This is neither a pretty nor cheerful story. Some might argue that it is not even "Christian". Some might be offended at its content. It is a picture of the broken emptiness and futility of a life lived in rebellion to God and it describes the shattering, dead void that only He can heal and fill. In the end, it offers the hope of "going home". May we all find our true home, our only home, in Christ Jesus.
The Bitter Core
The sun is shining, but it doesn't matter. You don't notice. What you do notice is the echo of a dull ache, the memory of long repressed anguish, the reservoir of unshed tears, the bitter core of damned loneliness. You sigh. Shaking your head in a feeble attempt at determination, you tug at your heavy backpack with its forgotten contents, until it rests higher on your shoulder. You even pretend to smile. It doesn't work. You sigh again, and start walking.
You remember his face: the smile, the beard, the eyes...There is a dime in your pocket, a tiny piece of insurance. You could hear his voice. As you walk, you pull out the dime and look at it, but you see him instead. His smile, his hands...you could hear his voice. You wonder what he is doing right now, at this very moment: does he feel you thinking about him? You try to think harder. You imagine him, answering the phone on the second ring, smiling once he knows it's you.
You could hear his voice. That thought makes you want to run the last few yards to the phone booth. You walk. Once inside, you take off your backpack and put it on the floor. Even though you know his number, you look it up and read his name in a whisper. You hold the receiver to your ear, drop the dime in the slot, bite your lip, and dial the number. Maybe he won't be home. Of course he's home. The phone rings twice. You know he isn't home. Still, you stay in the phone booth, listening to his phone, visualizing his empty apartment. You stop counting after ten rings.
It's midnight. You haven't cried in months. You sit on your unmade bed, writing a poem about tears. The poem brings no relief. You decide to stop thinking. Jumping off the bed, you turn the radio on louder than you like it and hurry into the bathroom to wash your face. You pretend to be someone else. It almost works. You concentrate on wringing out your washcloth and hanging it up as carefully as possible. Suddenly you want to cry, more than you have ever wanted to do anything. Instead you go back to your room and turn up the volume of your radio.
Hours later, you go into the kitchen, open a cabinet, and take out a bottle of pills. You look at them solemnly, pouring them out on the table, counting them, putting them back. You wonder why you aren't more afraid.
It's cold. You go back to bed.
His arms are around you, and you are buried in his warmth. You try not to think, only to feel. You desperately try to block out the world, to concentrate just on how much you need to be held by this wonderful man. Your legs are wrapped in his; your head is resting on his chest, where you can listen to his heartbeat, feel the quick rhythm of his breathing. He is stroking your hair, rubbing your back, hugging you, kissing your forehead and cheeks. It feels wonderful. You tug him closer to you, as close as you can, pulling him closer with quiet desperation, clutching with all your might. It is not enough. The bitter core remains. Even he can't take it away. You don't want to think that, so you kiss him, first softly, then warmly, then passionately, then roughly. You cling to him with an intensity that almost frightens you.
Finally he calms you. He holds you, talks to you, whispers your name, soothes you. You touch his beard and smile.
You notice that, whenever you walk across campus, your right hand is clenched tightly around the thumb. It's as if I'm trying to hold my own hand, you think. You remember what it was like to walk fingers entwined with someone. My fingers are lonely, you say to yourself. They almost hurt from loneliness.
The books are stacked on your desk. Sometimes you open them and spend hours staring at their pages. The words no longer penetrate. Once that scared you; now you're not sure if you care. You carry the books to school, bring them home again, stack them back up on your desk. You look at the same chapters over and over, until a few isolated meaningless fragments become almost familiar.
You keep promising yourself: tomorrow I will study. Tomorrow I will concentrate. Soon the fog will life. You spend entire nights drinking coffee and staring at your books. Nothing happens.
Sometimes you phone him, late at night, just to hear his voice, and you talk for hours. You tell him you have been studying. You don't know what else to call it.
You love it when he takes both of your hands in his and pulls you to him. When he looks in your eyes, you think that he must be worried about you. There is help, he reminds you. You nod, tired. You wonder if you really want help. You wonder what it is that you do want.
Once, when he was holding you, you told him that you wanted that moment to last forever. If there was no real world, you told him, I would stay here forever.
It surprised you, how much you need him. He is your voice in the darkness, your touch in the night. You bathe him with tears and kisses; you rest in his arms; you try to show him your soul. You wonder if he ever needs you too.
It's midnight again. Always midnight. Always freezing cold. You stand alone, out of breath because you just ran outside to be under the stars, out of breath because you are trying to choke back a gutful of tears. You realize that you are dying, that you are almost dead, that the bitter core is killing you. You want it to stop. I am so damn scared, you say. I want to go home.
Months later, you flush away the pills. You drop them in the toilet one by one, watching them stain the bowl red and pink and orange. It takes two flushes to make all of them go away. The first flush is the hardest.
1978
copyright 1978, 1999 by Rebecca Prewett
All articles authored by any member of the Prewett family are copyrighted. They may not be reproduced online or elsewhere without our expressed, written permission. Articles written by other authors contain copyright notices where appropriate.
