Sit Still

I remember candy wrappers. An endless amount of candy wrappers. At first, I thought it was endearing that a 25-year-old man got so much joy from something as simple as a Jolly Rancher. Now, I wonder if it was the bitterness inside of him that made him crave and consume so many sweets.

It was July, the sun was shining, the birds were chirping, children’s playful screams could be heard in the distance, outside the walls of our home. I felt a physical pull to the outside world. I imagined I could feel the sun on my skin, I craved it. I wanted the breeze to blow on my face and rustle my hair the same way it did the leaves on the trees. Instead, I was inside, with the windows covered, cold from the constant running of the air conditioner, and surrounded by a mountain of candy wrappers while sitting on the couch, binging some Netflix show that I didn’t even really like. I’d stopped paying attention four episodes back. Still, I stared at the screen, watching the movements without following the story. My mind was numb with boredom, but he always got so annoyed if I talked while the television was on. I tried to get on my computer or my phone, before, but he said that the screen light in the room distracted him and ruined his viewing experience, even if I was across the room and the screen wasn’t facing him. I also couldn’t turn on another light, to read a book or paint or do virtually anything else. Although this annoyed me and I thought it was ridiculous, I tried to be considerate, so I obliged. Sometimes I wondered why he even wanted to move in together in the first place, when it seemed that me just living around him was an irritant.

I’d tried for so long to help lift him out of his depression, but this is just what life was now. A prison with access to Wi-Fi. My efforts decreased, over time and my own spirit was swallowed inside the black hole of his misery. In the beginning, his smile reminded me of a lighthouse. Beaming bright, I was drawn to it, drawn to him. I should have kept in mind that lighthouses were meant to be warnings of possible wreckages, not a safe place to call home.

I was antsy, my leg gently bounced up and down absentmindedly, trying to release stored energy.

“Stop,” he hissed. “I can see the movement out of the corner of my eye and it’s distracting me.”

I never stopped being surprised when he’d give unreasonable commands. However, my leg did stop, and my mouth fell open. He turned his head back to the screen. I fixed my face and turned my head as well. But I could feel words bubbling up, about to leave my lips, and although I knew it wasn’t going to end well, I was never very good at holding my tongue,

“You know you bounce your leg sometimes, too.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

“It just is. If it’s not me doing it, it’s annoying.”

Again, I was hit with disbelief. How could someone be so intolerable of other people existing?

“…Do you even hear yourself when you say things, sometimes?”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head. I continued,

“Dude, I’m bored. We never do anything but sit and stare at a screen. I just want to do something. I can’t sit like this all the time. It feels like we’re the walking the dead here.”

Again, he rolled his eyes, then sighed,

“If you want to move so badly, you can get up and get me a piece of cake from the counter.”

It was my turn to roll my eyes. But getting him a slice of cake was better than just sitting here. At least it was something. I practically sprung up from the couch and bounded into the kitchen that was only a few steps away, separated from the living room by a breakfast bar. He let out an annoyed groan to let me know that I was being too much. I ignored it, turned on the dim florescent that was our kitchen light and cut him a slice of German chocolate cake that his mother had made and brought him for his birthday. I knew that she had hoped I could be the one to bring her son back to life, to fill him with love and make him remember that life was meant to be lived. I knew this because she told me so. It was starting to feel like an impossible task, and I blamed myself for failing. There were so many people I was letting down by not being able to help him. On my way back to the living room, my eye caught the sign that we had bought and hung together when we first moved in, “This Kitchen is Meant for Dancing.”

I was suddenly struck with memories of us laughing, slow dancing and twirling right where I was standing. It felt like a lifetime ago, I didn’t even recognize the people I was seeing in my mind’s eye. The person standing in the kitchen now was merely the ghost of that girl.

As I handed him his cake, I realized I couldn’t just sit back down. I felt a surge of energy moving through me, remembering what it felt like to be alive. I wanted to dance, I wanted to swing, I wanted to run, but I settled for opening the miniblinds. I’d hoped to help him remember, too. However, I watched him visibly recoil and shield his face as sunlight flooded our dark and dreary apartment.

“What are you doing?” he seethed, arms still over his eyes.

“Living in a cave is bad for us. The apartment feels more cheerful already. I want to open a window and let fresh air in. We need it, both of us do.”

“No. I don’t. And I don’t want it. Close the blinds. I hate how bright it is in here. Why are you always doing stuff like this? Can’t you just sit down and watch the damn show?”

“I really can’t. And I don’t think you should either, let’s go to the river. I still haven’t been and you said you love it.”

“No.”

“Something! Anything, then! You name it, let’s just go do it.”

“No.”

“How about we stay here, but we play a game of cards?”

“No.”

“Dice?”

“No.”

“Dominos?”

“NO.”

He was getting increasingly more irritated. I knew if I kept pushing this further, he was liable to get…mean. Something was probably going to get broken and it was probably going to be mine. It was never anything of his. But like I said, I’ve never been good at holding my tongue.

“Please, anything. Can we just do anything?”

There it was. I saw the levee break, and, in an instant, I saw his eyes light up with rage. You could tell the flames of fury engulfed every inch of his body, inside and out. There was a sense of calm within him, like the eye of a storm, but his extremities trembled. In a twisted way, I felt a brief sense of relief to see any sort of passion come from him. It meant that he wasn’t dead, there was hope. If there was passion inside of him for anger, then there must be passion for love, too, right? I just had to find the way to bring it out of him. But as the flames of anger and hatred spewed from him, burning everything down around us, I felt my own flame extinguish. So, I sat, curled in a ball, knees to my chest, arms locked around my legs, trying to take up the least amount of space as possible to not completely lose myself in this storm. And when it was over, I finally did sit still.