The Contradiction of Solitude by A. Meredith Walters
Ian…thanks for the idea.
See, I give you some of the credit.
“…reality will take shape in the memory alone.”
-Swann’s Way - Marcel Proust
My first memories were of blood.
Rivers of it.
Running along the ground, soaking my shoes, sticking between my toes.
I could feel its warmth around my ankles, gripping my skin like tiny fingers pressed into flesh.
The smell of copper assaulted my nose and I gagged.
The rushing of my pulse thudded in my ears.
This was my fate.
The blood.
I couldn’t escape it.
It was pulling me under, taking me into its violent, irresistible arms and promising me oblivion.
I fought against it.
I folded myself into it.
I didn’t have a chance.
Then I woke up. Sweat dripped from my face. My breathing was labored.
And I longed for sleep again.
Because I wanted to drown.
I wanted to disappear.
Because you see, I was already lost.
Here you go. Seasoned fries with extra ranch dressing. Is there anything else I can get ya?”
I looked up from the book I was reading and gave the waitress a smile.
“Some more iced tea would be great,” I said before turning back to my food.
I carefully dog-eared the page I was reading and closed the book. I pushed it to the edge of the table and picked up a fry, dipping it in ranch dressing.
Mmmm. I had a serious obsession with Denny’s food.
I sat in my booth near the front door and watched people as they walked in and out of the restaurant. This was my normal Saturday morning routine.
In and out. Talking. Laughing. Shouting greetings.
Normal. Together. They belonged.
I would come in around lunchtime, find a seat near the door, order my customary food choice, and then I’d watch.
People fascinated me.
I could invent entire life stories for the complete strangers around me. I would go into concrete details in my mind about their past and present. I would create fantasy worlds that these people around me would live in. It kept me company.
It was the only time I didn’t feel alone.
I lazily swirled my fry in the white condiment on my plate, wishing, like always, that I were one of those strangers with the made up life.
I stared at the blob of dressing, not really seeing it.
Tick tock goes the clock…
The sound of laughter a few feet away caught my attention. I recognized the two guys who sat in the booth across from me. The one with the light brown hair and dancing green eyes smacked his hand on the table and grinned at his friend.
What were they talking about?
The weather? Love or life and death?
Most likely something as inconsequential as ballgame stats and sex on the weekends.
The boy with the dancing green eyes put a handful of seasoned fries in his mouth. He ate them with ranch dressing too.
One. Two. Three.
I had been coming to this particular Denny’s for almost three months now. Almost every day. In rain or snow or sleet or hail. Like the postal service.
I was there. Routine. Constant.
And this guy had been coming in with his friend for just as long.
Often enough that the sound of his laughter had become recognizable.
Familiar.
The sound of secrets covered in mirth…
I liked the sound of his laugh. A hard edge disguised in smiles. It wasn’t genuine. It was slightly stilted as though he were trying too hard. His mouth stretched and strained under the force of his grin as though it were crushing him from the inside out. The effort too much.
Like it was killing him…
I continued to eat my fries. One at a time. Dipping them in the ranch dressing before popping them in my mouth.
One. Two. Three.
Our actions mirrored each other. I lifted my hand. He lifted his.
I took a breath…he breathed out.