Through The Cemetery Backyards

Exactly a week later, at the same time as last thursday, I’m once again sitting outside Mr (or as he told us he prefers, Herr) Ackermann’s office, waiting to be called inside. Mom has gotten up to get coffee since she has hardly slept today, and instructed me to not move further than a meter or she’ll call the police to search for me. I have no choice but to obey silently. That’s just what you do when you’re in a right state of mind but with a physical disorder- you quietly follow orders, because when your mental state is perfect and your mind doesn’t just, let us say, imagine things, if you have a bigger potential of realising just how fucked and helpless you are. You completely understand that there’s nothing you can do to fix the situation, and you’re doomed to agree and follow others for the whole eternity, and the feeling is awfully crushing and overwhelming. You are practically not allowed to be a human, and you’re kept as a pet who is there “just because”. And the reason you’re still alive is because it’s illegal to kill people. I personally think it would be much better to live in a world of lies with a pair of pink heart-shaped glasses sitting on the end of your nose in peaceful oblivion, not knowing what exactly is going on around you. Then you don’t ask yourself shit like “Why me? What wrong did I do to deserve this?”. You are simply not aware that anything is wrong at all, and life is easier that way. Now that I think about it, this is what John Lennon tried to get to us when he said that living is easy with eyes closed. It’s not about being blind at all. It’s about being blind to all the shit the world has to give you. The less you notice is, the less you suffer.

At least that’s what I think. You can never know what exactly is going on in a crazy person’s head- it’s a secret, even for themselves.

But apparently I’m not that normal either. I am, after all, sitting outside a psychologist's office, waiting for my turn.

“Oh look who’s here!” a familiar, slightly raspy voice chirps above my right ear, tearing the silence and I instinctively turn my head and tilt my chin upwards like a lost puppy, trying to detect the direction from the voice is coming from. There is some rustling of a material and a soft murmur, when suddenly I feel warm bare skin on my cheek, brushing past my nose and moving my hair out of my face in a rather harsh movement. I jerk back at the unexpected contact, my hand gripping the edge of my chair.

“Shit, sorry dude, that was my arm,” Frank apologizes with a small comfortable laugh and I hear the chair next to me creak as he sits down. He lets out a breath and I feel his arm brush past mine once again. He seems to have settled in as everything silences down again, only his heavy breaths audible. He must have been in a hurry, it sounds as if he’s been running.

I hurriedly bring my hand up to my face, fixing my glasses in place and running my fingers through my hair, brushing it more into my face. This way it feels safe, as if I’m in a tiny fort or a palace of my own. Invincible and unbreakable.

“So, I didn’t expect to see you again, Gerard,” Frank says and suddenly I realise that I have to talk, too. I haven’t even replied to Frank’s greeting. To be honest on my way here I was hoping to meet Frank again, because he’s practically the only human being (except for my mother, of course) who I’ve communicated with for other purposes than medical for the last two years. I wonder if interaction is like a drug- once you try, you start craving human company more and more. After a while the strong desire fades, but if you exchange a couple of words with someone, it comes right back filled with new energy, more powerful than before.

“Yeah, I’m probably going to be here often,” I reply simply, shrugging my shoulder as if it’s no big deal even though I’ve cried about it back home. The situation is ridiculous, really- I’m not even allowed to know what’s wrong with me.

“And why’s that?” Frank inquiries. I am not quite sure if he’s being nice or if he’s actually interested, all I know is that I’m enjoying hearing his voice. It flows smoothly and musically, like a song of a kind.

“I don’t know, to be honest,”

“Didn’t the doctor tell you?”

“No, he just gave me pills. He also mentioned that starting next Monday, I’m probably going to have to visit him twice a week. So I’m gonna be here on Tuesdays and Thursdays,”

“I’m probably going to sound selfish right now, but I’m glad to hear this. I’m here every day except for the weekends, so it’s nice having some company,” I struggle to keep in a smile but it still leaks onto my face, spreading my lips, making me feel stupid for some reason. “Especially if it’s someone like you. I don’t know why, but I like people like you. I can’t explain it,” Frank continues.

“You mean blind?” I try to make a joke out of the situation, since I don’t know how to respond to what seems to be a compliment, and immediately feel blood rush into my cheeks. Why the fuck did I just say that?

“No, it’s like we have a connection on an emotional level. Do you feel it?”

“Kind of,” I reply. I have no idea what to say, to be honest, and I can feel my anxiety start to kick in at an impressive speed. Frank is speaking of this as if it’s nothing, the most casual thing in the world, while I’d probably be dying of embarrassment and banging my head against the wall. But once again, he grew up with a fully functional body and therefore in a completely different environment, so chances are our perspectives of the world aren’t all that similar.

“I probably just scared you, sorry,” Frank chuckles, noticing my reaction. “We’ve only talked for maximum one hour, and I’m already loading you with my weirdness,”

I a little too-eagerly shake my head in response, somehow scared that he is going to leave me. “No no, it’s cool. I’m happy to have someone to talk to, I’m home most of the time,” I blurt out nervously, fumbling with my thumbs, trying to set my mind in the right direction. Not wanting to end the conversation, I continue talking. “By the way, how’s your friend?”

“Hm?”

“You know, the friend you are here to support,” I explained. It must be something serious if Frank is here for most of the week just waiting for him.

“Oh, he…” Frank seems to hesitate, and I’m almost sorry that I mentioned his friend. It’s personal matters, and I believe they shouldn’t be touched.

“It’s okay if you don’t wanna tell me, I shouldn’t have asked,” I say.

“No, it’s okay, you don’t have to worry about it, I don’t think he’d mind. He’s here after a suicide attempt. He swallowed some pills and gulped them down with cheap whiskey. He’s now required to consult a therapist every day as a part of the recovery program, and since he’s alone most of the time I decided to help him out,” Frank takes a long breath and the chair under him squeaks again.

I think for a moment, absorbing all the new information. I feel this sick tight knot in my stomach, and it’s growing rapidly, expanding faster than a soap bubble. It’s a mix of pity towards Frank’s poor lost, weak and broken friend who will never get a chance to live a normal life again, a sudden pity for myself that I don’t even get a chance to end my pathetic life, since mom is always watching over me, it’s the realisation that no matter how much I’m enjoying this conversation it will come to an end and Frank will leave and, perhaps, forget about me. I lift my face to the direction of his voice, fighting back the useless tears which are now prickling in my eyes. Tears never help.

“You’re a good person, Frank,” I tell him, hoping that my eyes are fixed on him even though he can’t see them through the dark glasses.

“Thank you, you’re a good person too,” Frank replies simply, and all of the sudden I feel his arm wrap around my shoulders as he pulls me into a friendly sideways hug, rubbing a small circle on my upper arm. His shoulder presses up tightly against mine and I freeze, feeling the warmth of his body. His hot minty breath blows over my face as he speaks again. “I feel lucky that I get to talk to you,”

“Why?”

“You aren’t the type of person who talks a lot, so I feel honored that you think I’m good enough hold a conversation with, if that makes sense,”

“Thanks?” I say, pulling away from his embrace even though I wouldn’t mind staying. I can’t believe I’m blushing. My voice came out weaker than I intended it to, and my words sounded like a question, a high pitched note at the end.

We sit in silence before Frank takes the lead of the conversation once again, which I’m extremely thankful for it.

“So, do you like music?” he asks and I can practically feel my face light up.

“God, yes, I love it,”

“Really? Same,” I can hear the smile in his voice, and it makes my own lips spread wide against my will. “What kind of music do you like?”

“Umm, I don’t get to listen to it a lot but I’d say the Offsprings, Misfits, WASP and stuff like that… When I'm sad I listen to the Beatles,” I reply, stuttering in the middle of my sentence. As I silence down it seems as if Frank has just been set on fire.

“The Misfits? Man, that’s rad! I love them!”

“Really?”

“Yeah! God, you’re amazing,” he mutters out. It seems like the last words were uttered in the heat of the moment but they still make me feel good. “I actually play guitar in a band,” Frank adds after several seconds.

“Really?” I repeat.

“Yeah, Pencey Prep. You could check us out some time if you want,”

“I’d love to,” I smile and he laughs heartily again.

“Aww, does my baby have a new friend?” are the first words that come out of my mother's mouth as soon as she returns from the coffee stand. I feel my face heat up and tilt my head downwards once again shielding myself behind my hair.

‘Mom,” I warn her quietly, hoping Frank won’t notice. She wordlessly holds onto my shoulder, leaning against me, and sits down onto the chair by my other side. I sit between mom and Frank, eternally dying from the uncomfortableness of the situation as everyone silences down. This is probably the first time I’ve been embarrassed of my mom, and it doesn’t feel good. For once someone I actually talked to someone decent, and she just has to come in and fuck everything up.

Thanks mom.

Franks shoulder brushes past mine as he leans in slightly.

“Hello, I’m Frank,” he says. He sounds relaxed. I should be relaxed, too. I have literally no reason to be worried.

Notes