, people aren’t inherently good, people are sick, disgusting. Luke is miserable, my parents are miserable. Maybe Emily is the only one free, asleep.

I am soaked in water, and the dark clouds are rolling in at an Olympic pace that looks almost comical. They are coming for me. My only regrets are that I’d done this sooner, that I hadn’t fallen in love, had my heart slowly broken, told Luke to runaway.

Before I am about to release my grasp on the concrete bridge, and allow the cars and trucks to devour me, I am struck. The almost disintegrated leaf smells like smoke.

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I awake in a hospital bed, and everything is white. I look to my wrists and see scarring with neuron shaped explosions. I am surrounded by family, and immediately yell out.

“Emily! Where’s Emily? Is she awake?” I scream, urgency filling through me. I can’t feel her anymore. An old man with lots of wrinkles and a white doctor’s coat explains that my memories may be a little fuzzy.

“Honey,” my mother begins, “Emily’s been gone for a long time, since the accident, you know that. It’s alright darling, just rest up. You’re going to be okay, you’ve just bursted a few cardiac vessels, but it isn’t fatal and the long term effects won’t be too serious. You’re okay.” My mother’s voice is surprisingly soothing. I am utterly confused.

“No, she’s in a coma, I was struck the first time, Emily is in another hospital, you have to be lying!” I say, my heart beat quickening. I feel the strangest thing, nothing at all. Her words have no deep effect on me, I can’t tell if she’s lying. I can’t freaking tell.

“Dear, you weren’t struck in the accident, you suffered minor brain damage, but you weren’t struck by lightning.” Her voice is so goddamn even, as if her words are following a melody. I can’t breath, everything is too much. Emily is dead? She’s been gone since the car wreck and I wasn’t struck? What’s been happening, what the hell is this?

“You’re going to be seeing a very nice psychiatrist in a few days, I’ve spoken with him on the phone, he’s flying in tomorrow. It’s all going to be okay, honey.”

Nothing has any sense to it, I begin to cry. Luke is wearing an old band t shirt and dress pants, hinting that he was in a rush. My ability is gone, Emily is dead.

An intoxicating rush of clarity and dread passes over me as I realize how this version of the last few months makes terrible sense. My coping with clairvoyance, and I am left with a pit in my throat, in my words. I have used lies to mask the truth, and now I feel as though I have revealed a new layer of transparency.