Figure Running By the Side of the Road

She saw herself in the third person  There's a being called Me, there's one called You (who ever's watching) and then there is that Woman Who Is Being Watched, she thought.  The one whose eye is twitching from too much caffeine this morning. I wonder if anyone else notices?

She saw herself in a film.  A new type of digital commercial.  The same person, the same pose, superimposed on lots of different backgrounds.  She maintains eye contact with the camera as the scene changes behind her.  Mountains.  Work.  Bedroom. Crowd of commuters.  Water.  Only her clothes change.

She introduced herself as "Brooke".  She liked the sound of it, liked the idea of rumbling along with a current.  It bore little relationship to her real name.  The people at work knew it, of course, but she kept introducing herself as someone with a different name.  Even her business cards had her nickname.  She liked that.

Her landlord was a nice woman, invited her in for a glass of wine.  A teacher at the nearby college, Biology.  She seemed accomplished, and maybe a tad lonely-or at least the kind who was open to becoming friends.  But after having lived in the detached garage across the yard, the loneliness was just a mask for the idea of vulnerability.  A fishing lure for someone just ilke her.  Come in, I need a friend.  But then it quickly flipped to, come in, I need someone to monologue in front of.  I need an audience.

For the most part, it was fine.  The home lectures were fun and educational.  It was when all the attention was clearly focused one way that she knew there was a problem.  She tried offering her own perspective or experiences, but if her comments lasted longer than 2 sentences, there was a clear and audible shift.  Suddenly the bright professor became bored, looked away, moved position in her chair.  She'd begin to clear up some mess, "I'm listening, really".  The bonding moments came farther and fewer between.  Pretty soon, she heard herself getting smaller and smaller, until she was just as quiet a the little girl sitting across from her at the dinner table.  The woman's daughter.  She doesn't come into the story until much later, because she is so seldom seen.  But the girl has an excellent eye for detail which will come in handy much later on.

They would make faces across the dinner table.  When Dona accompanies her own conversation into the kitchen, the two were left alone.

"How old are you?"

"15.  How old are you?"

"38. Do you have a boyfriend? Do you like school? Do you like Botany?"

"I like going into the woods with my mother.  I especially like going without her."  

"Do you know the paths around here?  Could you teach me?"

"Sure!  I even know how to get to Walden, but there's a road or two you have to cross."

She had been afraid to go into woods by herself (without her brother). She was aware of all the terrible things which happened in forests.  On the news, images of Depression era hitmen, mafia or gangsters, taking their begging victims out to be shot.  Imagined the bears and deer and wolves all hunted and haunted; their ghosts all around her.  Nature hunting itself, death, decay, pain all around.

But the more she walked around, the more it reminded her of beauty.  When she was young, her and her brother and how they would explore in the woods behind their house.  All the stories he had about all the things he wanted to do.  She saw it all in his eyes.  (Slightly retarded, mentally simple, not repulsive looking or identifiably Down Syndrome)

Eden. And how it felt to be cast out of Eden.  Into a world much more complicated.

How she had held tight to him before he left.  One night.  Swimming.

She went for walks in the woods with the little girl, knowing how funny it would look in this day and age, for an adult to be alone with a kid.  Ripe for abuse, the papers would say.  The child was innocent (as she had been), and she wanted to show her beauty, independent of her mom.  The old ladies would cluck their tongues, a woman leading a girl. It was all innocent, it always was.  But she carried a feeling of dread. If she slipped and broke her ankle, the girl would have to run for help.  But if the girl hurt herself, everyone would assume she was guilty.  

(Logical conclusion same as Suit with sputtering Woman)

If she hit her head, would she have to kill her, like in the movies? What if she was being belligerent, thought they were play fighting, what if she came to consciousness angry at her, frightened or feeling endangered?  

The guilt of society crept up on her and all she wanted to do.  Small town talk.  What if her life could be about breaking boundaries?  What if she could walk in the forest without anxieties? (Following behind her like a doomed bird, a turkey vulture?  Noticeable for its size and the rocking motion as it flies)

The application said: Fill out the past 5 companies or the past ten years, whichever is more appropriate, accurate to the month.  They want me to account for the past ten years, she thought.  I can't even account for yesterday.

Seeking advice.  Intellectually, I know it is a type of Due Dilligance, ask the people around you.  But deeply, I see ANY kind of reliance on another person as a sign of emotional weakness.  I intend not to get married, particlally because so many couples I see RELY on each other for EVERYTHING.  I can't be all things to all people, nor would I expect it of someone.  I hate when people tell me about their day. Anything longer than 10 minutes gets me antsy, longer than 20 minutes and my whole mood is ruined.  I can call people, if I;m in the mood, although I would always rather NOT.  If I sense they are about to call me, I do it to avoid them being in control

She listened as Dona continued her lecture on "How to Live Alone and Like It" or "How to Be a Cold Person", she wasn't sure which lesson they had graduated to. It all sounded like a horrid philosophy..

"Always be the first to say goodbye. On the phone or in person. Leave them wanting more"

==

RUNNING BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

There was a vague memory she had, of her Confirmation.  Of being a kid, on the verge of adult rituals, yet another signal from adult society ("You'll soon be one of us"-in the zombie fashion)

Everything being perfectly pristine, cleaning the house for hours, so it will be perfect. Her white dress, like an insight into what she would look like as a bride. So white you didn't want to breathe on it.

And then he did something.  He got upset because someone didn't understand him.  But she did, she always did.  Even when he hurt her, 3 years old, she came in, bleeding but not crying.  

("Everyone got mad at me except my sister")

He didn't mean to do it.

He had gotten angry and then someone yelled at him and he yelled back.

He was told to go to his room.  She had to stay in the Living Room and "entertain her guests".  But she saw the car pull up.  Heard him screaming.  She ran outside, grownup arms pulling at her.  Saw the car go up the drive and turn.  Their house was surrounded by wetlands where they would catch frogs.  She cut through, still seeing the car.  Running through the grey day.  It was very early spring and the trees were all wet black dead logs propped up into the sky.  Last Fall's leaves were reclaimed by the mud and she slipped and fell in them, trying to pick herself up and keep upright in the chase for the car.  She was a child, a dog, an animal, something wild who needed to catch her prey.  She could feel the car's metal under her hands as she ran.  How she would tear it open, break the glass, steal his body from the metal cage of the backseat.  

It wasn't her parents' car, it was the LONG car of the Center. the place that had taken him away before.  

The last time, he had come back, but it took days before he'd even let her in to his room.  And even then, he'd just sit and rock.

So she swam through the underbrush, branches tearing at her clothes, mud ruining her dress. She was crying, but she needed him like she needed air.

She saw his eyes meet hers.  His desperation.  They'd kill him this time for sure.  He had his hands pressed white to the glass.  The car had stopped at a light.  Just as she got to it, the metal flew away from her.

She kept running until they found her.  Bleeding, crying, a hurt animal in the woods.