Unikum januar 2021

of this miserable existence into the only acceptable
cold thing; a grave.
Another flickering memory that haunts me
from time to time is, once when I picked my
mom up from her work’s Christmas party.
Mildly drunk was an understatement of her
condition, her feet practically crumbling
underneath the weight of her intoxication.
I somehow was able to lead her to the safety
of her bed, placing a large mug of water
beside her. I went to get a bucket in case
her body decided to revolt, and when I returned,
I saw tears trickle down her cheeks.
“Maybe, maybe, maybe I have the same
curse as you Luke…? A curse, a cold curse,
a cold, horrid, curse, a cold, horrid, lonely
curse,” she mumbled between heavy breaths.
I laid next to her for the rest of the night
as she cried silently into my shoulder. I had
never seen my mother cry before. Not even
the cold’s sting could compare to the gutwrenching
pain of watching my mother’s
misery.
I promised myself that night, that I would
never leave her side like my father once
did.
It wasn’t ‘till university that friendships
were a concept within my grasp. Leaving
my little hometown for a university in the
bigger city rid me of the title “Icicle Boy”,
granting me the privilege of forging new
acquaintances. But I never let anyone get
too close, I didn’t want them to get hurt.
However, my delusion of normalcy was
crushed by a revelation descending upon
me the more I allowed myself to open up. It
was at a house party or something akin to
that, the alcohol didn’t exactly help jog my
memory of said night. One of the few glimpses
I recall is of me tumbling down a flight
of stairs. I believe it was to the basement,
but for what reason I made the descent still
eludes me. I vaguely remember being lifted
and placed on an old, worn couch which
judging by the horrendous blend of colors,
must’ve been from the 1960s. The tasteless
colors did not bode well for whoever was
helping me, and I think I made a comment
to that effect.
“Yeah, I agree, it’s terrible. But just cause it
looks hideous on the outside doesn’t mean
it’s not comfy to sit on. It’s what’s on the inside
that matters, and this baby is stuffed
with quality polyester from God knows
where!” a strong, but kind voice declared.
It’s not until now the shape of my savior
began to take form. I had seen him before.
He was one of the football players, I think.
Or something athletic judging by his build.
Long, straight strands of brown hair extended
just beneath his ears, the wax’s grasp
keeping the what was on top secured back
as to not fall down on his forehead. His eyes
were blue, blue like the cold winter, yet,
there was a kind, kindling flame residing
in them. I must have been left speechless
because he snapped three times in front of
me before I even blinked.
“How much have you had to drink?”
I don’t recall what I said, but it must have
been either something incomprehensible
or a ridiculous lie, because he started laughing.
“The name’s Jack,” he tried shaking my
hand, but even in my drunken state I had
the sense to refuse a handshake.
“Cool gloves but isn’t it a bit too warm with
them inside?” he asked.
“It’s fashion…,” I blurted out after several
seconds of carefully constructing the excuse
I’d made so many times.
He laughed again. It was such an effortlessly
refreshing laugh. Like someone without
a single care in the world, strumming a melody
of their harmony for which they transmitted
though their infectious instrument
of laughter.
“You play?”
Before I could answer he offered me a controller.
Which game we played was beyond
my memory’s comprehension, but I know
he always won. I wasn’t focused on the
game anyhow. I was just watching him.
This was the first time in my life I allowed
myself to experience falling in love.
I had yet to forge any meaningful friendships,
only settling for faint acquaintances.
However, Jack was the closest I ever gotten
to what I believe was friendship. He would
greet me in the hallways, whether I’d be
right next to him or on the opposite side of
it, if the latter, he would resort to howling.
He’d even tried to invite me to his place to
play more video games. Despite my desire
to spend my time with him, I had to reject
the wishes of my heart and reject his offers
as well. He was normal, unlike me, not plagued
by weirdness and abnormality.
Seemingly, this must have frustrated him.
Some time after his many persuasions, he
cornered me in the school’s bathroom, alone.
The cold shoulder I’d been giving him
must’ve been too much.
“Did I do anything to you?” he asked defensively.
And thus, started a long and winded confrontation
I’ve had once too many times.
There were excuses, there was yelling, there
was the brewing of tears. At one point,
when the discussion was practically boiling
with emotions, he grabbed my hand
and I was too distraught to react. Suddenly,
he yelled out in pain, and I saw his retracted
hand’s fingers turn blue. He looked at
them, then at me. I cried “I’m sorry” over
and over again.
Not even the cold’s sting could compare to
the gut-wrenching pain of watching Jack’s
pain.
We haven’t talked since.
And with each passing day since then, the
winter days have become longer, more intense
and colder. The busses struggle with
making their routes, people barely walk
the streets, afraid that it will be their last
outing. We are trapped in the middle of an
infuriated blizzard; one which will not be
controlled, and we cannot escape.
The days meshes together, the memories of
my movements and actions but an elusive
notion, one I cannot grasp. The only shard
of remembrance was of me and my mom,
hurling together on the couch with a wool
blanket as our only means of protection
against the cold. School, recreational time
and work, I can recall neither, yet, I was
there. I remember one final thing as well.
I still haven’t spoken to Jack again.
JANUAR 2021 UNIKUM NR 1 43