| Merriam-Webster defines a secret as something kept from the knowledge of others or shared only confidentially with a few. When I was very little I could hear colors. And I could see sounds. I often assigned a color to words that meant something to me. The sound of my mother's name, Jane. It was gray, I thought. Still is. An intense crowding. Smothering. Like a thick cloud of smoke in a burning building. Seeping into your lungs, slowly cutting off all basic circulation of essential life within you. My mother, she was gray. Still is. I watched music in my head, weaving lines of color through my mind that flowed from notes of all tempos and pitches. My mind was extremely alive. Inventive. Imaginative. For the things adults gave no words--like the plastic, slick skin on wet mud--I gave my own. I'd make up a little ditty about it and sing to my heart's content until they laughed and asked me what I was talking about, telling me no one could or would understand me. Commenting on how cute or sweet I was. That laughter and disregard for my feelings hurt, even at such a young age. So instead, I learned not to hear the colors, not to see the music. Learned to deny what was seemingly innate. Something I had to acquire, something learned. I simply learned to please others instead of myself. Keep it a secret. Having been imprisoned all my life, do you think I should welcome an hour's release that undoubtedly demonstrates some random...I don't know...warden's power over me? My inability to, for once, actually...genuinely enjoy a moment of my life? Well, do the all too often forgotten corpses of ancestors passed long to have their time-cemented encasings pried open? I think not. Why should I ever desire to be broken open? Lose this well crafted frontal face I have so carefully constructed. Expose this prisoner forever afraid to voluntarily leave his confining cell. I don't desire to. I never desire to. For this prisoner speaks only to other prisoners like itself--Are you alone? Does it still hurt? Do you remember? Those who can, well...sympathize as well as empathize. 'Cuz its plain and simple. If you've never been there, you can't relate. And I'm hardly in the mood for someone else's dry pity of a little boy, trapped all his 28 years in this cynical, backstabbing, harsh world we all call..."life". All my life, I have rushed from one prison to another, pretending, for safety's sake, as well as sanity's, to be a guard. To be confident. To be comfortable. To be...happy. One of the most notable prisons was a group called the Backstreet Boys. Was, again...my life. This particular prison did have the advantage of clearly drawn lines, at least. I knew my place. A place of superiority, outside of the group. Inferiority, in a sense, inside the group. My being the youngest undoubtedly had something to do with it. I was so young at the time I was thrust into the fantasy/nightmarish world they call Backstreet that my overall view of the situation was very clear. I knew my place. It was simple: There, inside the Backstreet Circle of five, anyone of equal rank or lower qualified as a prisoner as well as ally. Anyone of superior rank was a guard and the enemy. All conversations that took place within the prison yard suffocated any hint of superiority of prisoners. Of course. And that was hard. I was the youngest, so in the beginning, I couldn't help but believe I was living under those types of confining circumstances. I think maybe, in some strange way, that was the dark need that brought me to them. To that lifestyle. A lifestyle that eventually became nothing but a large crack in the floor of even the bottomless cave through which all the light in my quote-unquote normal life eventually filtered and drained away. The inevitable price of fame you see. As time went on, I never thought of healing that wound. It became like a close friend to me. Or maybe had been all along. And always continue to be. I began to accept that unrelenting noise, racket blasting within me would never subside. The screaming and the rage not permitted to escape through the many crevices and pores spread throughout my body. That is until I took a chance. On her. On love. For each day after we parted, I yearned twice as bad as the day before to be with her. You know the whole story. We met. We hung. We fucked. We split, yes. She had her reasons. I had mine. One in particular I've never been able to shake. One unknowing to her or anyone else around me. At that particular time at least. Here now, the other side of the story. The blow by blow depiction of how just now, at the ripe age of 29, I'm realizing what that word I was afraid to confront. That word I was afraid to speak. That word I was afraid to live...Life...is all about. So sit back. Relax, and enjoy--That is unless you have something better to do. But I'd highly advise you to stick around. This isn't something I do often. Exposure. Opening up. But, what can I say. I'm learning. For this prisoner once spoke only to other prisoners like itself--Are you alone? Does it still hurt? Do you remember? All too well, my dear. All too well. ***** I was taking my chances returning to Jennifer's condo. After not speaking or seeing her in four years, I hadn't the slightest idea if I could even call it her condo anymore. Whether she was still living there, I was uncertain of. Whether she would want to see me after all this time, after all that happened, I was uncertain of. Whether she'd be willing to fix me a bite to eat, I was uncertain of. But one could always hope for the best. Well hey, I mean, come on. I hadn't eaten since the lunch the day before. I had been locked in the studio, aiding in the production of Born Into Kaos' latest album. The guys had become quite popular, now riding high on the brand new alternative and hard rock wave that had come crashing in. Submerging almost all pop acts...key word: almost...much to the dismay of those ill-fated teen idols as well as delight of just about everyone in the whole fuckin' world. It seemed, anyways. A few of us are still around. Somehow managed to slip on our life jackets and evade the tidal wave. I'll let you pick and choose which ones you think survived and which were forever lost in the current, only to be heard of again through echoes of VH1's Where Are They Now. But just a little hint: In Schtink, rest in peace boys. I tell ya. I mean, I really miss those guys. It's just tearin' up my heart. I swear. But anyways, back to business. Yeah, the guys and I are still around. We each got our own thing goin' on at the moment. D's gettin' married. J's doin' his solo thing. Kev's been acting, dissin the hell out of his wife, tryin' to take over her job. And Bri...well Bri's probably in church. With his wife, and two kids. And the dogs. And the cat. And that damn white picket fence they drag along with them everywhere they go. Man, you know I'm just kidding. About the cat. He died a while back. We've been talkin' about regrouping sometime in the near future. Maybe when and if AJ gets off his high horse and decides to join us again. I swear, after he came back fr....well, I'm not even gonna go there. Whatever, man. That's all I can say. All night in that studio, I had been barely able to concentrate. It was just a nagging feeling. Ever get those? I don't know if it could even qualify as a nagging feeling since it had been present for basically the last 3 years. It just got so intense to the point where I couldn't do anything without seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting her. It was like, even though we weren't around each other anymore, she had just...just sort of...infiltrated my brain, my nerves, my blood. My being. I mean, you already know the whole story. In a nutshell--We met. We hung. We fucked. We split. Even though it was more than that. Much more. But, I did say in a nutshell. She had her reasons, I had mine. Unsettling, yes. Ignored, yes. Mistake...yes. I knew if I went on the rest of my life with this inquietude, never confronting these feelings, these demons, I'd never forgive myself. Or be able to rest. So there I found myself, at her door. As I slowly proceeded down the hallway, I breathed in the whispers of our last encounter that seemed to float through the air, plastered to the walls like paint. 4 years ago. As I raised my hand to knock on the door, it remained airborne for a second, hovering over the wood finish as a smile slipped onto my face as my voice faintly seeped into my ears. " 'There's a documentary on coastal hurricanes from ten to eleven thirty coming on I'd like to watch tonight. If you don't mind.' " That particular evening I had devoted myself to totally fulfilling her exotic appetites with the most varied of pleasures. I gave her all of me. All I had. Until I had exhausted myself, mentally and physically. Yet, despite all of that, she would not be satisfied. Salaciously, of course. But nothing more. Not the way she deserved. And I knew this. Yet I still took. I still left. A couple weeks we were together. I will admit it was an intense couple weeks. But in actuality, before she could get a good enough grip on my last name, in a single flow of silent efficient speed, I moved to the nearest exit and rushed out. With my heart doing double time, I ran and kept running. Not that I feared her pursuit at all. Months, years rather of overindulgence in running, escaping, hiding, ducking from fans, media, family, whatever, made her no match for my speed. I only had to run for a few months after we broke up. She called often. I knew if I answered, she may possibly plead, then insist, that I come back. That we give it another shot. With immense fear that I'd never be able to refuse the offer, I did what I was so good at doing. What I had grown accustomed to doing. A talent I had greatly perfected over the years. I took the easy way out and to the best of my ability, forgot her. What we had. I remember I was at the beach, looking out over the ocean. And it rang. My cell. I looked at it, her name flashing across the caller id screen. The preset ringer tune annoyingly humming over and over again. I glanced up from the phone in my palm to the waves, rushing up to the tips of my toes then quickly retreating back down the sand. I closed my eyes for a second, and sure of what I wanted, drew my arm back and pitched it as far as I could, sending it plunging into the endless depths of ocean ahead of me. As I turned away from the now forever silenced device, an icy rage rose within me. It hardened bones, clenching my jaw as I yielded to the beckoning warden's orders, calling me back to the prison yard. And now, standing in that familiar open hallway, I deeply considered for a moment whether I was making a mistake. I had returned not with any reasonable expectation of rapprochement. In fact I had no idea what the hell I expected to get out of this. I had, however, returned with a primitive sort of longing. For four and a half agonizing years, I had been completely unable to dismiss the desire for Jennifer's tenderness and passion. For her warmth and touch. For some reason, with a single smile, she had me. Whether she knew it or not. She had somehow stirred within me an intensity which I had never known before. And again, here I was. I had come back for more of that exquisite pleasure of being so connected with another human being. Spiritually is what I had in mind. Physically...hmmnnn. Not a chance, I concluded. As I finally allowed my balled up hand to rest on the door a few times, producing a couple short raps, a tingling of excitement mixed with nervousness shot through my veins, causing me to exert a rapid breath of air, a slight feeling of nausea surfacing. After a few moments, I heard rustling behind the door, shortly followed by a slight creaking as it slowly opened. Before I knew it, there I stood, confronted with...her? She stood there, wordless. Motionless. Staring up at me, wide eyed and expressionless. Her blue eyes, however, regarding me softly, a hint of non-judgment detectable around the edges of her pupils. Chubbed cheeks sat among a tanned, cherubic face resting proper on small, rounded shoulders. Her shoulder length, dirty blonde hair barely grazed her face. It was curly, almost ringlets. But not quite. Any one person would have jumped to dote on her, which I'm sure was the case. Her proportions...god, just her, her features seemed perfectly, yet strangely complementary to mine. Only she was about three feet shorter than I. Otherwise, we seemed to fit together, well, ironically, like two pieces of wet clay. Despite all of these keen observations, I concluded that I had taken a chance and failed. It seemed as though Jennifer was no longer living in that home. "Uuuhhh....I, I just..." I stumbled over my words, scrambling for something to say in apology, but my words were quickly curbed along with my thoughts as another voice and body entered the scene and faded back out, anger evident in her vocals for a few seconds. "Kaylie, I thought I told you never to just...open...the..doo..." |