interlude : the weeper

across from me, the weeper pounds his fist against the steering wheel as the windows slowly fog over, the midwinter chill protesting our warm human presence. he wears only a thin red shirt, his arms painfully bare, but he doesn't shiver. his teeth don't chatter--they grind. he looks drained, exhausted, in pieces.

"I hate this," he says in beat with his angry fists. "I freaking hate this."

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you expect a shout but it comes out a whisper. he's not just exhausted; he's torn apart.

"every day, the same old thing. playing at pretend. failing at normal. screw normal. screw expectations. screw it all."

he drags a hand over those weary, storm gray eyes, and for a moment, he fades away, like he's just a figment of my mind.

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"why is this so easy to say--but I can't bring myself to act it out? everything is too much. I'm falling apart, and I know it, but I can't stop." he glances over to me, still silent in the passenger seat. my gaze drops, to my hands to the floor to the anxious pit of my gut. "you know what I mean, right? you can feel it too?"

the false voice within me wants to reassure, to promise yes--"you're not alone"--but the car falls silent as he waits for my nonexistent answer.

the truth is that I don't know how to answer and I never have, not for the million conversations we had before. the terror of saying the wrong thing, of telling him that I can't fathom this soul-crushing weight that he wraps himself,day by day, eats me up, keeping me awake at night as he rolls over restless, night by night. sometimes I look at him and see a stranger, and that terrifies me.

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so instead, I stay silent, like I always do. and like always, it's a mistake.

"great." the weeper sniffs, his throat corded and voice tight. "now my other half thinks I'm insane. just great." something bright and shiny slides down the side of his pallid face. "you know...I thought that maybe--just maybe--you would get it too. but I guess it's just me." he turns away, but not before I see another two, three, four tears join the first.

we shared a womb--that dark sacred place before life. before we knew our own names we knew each other. so why can't I share this with him?

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why can't I open my mouth?

I've never seen him cry like this--silent, ashamed, breaking apart before my very eyes.

and I can't do anything. I don't know how.

so I sit, quiet, and while he weeps, the fog climbs, blocking out the outside world until it is just the two of us. and even then, we are apart. separate units rather than a whole.

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