The other book I read during this period was the Bible. It was provided by the hospital and was freely available to all who wanted it. All of the above-mentioned themes were also featured in the Bible alongside the familiar litany of human sacrifice, plagues, locusts, floods, torture, and crucifixion.
I was getting an education in the march of human progress and it seemed that if we are to be certain of any one thing at all, it’s that most of us are lambs waiting to be slaughtered at the hands of the butchers. A realization made far worse by the fact that the butchers are invariably idiotic, pea-brained morons whose stupidity almost manages to overshadow their cruelty. Almost.
Paradoxically, being aware of all this has given me great strength and courage. The devil as you know it. It’s like everything makes much more sense to me now. As if the veils have been lifted and behind the curtain there is just the truth, naked and raw, in sharp focus, with all the details defined.
I have come to a real understanding of who Lou was, who Veronica was, and why they were who they were. Why they did what they did.
It all comes down to a particular and special quality they shared. I call it an acute sensitivity to human fragility. I think it was something that became unbearable to them quite often so they were forced to find ways of coping with it. This was achieved in two ways: one, by covering themselves in layers of armor; and two, by transmuting it into music (in Lou’s case) or words (in Veronica’s, though never fully realized).
In the end Lou’s armor proved to be much thicker.
It reminds me of the famous words, What does not kill me makes me stronger. Veronica was very fond of this quote by Nietzsche. I hope it proves true in my case.
Then again, wasn’t it Nietzsche who also said: Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad?
I’m pretty sure it was Nietzsche.
But maybe I’m wrong.
Maybe it wasn’t him.
Maybe it was Alfred E. Neuman.
forty-one
I finally finished the letter I began in Veronica’s backyard. Truth is, I never got beyond Dear Veronica that day beneath the fire escape. All I need to do now is sign it and it will be official. Forever.
Dear Veronica:
Forgive me for not conjuring your image in my mind for long stretches of time and for the days that pass without thoughts of you or wishes for your peaceful rest or a better rebirth or protection from the lord of death and his legions of doom.
Only two months gone and the hours, days, and weeks are already filled with things other than the tremendous loss I felt when you passed. The inertia, paralysis, and grief that hung about me have disappeared. My mind has released itself from the burden of your absence and I feel like a shitheel because of it.
And I threw away the necklace you gave me.
Forgive me for not having your face permanently emblazoned in my brain anymore. I had hoped you would be there always without pause, in my thoughts constantly for years, my mourning and sorrow continuous for decade upon decade.
But here it is, only eight weeks later, and I’m over it. How awful and unkind. How selfish, egoistic, and disgusting of me.
Last week I was sitting by the window and a bus drove by. Its exhaust blended with the smell of the rain on asphalt and I was instantly transported to the very first time I stood outside your building. Waiting outside the door for you to come down after your voice, breathless and hurried, came through the intercom and said: “One minute.”
The memory hung clear for a few seconds and then narrowed in focus into smaller and smaller circles of vision, shrinking all the way down to the size and shape of a peephole and then gone. I slept sound and dreamless and woke up rested without a thought or picture of you. Forgive me, please.
What would you say in response to this? Would you say I’m human? It’s human . . . it’s natural . . . it’s to be expected? Or would you say I’m a monster? Cold, heartless, uncaring, and that’s how it’s always been with me and always would have been? Or maybe it’s none of the above? Maybe it’s . . . maybe I . . . maybe . . .
Yours Always,
forty-two
My mother was very excited the other day. She told me I may be able to get my diploma before Christmas if I keep doing the work I’ve been doing. It was good to see her happy. The poor thing has been through so much. I asked her about final exams and she said they won’t be necessary, I just have to keep completing the work she brings me every week. I am convinced my mother wrote the school a big check. Next year there will probably be a plaque on a desk somewhere in my school with my grandfather’s name on it.
Mom also brought some brochures for colleges (Boston College, Columbia, and Fordham). This took me by surprise. I hadn’t been thinking much about college. I’m not planning on going anytime soon and was hoping to take a year (maybe two) off, but she thinks it couldn’t hurt to start exploring options. I don’t know. Not sure what I want to do besides get the fuck out of here.
I turn eighteen soon and will be moved upstairs to the adult ward. My mother has hatched a plan, bless her heart. She is convinced that the head of security has a crush on her and she thinks she can enlist his help and get me out of here so we can celebrate my birthday someplace special. She whispered all this in my ear in view of the
