Down deep, he wanted anyone to see him on his bathroom floor, just so that someone could see that he hurt too much to even sit or lie down in comfort. He wanted his mom, his dad, or even, his sister to know that his legs had nothing that even hinted at enough strength to carry his soul. But more than anyone, down deep, he wanted The One, an angel in human female form, to see him and care about him and save him.
It’s from her that he wanted salvation, not from God or from humanity. Only The One could yank him from the clutches of the monster tearing apart his soul. The One carried God’s light in her eyes and they would illuminate the darkness that consumed his heart. She would weave warm blankets of light and love in which he would wrap himself and be healed. He wanted her to bust down the bathroom door and lift him into her warm chest. He wanted to listen while her heart pounded a lullaby that would send him to a deep and safe sleep.
He wanted her to see him curled up in the fetal position: shivering, breathing and alive, but mostly dead. She would see him and be overcome with compassion and grab him and pull him into her. He would open his eyes and see his angel and savior. She would wipe his face and her soft silk hands would medicate him better than Zyprexa, Tequila, or Marijuana ever could.
He would smile a strong smile that would crack his concrete frown.
She would smile back and her tears would crash down on him like a bucket of Holy Water that would bless him back to life. He would resurrect from the depths of his hell from which no doctor or false prophet or medication could lift him. He would throw his arms around her and bury his face deep into her chest. Her light brown hair would smell like fresh lavender and her brown-hazel eyes would glow an emerald light and nourish me with hope and faith and love.
But, there was no angel coming. The One never burst through any door. She never saw him lying on his bathroom floor. She would never learn how the pain of his God-given curse crippled him into a despairing mass doing nothing more than wishing and hoping against his cold and dark reality.
Zyprexa would wash over the cold, but the numbness it brought was a false elixir because the cold and dark were always there.
If had he had ever found a magic lamp, he would’ve rubbed it and asked the genie that emerged, “Please, give me just one day that won’t end with me on my bathroom floor wishing and hoping for my angel to see just how bad I hurt. Give me peace, oh freed Genie. I wish for peace for just one day.”
He knew peace as a child, watching his Grandma Veva sew. But peace, for him, was buried with her.
Why did life’s promise quickly fade?
Where exactly did it go?
Depression’s morose messages formed a tapestry upon which he could see his smile that ran away; he could see his sins rattle his hope; and he could see his father’s rage and anger and in that woven thought, fear would rise up again and again.
He was nothing more than a prisoner locked away; looking through bars. He was a menace to himself. His quest for love; for justice; for freedom would last a lifetime: To seek and not to find. All doors slammed shut. Hope screamed pain-infused sounds. The monster in his heart and soul and head locked away the possibility of a life lived in love. In its place was a life filled with lies.
And no one ever even knew about all those sleepless nights he spent curled up naked on a cold bathroom floor.
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