Starve the Vulture by Jason Carney

Author:Jason Carney
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: Akashic Books
Published: 2014-11-17T05:00:00+00:00

POETRY, SAID PATRICK

1988

“CAN I SIT HERE?” my faggot roommate asks. “You were very brave today.”

I’m not brave. The muscles in my arms are rigid and snake-bitten. The legal pad bends under the force of my erratic scribbles. My insides are a pretzel. I am so full of emotions that the act of crying is painful. I keep writing, don’t answer.

“Debbie is not mad. She understands what just happened was about you,” Patrick says as he sits in the chair next to me. “Jason, you really need to start talking about your feelings.”

When is my fucking life not going to be about feelings?

The group therapy sessions are finally getting to me. My outer shell is cracking like a Jordan almond in the hands of a five-year-old. The daily onslaught of the staff’s emotionless smiles, the vain attempts of the therapists to lead our discovery of the insides of our bowels, and the medicated grimace of the patients’ secrets and fears on full display, the horror of it all has worn me down. I have nowhere to hide from my loneliness anymore. Debbie’s story sent me over the edge. One second I was staring at my fingernails, the next is a blur.

“Leaving her daughter with that man makes her sadness seem empty,” I say. “If she really loved me, then she wouldn’t have left me there.”

“Left you there?” Patrick replies. “You are transferring. Do you know what that is?”

“No.”

“Haven’t you been paying attention in group?” He laughs. “That’s when you project your feelings onto someone else. That’s what you just did. Why would you feel so strongly about her daughter’s sexual abuse?”

I do not answer. I don’t know. At least I will not admit the truth to myself. I stare at the yellow pad in my hands. Drops of tears cover the page. The page wrinkles in small circles, the blue lines of the paper are faintly fuzzy as they smear under the weight of my hand when I wipe off the droplets.

“I don’t know where that came from. I feel bad for being so mean to her,” I say.

Patrick reaches out and touches my arm. His kindness to me over the past few weeks has taken me by surprise. He is always in a good mood, always has a story or anecdote. He shares his snacks, never folds under the pressure of his illness. His strength is immeasurable, even more so when he shares with the group.

“I was supposed to share this in group today. My doctor said I have to speak up or lose my privileges,” I explain.

“Oh, you did share,” he says. “I think everyone felt you today.”

I nod, making abstract patterns on the corners of the page.

“You like writing a lot.”

“I guess. Poems.”

“Who would have thought you like poetry? Can I read them?”

“No, it’s not important,” I say.

“I hear you up at night, writing. Hear you reading the words aloud as you write them. I don’t understand most of it, but it sounds good.”

I can feel him smiling at me, I do not respond.

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